Jostled, frozen and bruised, Felix clung to the struts with numb fingers. Every limb ached and his ears throbbed with the noise of the gyrocopter’s rotors. Even with the goggles, his eyes stung from the harsh caress of the wind. Too, he was having trouble breathing. Luckily, the gyrocopter wasn’t meant for high altitudes, and it was descending even as it drove forwards.
‘Still alive, manling?’ Gotrek called out. Felix could barely hear him, over the noise and wind. Deciding to save his breath, he merely stuck a hand out from beneath the gyrocopter and waved it stiffly. Gotrek laughed. ‘Good!’
Felix wanted to ask him how he knew where he was going. Actually, he wanted to ask him to land, or at least swoop low enough so that Felix could slide out. Likely Gotrek would simply ignore him. So, instead, Felix tried to enjoy the ride.
He dozed, despite the aches and the cold. There was little else to do, hanging suspended as he was. He tried not to move too much, despite the silent pleading of his joints for even the briefest of
stretches. Felix had lost track of time soon after they’d ascended, so he had no way of telling how long they’d been in the air. How fast could a gyrocopter fly, he wondered?
The sky was growing darker, but that might simply have been the shadows cast by the craggy peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains that flashed past, intermittent monoliths of grey and brown. Scrub trees and winding paths, the latter carved by untold centuries of travellers, passed below him. From above, the mountains looked, if not beautiful, then at least breathtaking. That was a far cry from walking through them, where every bend in the trail promised some new misadventure. That was Felix’s experience, at least.
At least here, high in the air, it was safe–
Felix blinked as an unpleasant sensation crept across the back of his neck. Then, casually, he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened. He gave a yell and jerked his legs back even as the griffon’s beak snapped shut on the space his foot had only moments before occupied.
The creature had drawn close enough to stretch out its neck and scrape his boot-heel. It was a malignant mixture of bird, lion and nightmare. He had seen griffons before, in the Imperial Zoo in Altdorf – of his and Gotrek’s visit to which, the less that was said the better – but this beast was no human-raised war-beast. It was feral, and infinitely more frightening for the fact that no cage
separated them. More, it had the look of sickness about it. Clumps of feathers had fallen from its head and there were great scabrous patches on the once sleek flanks of its feline shape. Its claws were split and jagged and its beak cracked, as if it had been in a fight recently. In fact, its whole attitude was one of a creature driven into a berserk fury by a period of prolonged violence.
The creature’s cruel beak gaped as it stretched one vulture-like forepaw towards his legs, its eyes empty of anything save a volcanic rage. From around its neck dangled a heavy collar, burdened by a trio of still stained skulls, the browning bone etched with ruinous sigils. Felix squirmed in his
moving, curse you!’
The griffon snarled and swooped, its beak snapping at Felix. He jerked to the side. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He couldn’t even draw his sword. His fists hammered on the bottom of the gyrocopter as he tried to draw Gotrek’s attention to his plight.
The griffon fell back and rose up, eyes blazing madly as it surged towards him, like a ferret entering a rat-hole. Felix pushed himself back. If he could reach up and grab the barrel of the steam-gun,
perhaps he could–
The griffon hit the sling and thrashed, its claws tearing the tough canvas. The hooked tip of its beak gashed his armoured vest, scattering rings of mail and knocking the wind out of Felix. The canvas tore and split and Felix’s stomach swam upwards into his throat as he fell. Desperately, he shot a hand out, reaching for something, anything, to halt his fall. He caught hold of a strut with a flailing hand and the gyrocopter dipped and rolled to the left.
Felix felt as if his spine were a bullwhip that had just been cracked, and he gritted his teeth against the agony. In his blind panic, he had grabbed the strut with his sore arm. His shoulder burned and he grabbed it instinctively. Legs kicking, he saw the griffon swoop beneath the gyrocopter with a screech that hammered at his ears.
