The ground trembled. He craned his neck and saw Jerrod and his knights smash into the enemy centre like a hammer striking an anvil, and couldn’t restrain a smile. ‘Good lad,’ he grunted. The Bretonnians fought like it was what they were bred for, and they hit almost as hard as a proper cannonade.
Something flashed at the corner of his eye, and he turned. His smile faded. Gelt stood at the heart of the battle-line, standing head and shoulders over the two dwarfs set to guard him – they were members of Hammerson’s own Anvil Guard, clad in gromril armour and bearing heavy shields marked with runes of resistance and shielding. Stromni and Gorgi, good lads, he thought. Hard lads, like ambulatory boulders with as much brains between them, but once they’d set their feet and locked shields, nothing short of death would move them. Gelt was safe with them.
Not that he needs much in the way of protection, Hammerson thought, as a wave of shimmering light erupted from Gelt’s hand and turned a number of beastmen to solid gold statues. Around Gelt, runes glowed white-hot, and the guns of the Thunderers seemed impossibly accurate. Axes hewed without going dull, and hammers broke through even the toughest armour and splintered the thickest bones.
A flash of runes caught Hammerson’s eye. They lined the edge of a ragged cloak, which swirled about a figure who stood where the fighting was thickest. The dwarf was old, older even than Hammerson himself, to judge by the icy whiteness of his plaited beard. His features were hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, and he bore no clan markings on his armour. The axe in his hands hummed with barely contained power as it lopped off a beastman’s head. The mysterious dwarf spun to smash a lunging beastman from the air, and his eyes caught Hammerson’s as he did so.
For a moment, the din of battle receded, and Hammerson heard only the sounds of the Black Water, and the rhythmic crash of the great forges of Zhufbar. He heard the rolling work-songs of his clan, and smelt the forge-smoke. He saw the shimmer of a thousand clan standards gleaming in the sun, and the glint of rune-weapons raised in defence of ancient oaths and old friends. All of this and more he saw in the eyes of the white-bearded dwarf, and a name came unbidden to his lips.
‘Eyes forward, Master Dwarf,’ a smooth voice purred. Hammerson whirled, the name slipping from his mind as he came face to face with a bulky beastman. Its teeth were clenched and its eyes rolled wildly, but it had been stopped from reaching him by a quintet of pale fingers which were sunk knuckle-deep into the meat of its back, just between its shoulders. Vlad von Carstein smiled in a neighbourly fashion and then, with a wink, ripped a section of the creature’s spine out. It toppled forwards with a single moaning bleat, and Hammerson instinctively crushed its skull with his boot.
The vampire bounced the chunk of bone on his palm for a moment before pitching it over his shoulder. ‘I would have thought a warrior such as yourself would know better than to become distracted in battle, Master Hammerson,’ he said.
‘And I’d have thought you’d have the sense not to save a fellow who means you ill, vampire,’ Hammerson grunted. Ulgo had noticed the vampire at last, and the Anvil Guard raised his axe threateningly. Hammerson glared at him until he lowered it. Aye, and we’ll be having a chat later, lad, about why it was the vampire who saved me and not you, eh? he thought sourly.
‘Still, and after I prevented that beast from braining you?’
‘Who asked you to? I owe you nothing,’ Hammerson said. He looked around, trying to spot the strange, white-bearded dwarf, but the old one had vanished into the eddies of battle. Hammerson shook his head, trying to banish the unease he suddenly felt.
‘Perhaps I didn’t do it for you, eh?’ Vlad said. He stepped over the creature and smoothly took up position beside Hammerson in the shield-wall. The closest dwarfs looked askance at the vampire, and more than one gun-barrel drifted towards him. Hammerson gestured sharply. No sense starting a second fight when they were already in the middle of one. He signalled for those closest to fall back a step.
‘Then why did you do it?’ Hammerson clashed his weapons together again. Fire roared out, earning them a moment of respite. He looked at the vampire. ‘And why aren’t you with your master?’
‘Which one?’ Vlad asked. ‘I am as much a son of the Empire as I am a child of death, Master Hammerson. And it is in my capacity as elector that I–’
‘Who says you’re an elector?’ Hammerson snapped. ‘Last I heard, electors carried runefangs – good dwarf weapons, those – and not whatever that monstrosity is.’ He gestured towards the blade in von Carstein’s hand.
Vlad smirked. ‘I am an elector because the Emperor says I am. And that means that we are allies, bound by old and sturdy oaths.’
Hammerson said nothing. Through the smoke, he saw Gelt slam the end of his staff down. The ground squirmed as great thorn-vines, composed of precious metals, rose from the earth and ensnared beastmen.
‘He is quite talented, for a mortal,’ Vlad said softly. ‘He served me for a time, did you know that? And now he is redeemed and host to powers greater even than ours, runesmith.’
Hammerson hadn’t known, and the thought didn’t please him. Old doubts about Gelt, ones he’d thought he’d put aside, came back stronger than before. He looked at Vlad. ‘What do you mean?’ he growled.
‘Things change, dwarf,’ Vlad said. ‘The world we pry from the jaws of destruction will not be the same as the one we remember. And old enemies might even be new friends, come that happy day.’
‘Speak plainly, leech,’ Hammerson spat.
Vlad sniffed. ‘Fine. The Emperor is but a man. He will die, in time. Perhaps even in this war. As sole remaining elector, I will take his place. I would ensure that the ancient oaths between the Empire of man and the empire of the dwarfs are upheld, despite old grudges.’
Hammerson stared at him. Then he laughed. Great whoops of amusement tore their way from him, and he bent forwards, gasping with breath. Vlad stared at him in consternation. Ulgo and the others joined in, guffawing. The vampire turned, eyes narrowed.
‘Oh, if that isn’t the funniest thing I’ve heard in days,’ Hammerson wheezed. He grinned at Vlad. ‘And you accused me of paying too much attention to what might be. Ha! Trust a manling to start portioning out the stew before the pot’s even warm. Even the dead ones, it seems.’ The runesmith shook his head. ‘Aye, vampire, we’ll honour the old oaths, come what may. We’ll defend the empire from whatever seeks to harm it.’ He met Vlad’s gaze and poked him in the chest with a finger. ‘Be it living, or dead. Remember that, blood-drinker.’ He turned away. ‘Now be off with you. This is a time for fighting, not for talking. We have a battle-line to maintain, and I’ll not have you flitting about, distracting my lads.’
Hammerson didn’t bother to watch the vampire depart. He smiled grimly. One battle at a time, Gotri, he thought. One battle at a time.
‘This is a waste of time,’ Lileath said. She whipped her staff about, crushing skulls and splintering bones with a strength far beyond what her slight frame seemed capable of. Teclis stood at her back, his hands extended and the air sizzling with his magics. ‘Every moment we stand undecided, is another moment lost,’ she continued. Her staff shot forwards, puncturing the muzzle of a snarling gor in a spray of blood and broken fangs.