01 - Empire in Chaos (29 page)

The goblin screeched loudly and released the chain of the other creature, and
it began to bound up the rocks towards Eldanair, its jaw hanging open widely and
a feral roar emitting from its throat.

The goblin screeched again, no doubt calling for aid, and launched an arrow
from its short bow towards the elf. Eldanair didn’t flinch as the arrow
shattered against rocks at his feet. Aiming carefully, he loosed his own arrow.
It thudded into the cheek of the ravening beast leaping up the rocks, though it
did not slow its frantic approach.

He sent another arrow, this one passing between its gaping jaws and cutting
through the back of its cavernous mouth. Still it came on, and another arrow
whistled through the air towards Eldanair. He swayed to the side and it hissed
past his ear. A pair or heavy-set orcs appeared, stamping down the trail behind
the goblin, roaring and bellowing as they sighted the elf.

A final arrow sank into the bulbous head of the creature as it leapt from
rock to rock towards Eldanair, though again it did not slow the blood-frenzied
creature. Eldanair drew his long-bladed sword and waited for the monster to
leap. Spittle flying from its expansive maw, the creature bunched its legs and
propelled itself at him, thousands of curving teeth exposed within its
widespread mouth. The stink of rancid meat and what smelled like rotting fungus
reached his nose, and he almost gagged. As the creature snapped at him, he
slashed a long cut down its thick-hide.

Bunching its legs again, it leapt at his throat. Eldanair stepped neatly to
the side and scored a deep wound up its side as it hurtled past him. Growling
and barking madly like a hound, its jaws snapped shut at his trailing black hair
as it soared out into empty air. For a moment it seemed to hang in the open
expanse, legs kicking madly, before it plummeted two hundred feet down into the
darkness, still growling and yelping.

There was an anguished scream of hatred, and Eldanair felt a sharp pain at
his neck as the arrow sliced past him, scoring a stinging wound. He grimaced as
he felt hot blood on his neck, and he leapt away from the orcs closing on him,
jumping lightly from rock to rock.

He rounded a massive boulder and jumped, clearing an area of untouched snow
some six feet across. Landing in a roll, he spun as he came up to one knee, an
arrow nocked to his bowstring. As the orcs rounded the bend he loosed, the arrow
thudding into the first orc’s chest. Without thought it tore the arrow from its
flesh, hurling it to the side, and with a roar threw itself towards the elf, its
cleaver high.

The two orcs surged forwards, but the ground suddenly gave way beneath them.
With great care, Eldanair had constructed the light platform of gorse and
sticks, before covering it with grass and snow. The orcs bellowed as their
weight collapsed the flimsy structure, and they slipped down, disappearing into
the gloom. Four seconds later there was a distant clatter of metal as the bodies
struck the sharp rocks far below.

Eldanair was off again, racing through the snow, a ghostly apparition that
plagued the greenskins for the rest of the night. Several more died from his
cunningly laid traps and snares. Tripping a concealed line of twine, sharpened
stakes of wood swung around on a taut green branch to slam into the chest of one
orc. Two hours later several more died as Eldanair caused an avalanche of rock
to fall upon them, forcing the survivors to find a different route.

An hour before dawn, Eldanair killed another two, rising from beneath the
snow to launch a volley of arrows into them, fleeing again as the survivors
charged at him. They were more wary of him now, though, and checked their
pursuit quickly.

These attacks were not without risk though, and as dawn rose he limped back
to his companions, a black-feathered arrow embedded deep in his side.

“Eldanair!” called Annaliese as she sighted the elf, and the girl ran to him,
catching the exhausted elf in her arms. She forced him to sit, and stripped off
his clothes around the wound. He saw the young human knight scowling. The wound
was ugly and red, and Annaliese bathed it with water, clearing away the excess
blood from his skin.

He would have pulled the arrow loose himself, but the goblins used wickedly
barbed arrow tips that would rip at his skin as he tried to pull it loose. This
was no doubt what the humans were discussing as they looked upon his wound. One
of them, the ugly, brutish, black-clad one called Grunwald made a pushing
motion.