‘What are you doing down there, manling?’ Gotrek shouted, leaning over the side of the cockpit. ‘Griffon!’ Felix shouted.
‘You’ll have to wait until we land,’ Gotrek shouted back. ‘No! Griffon,’ Felix bellowed.
The griffon struck the tail of the gyrocopter, its claws sinking into the wood as its tail lashed. It ducked under the rotors and shrieked again. Gotrek twisted in his seat, his face splitting in a wild grin. He turned back and grabbed the control stick. ‘Hang on, manling!’
Gotrek yanked back on the stick, and the nose of the gyrocopter bobbed upwards. Felix’s grip slipped and he was swung back against the belly of the machine. He scrabbled at the tattered scraps of the canvas and grabbed hold, praying that it would bear his weight. The griffon, meanwhile, lost its hold and tumbled through the air, screaming. Its wings gave a snap and it was propelled upwards, passing so close to Felix that he could smell the foul, animal odour that clung to it.
It belly-flopped onto the nose of the gyrocopter, pulling it down with its weight, and Felix heard Gotrek roar. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t do anything save clutch frenziedly at the scraps of canvas. The wind passed over him like soft razors, digging into his exposed flesh. The gyrocopter lurched and rolled, its rotors whining. Felix was slammed against wood and metal as the machine seemed to fall through the air. Teeth bared, lips pressed flat by the wind, Felix reached for the opposite strut. Grabbing it, he hauled himself up, every muscle howling in agony as he stretched for the base of the tail section. Boots balanced on either strut, he grabbed hold and began to pull himself along.
Of course, he had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He looked down and
immediately wished he hadn’t. The ground was a spinning blur of colours, all smashed together in a rapidly approaching morass. The ground was coming up fast, too fast, and Felix knew, though he had no experience in such matters, that there was no way they could pull out of the dive in time. Where was Gotrek? What was going on?
He got his answer a moment later. The gyrocopter shook as the griffon suddenly tumbled past him in a flurry of feathers and blood. Felix nearly lost his balance as the beast writhed in the air, its talons
snatching at the struts and side of the gyrocopter with predatory determination. It caught sight of him and one bird-talon swiped out, reaching for him. He hauled himself out of its path, swinging out over the void as its claws sank into the belly of the gyrocopter. Dangling out, cloak whipping in the wind of their descent, Felix snatched Karaghul from its sheath, knowing it would do him no good, but not wanting to die a messy death on its claws.
The griffon hissed, wings flapping and its muscles bunched. Then it stiffened and screamed. An orange crest rose over the crown of its head as Gotrek climbed its back. The Slayer roared out an oath and brought his axe back over his head and then down, chopping into the massive tendons of one of its wings. It spun, the bad wing nearly buffeting Felix from his slippery perch. Gotrek was smashed back against the plummeting gyrocopter. Felix was jolted loose, his fingers slipping from the wood.
He was falling, and this time Gotrek wasn’t going to be able to save him.
There was no fanfare for the second throng. No rolling drums or groaning horns or cheers to send this force on their way. Instead, silent faces watched and murmured oaths. From the crumbling parapet of the outer wall, Queen Kemma and Axeson watched as Garagrim led his throng to war from one of the blockhouses that lined the mountain face above the main doors.
‘It’s quite small,’ Axeson said.
‘So is a dagger,’ Kemma said. She turned away and looked out over the plains before the hold. She shaded her eyes and peered towards the mountains. ‘The gyrocopters have reported that Ungrim has nearly reached the north-eastern edge of the Peak Pass. The enemy as well,’ she added, frowning. ‘It will take Garagrim several days, even travelling as lightly as he is. If he is not in time…’ She looked at Axeson. ‘What have your stones said?’
‘Nothing of note,’ Axeson said, shrugging.
Kemma’s frown deepened. ‘That is not good enough, priest. I have sent my husband and my son into the cauldron. The least you could do is stir it.’
Axeson made a face. ‘Not an entirely apt metaphor, perhaps.’
