‘Serves ’em right for being so tall,’ he said.
The Axes of Norr hurled back the charge. The remaining ogres broke and fled. The dwarfs let out a small cheer from tired throats.
‘I’d kill for some ale right now,’ said Borrik.
‘You are killing,’ said Gromley, ‘but I don’t see any ale at the end of this.’
‘There might have been more, if the rats hadn’t done for poor old Yorrik,’ said Grunnir. ‘Oh, look at that, they got Albok.’
‘Grungni curse those treacherous ogres,’ spat Gromley.
Albok lay dead, his head open from the crown to his nose, his brains glistening inside his broken helmet. Four Axes of Norr remained standing.
Insane tittering came at them. A pair of fanatics spun into view. Two shots rang out, and both goblins fell with smoking holes between their eyes. Borrik looked up to see Durggan blowing the smoke from his pistols.
‘Aye, good lad, Albok,’ said Borrik. He lifted his shield. Every sinew and muscle twanged with fatigue. There wasn’t much more to say to it than that. They’d grieve properly later, if there was a later.
Goblins milled about just out of grapeshot range, the corpses of the three previous failed charges buried now under dead ogres. ‘That’s right,’ said Gromley. ‘You stay down there.’
‘Hang on, lads, this might be us,’ said Grunnir.
Golgfag was marching up the hill, his maneaters behind him.
‘They’re a mean crew and no mistake,’ said Gromley.
Borrik looked down his meagre line of clansmen, four Axes, three Forgefuries. Where had they all gone? He remembered a time when the Norrgrimlings had been a large and prosperous clan. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got to the Halls of the Ancestors. ‘Grunnir, Gromley, Uli, Fregar, Tordrek, Gurt, Vituk… I’d say it’s been an honour…’
‘Not living, breathing and fighting with this lot of grumbaki!’ said Grunnir.
‘Hush! The time for jesting’s done.’ He gave Grunnir one of his sterner looks. ‘It’s been more than an honour,’ continued Borrik. ‘A lot more. I could say more, I could wax lyrical, but you know what I mean. We’re dawi, aren’t we? I’m not an elf to collapse into tears and give everyone a cuddle.’
‘Dawr spoken,’ said Gromley.
Golgfag’s ogres were breaking into a charge.
‘Norrgrimling khazuk! Khazuk-ha!’ Borrik said. His warriors repeated the words. He wondered what each was thinking here, at the last stand of the Axes of Norr.
He supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they stood by him until the end.
Durggan was lining the cannons up to get one last shot on the ogres. One of his crew let out a cry and fell, a black-fletched grobi arrow sticking from his throat. Another died, slumping over the gun with a warpstone bullet embedded in his chest.
‘Keep it up! Keep it up!’ barked Durggan. ‘We’ll not fall without one last blast, eh, lads?’ He helped the remaining crewman of the cannon to line up the barrel. The second was ready, the last dwarf of its crew grasping the firing string, but Golgfag raised a pistol as big as a dwarf handgun and blasted him off his feet. As he was thrown backwards, the dwarf jerked the cord. An ogre took the ball to his gutplate, sinking to his knees with blood gushing around his hands. The other ogres hurled themselves into the Norrgrimlings. Golgfag singled out the thane, and attacked.
As proud and skilful a warrior as Borrik was, he could not stand against the Maneater. Golgfag quickly put him down with a punishing blow to the head. Through blurring vision, Borrik saw his remaining clans-dwarfs smashed down, barged off balance by fat stomachs, then bludgeoned by umgi-high clubs.
The maneaters wheeled and went for the cannon. Durggan, working on his own now, struggled to get the last piece aligned.
‘Not today, stunty,’ said Golgfag. He drew another pistol and blew out Durggan’s guts with it. So died the chief engineer of Karak Eight Peaks.
The ogres halted. There were none left alive on the high ground except Borrik. He couldn’t move.
‘Look at this lot,’ said Golgfag waving his giant hand out over the battlefield. ‘This is madness! Nobody’s going to win this. Stunties in the north-east, skaven to the south, gobboes in the middle. It don’t make sense.’
‘They are not soldiers, not like we are, captain,’ said one ogre, almost as massive as his master and dressed in outsized Imperial finery.
‘What now, Captain Golgfag?’ said another.
‘I reckon we’re done here. Fulfilled our side of the contract. We’re never going to see that dwarf king’s gold if we stick around for the end of this mess. It don’t matter whose side we’re on. Besides, I got a healthy down payment.’ He patted a bulging pouch at his side. A gold object was poking out of it. Even through his near insensibility, Borrik recognised the crown of Vala-Azrilungol, lost for ages. He added that to his growing mental list of grudges.
‘Kulak, shout the withdrawal. We’re leaving.’
‘Captain! What about that one? He’s still alive,’ said someone Borrik couldn’t see.
Golgfag swung around and looked right at Borrik. The ogre chief walked towards him, his boots filling Borrik’s vision. A rough hand grabbed his mail and rolled him over. Borrik found himself staring into the lumpen face of the world’s foremost mercenary captain.
‘Tough little buggers, your lot,’ said Golgfag. ‘I really hate fighting dwarfs. You take ages to kill. All that armour! Haha! Ha!’ he laughed, as if to include Borrik in his joke. A gale of halitosis swept over Borrik, rank with poorly cooked meat. ‘It ain’t nothing personal, stunty. Business is business.’ Golgfag patted Borrik’s chest with a massive hand.
‘The lads are coming, captain,’ said the finely dressed maneater.
‘Right then,’ said Golgfag, looking away. ‘West tunnel, third in. Looks very badly guarded. We’ll fight our way out that way. Any objections?’
None came.
‘Good.’ Golgfag hitched his trousers into a more comfortable position and stood, his gut obscuring Borrik’s view of his face.
‘What about him?’ said an ogre. ‘You not going to kill him?’
‘The stunty? Nah,’ said Golgfag, leering down at Borrik. ‘It’s your lucky day, shorty. Like I said, I’ve fulfilled my part of the contract. I’ve finished here.’
The ogres left Borrik lying in the shattered remnants of his clan.
If I ever get out of this alive, he thought, I’m donating my entire treasury to the priesthood of Valaya, and then I’m taking the Slayer oath.
Queek butchered goblins by the score. Spears of wood and toughened mushroom stalk shattered under the blows of his weapons. He snarled and spat as he slew them, squeaking in frustration as his blades became fouled in their filthy robes. He was attempting to reach the hated imp, Skarsnik, the so-called king. But for every goblin he slew, there seemed to be a dozen more. They tried to retreat from him, and wisely, but could not for they were packed into the hall so tightly. The dwarf artillery had been silenced, but Skarsnik was still blasting skaven and dwarf-things alike with impunity with the prodder. Queek had witnessed Skarsnik’s magical trident at work many times in the past, but never like this. It glowed with green light so bright it was nearly white. The glare of it left painful after-images streaking across his vision. The energy bolts it threw seemed many times more powerful, and more numerous, than ever before.
‘Let me pass! Get out of Queek’s way!’ shouted Queek at a group of skaven who found themselves in his path. They were lowly clanrats, scared beyond comprehension. They stared at him stupidly as he yelled at them to move. They did not, so he cut them down where they stood. Skarsnik was now only one hundred and fifty scurries from him. The goblin had seen him and was gesticulating obscenely. A bolt of green light came after his gestures, singeing Queek’s whiskers as he threw himself out of the way.