“Yes,” said Eldanair in the language of the elves, nodding at the man. He
nodded back, understanding, and offered Eldanair a piece of leather to bite
upon. The elf looked at the leather strip in scorn, and shook his head.
Shrugging, Grunwald took of his hat, and wiped the back of his hand across his
brow.

Placing one hand on the elf’s shoulder, the witch hunter got a good grip with
his other hand on the feathered shaft of the arrow. Without ceremony, he pushed
hard upon the arrow, pushing its head deeper into his flesh. Blood welled from
the wound, and Annaliese’s face was pale. Eldanair winced against the pain but
did not cry out. Grunwald pushed harder, and at last the cruelly barbed
arrowhead burst from his back. Swiftly the witch hunter pushed the arrow through
the elf’s flesh, wrapping his hand around the arrowhead and pulling the length
of the shaft through the wound.

Eldanair passed out briefly, and in that time the wound was cleaned as best
it could be, and bound with cloth. When he awoke, he hissed in pain, probing at
the dressing with his long, pale finger. Nodding his thanks, he pushed himself
to his feet, and indicated that he was ready to continue.

He was tougher than he looked, thought Grunwald.

For a time, it seemed as though they had left their pursuers behind, and the
group began to think they had finally outrun them. They were nearing the lands
of the Empire, the ground levelling out beneath them, leaving the high mountains
behind. They were still high, and the wind was icy cold, but they could see the
landscape beginning to change. Trees, albeit small and tough, were more frequent
here, and the group felt almost deliriously buoyant. Still, they had not slept
for days, and the exhausting race through the mountains was taking its toll. One
knight almost stepped off a rocky precipice, his face ashen, and he had to be
pulled back from the brink. He had not even registered the danger.

“We need to find a place to rest,” said Karl, voicing the exhaustion of the
group.

“Up on the rock face,” said Thorrik, pointing. There was a series of heavy
overhangs a few hundred feet up a scree-covered ridge. “There might be caves
there,” he said. “Or at least protection from the wind.”

“There is no escape route up there,” said Karl. “We will have our backs
against the wall when the enemy comes at us.”

Thorrik waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve had enough of running,” he said.
“Better to be warm and rested and face the enemy than to continue on and be too
weak to lift a blade when they come.”

“I thought the dwarfs were hardy folk,” said Karl, making Thorrik scowl
deeply.

“I could march for another week if need be,” said the dwarf, “but I don’t
think any of you beardlings will last another hour.”

There was truth in what the dwarf said, and Grunwald knew it.

“I think the dwarf speaks true,” he said. Annaliese nodded her head, too
tired to speak. Finally, Karl nodded his assent, and the dwarf led the way up
the slope, carefully studying the rock face.

“I would expect there to be caves there,” he said, indicating a little
further around the ridge. Grunwald trusted him—the dwarfs certainly seemed to
have a deep understanding of the mountains and the rocks.

He was exhausted almost beyond words, and at that moment he almost didn’t
care if the greenskins pursued them still—all he could think about was rest.

Wincing as he held the wound at his side, Eldanair placed a hand on
Grunwald’s shoulder. The witch hunter saw a dark patch upon the elf’s tunic
where the blood from the wound had soaked through the bandages, but it was not
this that the elf drew his attention to. He raised his hand, pointing into the
distance behind them.

There they could clearly see their pursuers, still doggedly following their
trail. Grunwald swore.

They continued to climb the slope, until they reached the overhanging rock
face that leant out above them, giving them a modicum of protection. Thorrik was
still convinced that there would be caves further around, and so they made their
way around the cliff face, keeping a wary watch on the approaching greenskins.

“Do you think they have seen us?” said Annaliese, her face drawn.

“Most certainly,” said Grunwald. The reflections of the setting sun off the
knights’ armour would be seen for miles, as red as fresh blood.

“Ah!” came Thorrik’s voice, filled with satisfaction. He stood before a
yawning cave-mouth, the interior dark and expansive. A flight of small bats
burst out. The days had blurred together into one nightmarish march, and he
flopped to the ground, as tired as he had ever been.