‘We are not discussing poetry,’ she said. ‘The future of Karak Kadrin perches on the sharp end.’ ‘All we can do is be patient, my lady,’ Axeson said, not meeting her eyes. ‘All we can do is wait.’ ‘And we dwarfs are good at waiting,’ Kemma said, with a sigh. ‘Except Slayers, obviously.’ She rubbed her brow. ‘Will Gurnisson be in time, do you think?’
‘Gurnisson will be there,’ Axeson said confidently. ‘He can do nothing else.’
‘It is a dangerous game you are playing, you know,’ Kemma said. She looked at the mountains, as if trying to pierce distance and obstacle to see her husband. ‘Dicing with fate can have nasty
consequences.’
‘He said something similar,’ Axeson said. There was no need to elaborate on who ‘he’ was.
‘He would know,’ Kemma said. ‘He is a slave to fate, that one. We all are, to some degree, but him most of all.’ She glanced at Axeson. ‘It is the axe, isn’t it?’
‘I… think so, yes,’ Axeson said. He trembled slightly, recalling the grim immensity which had seemed to squat within that blade. The stones in the temple had resonated quietly with the blade, so quietly in fact that only Axeson had heard it. Grimnir, like all of the gods of the dawi, was
simultaneously an ancestor and a god. Age had lent him great wisdom and great power for all that he had been lost in the north. Something of him yet remained, in Karak Kadrin and in every temple dedicated to him, and it was perhaps that shard that resonated with the blade.
The axe was wrapped tight in chains of destiny, and its wielder with it. The priest could see them, as clear as a vein of ore shining in the dark. Dooms clustered about Gurnisson like crows, and he brushed them aside as easily. But there was one waiting for him that he would not be able to avoid. That was what Axeson had seen, in dreams and thrown stones. And he was determined to see that destiny come to fruition. If only so that he could at last discover his own.
He had been a foundling, like all priests of Grimnir must be, with neither clan nor family to comfort him. Most children were given up to the temple by clans of low status or shameful reputation, while others, like he himself, were orphans. His parents were a mystery, his origins ignored. But he knew. Dwarfs were born delvers and secrets were no harder to dig through than rock. Axeson was not his name, but it was who he was.
‘The axe brought him here, in our time of need,’ Kemma said, shaking him from his reverie. Then she shook her head. ‘No, that’s not right, is it?’
‘No,’ Axeson said. ‘Gurnisson didn’t come for us. We are incidental.’ He placed bitter emphasis on the last word. He gestured to the mountains. ‘Two destinies will meet in the Peak Pass, my queen. We can only pray that Gurnisson’s is stronger than that of our enemy.’
The Worlds Edge Mountains, the Peak Pass
‘We’ll reach where old Ranulfsson’s throng met their doom in a few days at this rate,’ Dorin said. The Slayer sat on a dead Chaos marauder and lit his pipe. Blood covered his face and bare chest, and his sword was planted blade first in the ground. ‘If this is the best that we can expect from them, I doubt any of us will find our dooms there.’ Ungrim’s throng had made good time, despite stopping to slaughter any groups of Chaos marauders they happened to run across.
‘Except those of us who already have,’ Biter said, crossing Byarnisson’s limp arms over the ruins of his staved-in chest. He sighed and stood, leaving the dead Slayer staring up sightlessly at the carrion birds already beginning to circle. They’d lost four of their number so far. Not so many, all things considered.
The Chaos marauders might have been retreating, but you wouldn’t know it to judge by the number of ambushes the throng had dealt with. If anything, they seemed in good cheer for the battered
remnants of a defeated army. They sang as they hurled themselves onto dwarf axes, chanting the Blood God’s name in all of its bestial iterations. Biter grunted. As long as they died, did it matter whether they did so happily or not?
