Jerrod looked up towards the head of the column, where the Emperor walked alongside his griffon, Deathclaw. The animal was limping, but even so, it looked as dangerous as ever. It was a rare man who could ride such a beast without fear. Rarer still was the man who actually felt some form of affection for his monstrous mount. That Deathclaw seemed to reciprocate this affection was merely proof of Karl Franz’s worthiness, and the rightness of Leoncoeur’s decision to bring aid to the embattled Empire.
Jerrod had fought alongside the man for months. While at times Karl Franz seemed aloof and otherworldly, Jerrod had come to admire him, foreign sovereign or not. The Emperor inspired the same sort of loyalty in his men as the resurrected and re-crowned Gilles le Breton had in Jerrod’s own countrymen. Especially his Reiksguard, the knights who acted as his personal bodyguard. Jerrod had got to know one of them quite well – Wendel Volker.
It was Volker who had brought the sad tidings of Middenheim’s fall to the Emperor at Averheim. Volker was young, but his hair was white and his face worn like that of a man twice his age. His armour was battered and scorched, and he moved at times like one who was trapped in a dream. He was, like many men in these sad times, broken. He had seen too much, and endured more pain than any man ought.
Volker was walking beside the Emperor, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He had not left Karl Franz’s side since arriving at Averheim’s gates, leading a tiny, exhausted band of riders – the only survivors of Middenheim. How Volker had got them out, he’d never said, and Jerrod hadn’t asked. They had arrived only days before Archaon’s forces, and had ridden their horses to death to reach the dubious safety of the city walls. As if he’d heard Jerrod’s thoughts, Volker slowed, turned and soon fell into step beside Jerrod’s horse.
‘Hail and well met,’ Jerrod said, leaning down. He extended his hand. Volker took it.
‘Never thought I’d see this place,’ Volker murmured, without preamble.
Jerrod looked around. ‘Nor did I.’ He shivered. ‘I wish there had been some other way.’
‘You and me both, manling,’ Hammerson grumbled. He looked up at Volker. ‘It’s no place for men nor dwarfs.’
‘Few places are these days,’ Volker said. He ran a hand through his frost-coloured hair. ‘And fewer by the day.’ He blinked and looked up at Jerrod. ‘I’m sorry, Jerrod, I spoke without thinking.’
Jerrod smiled sadly and sat back in his saddle. ‘We’ve all lost our homes, Wendel,’ he said. He swept an arm out. ‘We are all that remains of three mighty empires, my friends. The last gasp of a saner world. I would that it were not so, but if it must be, at least we die as the Lady wills, with courage and honour.’
‘I’m sure Sigmar is of a similar mind,’ Volker said, with a grim smile. He looked at Hammerson. ‘And Grungni as well, eh?’
‘I doubt a manling knows anything of the mind of a dwarf god,’ Hammerson said sourly. He sniffed. Then, ‘But aye… if death comes, let it come hot.’
‘No danger of it being otherwise, given our rescuers,’ Volker said. He pointed upwards, towards the sky, where the fiery shapes of phoenixes swooped and cut through the air. They were ridden by elves, Jerrod knew.
It had been by purest chance that he had found himself on the path to Ystin Asuryan, as their rescuers had called it. Fiery birds, white lions, and tall, proud elven warriors clad in shimmering armour had marched along its length, and gone to the aid of Hammerson and Gelt against the followers of Chaos. Now, the remains of that host escorted them deeper and deeper into the winding heart of Athel Loren.
All at once, Jerrod was reminded of where he was. Around them the trees seemed to press close, and strange shapes stalked through the gloom, watching them. This forest was no place for men. And there was no telling what awaited them within its depths.
Gotri Hammerson ignored the shadows and the trees and the whispers and concentrated on the path ahead, as Jerrod and Volker continued to speak. Let the forest talk all it wanted. He didn’t have to listen. That was where the manlings always went wrong… they listened. They couldn’t help it. They were curious by nature, like beardlings, only they never grew out of it. Always poking and prodding and writing things down. And on pulped wood or animal skins at that, he thought. They trust their knowledge to things that rot… That tells you all you need to know.
Still, they weren’t all bad. He glanced at Volker, and at Jerrod, who sat slumped in his saddle. The Bretonnians were a hardy folk, and they knew the value of an oath. It was a shame that they had the stink of elves on them, but that was humans for you. Naive, the lot of them. You couldn’t trust an elf, everybody knew that. Common knowledge in Zhufbar, that was. Couldn’t trust elves, halflings or ogres. Not an honourable bone in any of that lot.
And you certainly couldn’t trust a forest. That much wood in one place was unnatural. It did odd things to the air, and the light. And this particular forest was a wellspring of grudges, stretching from the time of Grugni Goldfinder to the present day. Many a dwarf’s bones were lost beneath the green loam of the deep forest, their spirits trapped by the roots, never able to journey to the halls of their ancestors.
It was a bad place, full of bad things, like a pocket of old darkness in an abandoned mine. At least we’ve got the ancestor gods on our side, Hammerson thought. He felt a moment of shame, but pushed it aside. It wasn’t the manling’s fault, no matter what some among his dwindling throng might grumble. Still, there wasn’t a dwarf alive who wouldn’t be discomfited by the thought of one of their ancestor gods – and Grungni no less! – blessing a human so.
And there was no other explanation for it. Balthasar Gelt was blessed. How else to explain how runes flared to vigorous life in his presence? In the wizard’s vicinity, gromril armour became harder than ever before and weapons gained a killing edge that no whetstone could replicate. Hammerson sniffed the air.
He didn’t even have to look around to know that Gelt was near. The wizard glowed with an inner fire, like a freshly stoked forge. The air around him stank like smelted iron, and when he spoke, the runes that were Hammerson’s to shape and bestow shimmered with the light of Grungni. Hammerson could feel the human’s presence in his gut, and it bothered him to no end to admit that, even to himself.
Why had the gods gifted a manling with their power? And a wizard at that – a blasted elf-taught sorcerer, without an ounce of muscle on his lean frame and no proper axe to speak of. And he rides a horse. With feathers, Hammerson thought sourly. Couldn’t trust a horse, especially one that could fly. A horse was just an elf with hooves.
And speaking of elves, and their lack of trustworthiness… Hammerson stumped ahead, one hand on the head of the hammer stuffed through his belt, to join Caradryan at the head of the column. The elf looked as tired as Jerrod, for all that he sat erect on his horse. His overgrown chicken was somewhere above them, turning the night sky as bright as day. Only an elf would ride a bird that burst into flame if you gave it a hard look. Caradryan, like Gelt, smelt of magic. He stank of wildfire and burning stones. It was a familiar odour to Hammerson.