Eldanair said something curt, eyeing the cave with distrust, sniffing at the
air. There was a faint odour emanating from within, something almost
imperceptible. Perhaps it was rotting meat, Grunwald thought. Yes, that was it—the cave had probably been the refuge for some wild animal; wolves or a bear.

“How long?” he asked Karl.

“Two hours before they reach us, I’d say,” replied the preceptor.

“Wake me when they come,” said Grunwald, and promptly fell asleep on the
rock.

It was dark when he was shaken awake. He saw Annaliese’s face hovering above
him.

“They come?” he said, and the girl nodded her head. She looked determined and
ready for battle, for all that she was exhausted.

He stretched sore and tired muscles as he rose to his feet. He saw Karl
staring down into the valley and joined the knight.

“Have you had any rest?” he asked.

“A little,” said the preceptor. His skin was drawn and pale—indeed it must
have been agony to have trekked so far in his full suit of armour, wounded as he
was.

“So, what’s the plan?” Grunwald said.

“The plan? We hold them here, or we die,” replied the preceptor, his voice
emotionless with exhaustion.

“Good plan,” replied Grunwald, which got a weary smile. They waited half an
hour as the enemy gathered below. There were almost sixty of them—a force that
they had little hope of besting, and the mood was grim.

Annaliese came to join them as they sat watching the orcs’ preparations.

“My stomach is churning,” admitted the girl.

“The hours before battle are always the worst,” agreed Karl, smiling at the
girl. “It gets to the point when you just wish they would come at us and get it
over with. It never goes, no matter how many battles you fight in. Stick with me
and you’ll be alright.”

“I know I will be alright,” said Annaliese with conviction. “I have faith.
Sigmar would not lead me to the north only to have me die on some snow-swept
mountainside.”

“The gods work in mysterious ways,” said Grunwald.

“Maybe
I
should stick near
you,”
said Karl, winking at the
girl. “Maybe your god will protect me too.”

“Do that,” said the girl as she rose to her feet. “I’ll protect you.”

Karl laughed and winked at Grunwald behind Annaliese’s back, and whistled
through his teeth as she walked away.

“Gods above, she is some woman,” he said.

It took the best part of an hour for the orcs and goblins to ready themselves
for battle, as the last of their number arrived. There were almost a hundred of
them gathered on the rocky plateau below them now. The largest of the orcs was
clearly displeased with the delay, and his bellows and roars echoed up the
slope, along with the clashing of weapons, and groans of pain as the target of
his wrath was cut down and thrown over the huge bonfire the orcs had set
blazing.

“Maybe they will kill each other and forget about us,” ventured Karl.

When they came, there was little warning. Drums began booming through the
mountains, and the entire host of greenskins let out a war cry before racing
straight up the rock-strewn slope. There was no strategy to their advance, they
merely attacked in one surging wave. There was little need for strategy—they
would charge up the hill, some would die, and then they would slaughter us all,
thought Grunwald.

But he would be damned if he didn’t exact a high toll on the greenskinned
bastards.

“Sigmar, give me the strength to kill in your name,” he whispered to himself,
wishing that his faith was as strong as Annaliese’s seemed to be.

He listened for a response from the god, some sign that his words were heard—a flash of light, a warmth in his heart, a shooting star, anything. But there
was nothing, just the savage roars of the enemy as they surged up through the
night, intent on slaughter.

The long night of bloodshed had begun.

Under Karl’s instruction, dozens of flaming brands had been scattered around
the perimeter of the cave mouth, held upright by piles of rocks. Larger stones
and boulders had been rolled to form a crude, arcing wall, and it was here that
the knights made their stand.

Annaliese was at the apex of the defensive position, standing tall, her
hammer ready in her hands, the elf at her side. As the greenskins began to race
up the steep slope he pulled himself onto the rocks and began to fire, his white
fletched arrows slicing through the darkness.

Thorrik stood on the rock wall, hurling abuse at the approaching enemy in the
dwarf tongue, his words scathing and hate-filled. He seemed unfazed about the
sheer number of the foe, and Grunwald wondered if he welcomed a noble death in
battle. He himself didn’t think there was anything noble about death, however it
was achieved. Death was cold and dirty, full of pain and regret.