Koertig sat nearby, gnawing on a thumbnail, his eyes on nothing in particular. Biter joined his Remembrancer. ‘Wake up, human,’ he said, snapping his fingers. Koertig shuddered and looked at him. The Nordlander was tough of body, but like many men, his spirit was flimsy when compared to that of a dwarf.
‘Are we on the march again?’ he asked, his voice an exhausted rasp. ‘Not yet,’ Biter said. ‘What were you looking at?’
‘I thought I saw... nothing, I wasn’t looking at anything,’ Koertig said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. Biter frowned and looked around. Despite what he’d told Koertig, the throng was preparing to move again. Their numbers were not much diminished, but there would still be fewer cooking fires than there had been the night before.
wouldn’t be swayed now. Biter couldn’t blame him. He rubbed at his patch, trying to sooth the itch in his eye-socket. He looked up. There were skulls in the hills. They’d been seeing more and more of them the further they got from Karak Kadrin. Piles of skulls, human, dwarf and otherwise, tucked into crevices and cracks or dangling from trees, like road signs or markers for the mad. Hundreds, maybe thousands, more than he’d thought possible. The ones above him had been nailed to an outcropping of rock, in a strange pattern that made his good eye water if he looked at it too closely.
Biter looked away from the skulls, blinking. Koertig jerked to his feet suddenly. ‘What was that?’ he barked, swinging his axe.
‘Shut up, human,’ another Slayer growled, collecting a tally of ears from the dead marauders. ‘It was probably just carrion birds.’
‘It wasn’t birds,’ Koertig said. Biter looked at him. ‘It sounded like drums, but underground or in the mountains,’ he added.
Biter listened. Then he sank to his haunches and placed one palm on the ground. He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Your Remembrancer is going mad, Biter,’ Dorin said.
‘I heard something as well,’ another Slayer said and he pointed a finger at the skulls. ‘It’s coming from them.’
‘I know he’s mad,’ Dorin said, and spat.
‘No more than you or I,’ Biter said. ‘Something’s in the air.’ He looked up, past the skulls. He blinked, trying to focus. He shook his head in frustration. And then Biter heard it, just at the limits of his hearing, and he wondered why he hadn’t caught it before. Regardless, he recognized it.
It was the sound of marching.
‘Bugrit,’ Biter spat. ‘Dorin, Koertig, with me. Dorin, grab some of those skulls. The rest of you, stay here and stay alert.’
‘What is it?’ another Slayer, chains running from his earlobes to his nostrils, growled.
‘Maybe nothing,’ Biter said. Dorin and Koertig followed him as he led them across the impromptu battlefield towards Ungrim’s banners. The clans were already readying themselves for the march again, wounds bound and dead wrapped in the protective shrouds that would hopefully keep the birds off of them until the army could recover them en route back to Karak Kadrin. Dwarfs called out to Biter, but he ignored them, bulling his way through the press towards where King Ironfist was meeting with his surviving thanes.
A hammerer made to step into his path and Biter’s head snapped out, connecting with the front of the warrior’s helm. The dwarf staggered and Biter shoved him aside unceremoniously, ignoring the pain that radiated through his own head. Ungrim turned and nodded brusquely. ‘Slayer,’ he said.
‘Something is coming,’ Biter said. ‘What?’
‘Something is coming,’ Biter repeated. ‘There’s something coming this way and we need to know what it is.’
‘Our scouts have reported nothing,’ a thane said, leaning against the iron pole of the Ironfist clan banner that he held. The honour of carrying Ungrim’s standard was a great one, and the younger thanes engaged in a variety of trials, including an impromptu shouting contest, to win the right to carry it.
‘Then they’re wrong, because we heard it,’ Biter said, gesturing to Koertig and Dorin. ‘I heard nothing,’ Dorin said. Biter waved him to silence.
Ungrim grunted and combed his beard with his fingers. ‘Master Redbeard,’ he snapped, suddenly. A heavyset dwarf, his beard not the red his name implied, but whiter than snow, pushed forwards,