He’d thought, at the time, he’d found that fight in the city of the bull-stunties, but the gods hadn’t even let him enjoy the krumpin’ he’d given them before they’d scooped him up, and all his boys with him, and deposited him into the middle of a fight. A big fight, bigger than any he had ever seen. There were ’umies, rats, stunties, point-ears, and bone-men – every flavour of opponent. For a moment, Grimgor thought he’d died and gone to Gork’s hall, but then he’d got an arrow in the head and realised that they were in a human city. He reached up to scratch the wound. The arrow had got dislodged somewhere along the way, and the wound had already scabbed over. Gork clamoured in his head and Grimgor shook his head in irritation.
He lowered his axe and eyeballed the northmen. He grunted and turned. Gork wanted him to get to the heart of the city, and fast, and Grimgor wasn’t of a mind to argue with the gods… not yet anyway. This situation called for a bit of… Morkishness. ‘Oi, Wurrzag!’ he bellowed, punching his Immortulz aside to clear a path. ‘Get up here, ya git.’ He knew the crazed shaman would be close. Wurrzag was never very far away these days, not since Gork had reached down and given Grimgor a flick on the noggin.
Orcs and ogres made way for a capering, tattooed figure, wrapped in badly stitched hides and wearing a wooden mask decorated with feathers. Wurrzag wobbled to a halt before Grimgor, twitching in time to some internal rhythm. Grimgor grimaced. The air around the shaman sparked and crackled with energy that made an orc’s blood fizz and his flesh itch. Wurrzag shook his staff under Grimgor’s nose. ‘All hail da once and future git,’ the shaman warbled. The shaman hesitated in mid-hop. ‘Werl, one o’ dem, anyways.’
‘Yeah, shut up wiv’ that nonsense and go do that fing you do, right?’ Grimgor snarled, gesturing towards the enemy with his axe. He wanted to plant Gitsnik right in the middle of the shaman’s stupid mask on general principles, but Wurrzag was too valuable. ‘They is in my way, and I want ’em gone. Gork wants me somewheres else, and I intend to go there. But that ain’t here, so go blast ’em.’
‘Yes, oh mighty git,’ Wurrzag squawked, shaking his staff.
‘And stop calling me a git,’ Grimgor roared, as the shaman twitched past him. He turned and raised his axe. ‘Golgfag, get over ’ere,’ he snarled, as he caught the ogre’s attention. Golgfag muscled aside a couple of orcs, and only had to thump one of them. They were scared of the ogre, and Grimgor didn’t like that. The only thing his lads ought to be scared of was him. ‘Get your lads up here,’ he bellowed at the ogre. ‘Me and you are breaking that shield-wall. You got a problem with that?’ He glared at the ogre challengingly. Golgfag and his ogres had joined the Waaagh! as it crossed the Worlds Edge Mountains, and he’d come close to killing the mercenary more than once. Every time, Gork had whispered to him and quelled his anger.
The big ogre had proven more useful than most of his greedy kin – he was as smart as any runt, and dead sneaky when he needed to be. It had been Golgfag who had got the gates of Zharr Naggrund open, so Grimgor’s lads could barrel in. The ogre had held the great iron gates open, despite having half a dozen stunty crossbow bolts in him. He and Grimgor had fought side by side and back to back up the steps of the black ziggurat, and had toppled the massive statue of the stunties’ bull-god, alongside Borgut Facebeater and Wurrzag. That had been a good day, even if he’d had to kill ol’ Borgut later, on account of him trying to make himself boss. He missed Borgut. Not at the moment, but in general.
‘Got no problems, boss,’ Golgfag rumbled. He wore a heavy horned helm that added to his already considerable height, and for an instant, Grimgor considered cutting him off at the knees. He didn’t like standing in the ogre’s shadow. ‘Happy to bash whoever, wherever, whenever.’
‘Good,’ Grimgor grunted. He heard the air sizzle behind him, and felt his skin prickle. The light turned green, and cast weird shadows on the buildings around them. All around him, orcs, ogres and goblins set up a caterwauling and men screamed. He turned to see Wurrzag dancing a madcap jig as the shield-wall crumbled beneath a storm of crackling emerald lightning. Grimgor felt the strength of Gork rising in him, an elemental fury that outstripped even his own boiling anger. He grinned and Golgfag stepped back warily.
‘Let’s get to bashing then,’ Grimgor snarled. He lifted his axe and waved his Immortulz forwards. Golgfag roared out for his followers, and the mingled wedge of black orcs and ogres took the fore as they thundered towards the enemy lines that Wurrzag had softened up. Grimgor sped up, wanting to get the first lick in. He caught Gitsnik in both hands and lifted it. ‘I’m gonna stomp you ta dust, and break your bones,’ he roared, hurling his words towards the faltering shield-wall. ‘I’m gonna pile yer bodies in a big fire and cook ’em good! I’m gonna bash heads, break ya faces and jump up and down on the bits that are left!’
And when I get where Gork wants me ta go, I’m gonna get really mean, he thought in satisfaction. Then, he was upon the enemy, and there was no need to think at all.
SIXTEEN
‘How tedious. Surely we are all capable commanders. I do not need my hand held, even if I were intending to commit myself to an afternoon of carnage,’ Sigvald the Magnificent groaned, one arm flung over his head as he reclined on the steps of the dais which led up to Archaon’s throne. ‘Dechala, my love, please inform the Everchosen that I am afflicted with ennui and will be unable to sully my fingers with the grime of battle today.’ He flapped a hand at the serpentine shape of the daemon princess known as Dechala the Denied One.
Dechala possessed the upper body of the beautiful elven princess she had once been, and the lower body of an immense serpent. She hissed at Sigvald. Whether it was a sign of annoyance, or some form of flirtation, Canto could not say. He watched as she slithered closer to the manacled form of the elf mage, Teclis, where he lay huddled next to the dais. His robes were filthy and blackened and his face was turned away from the gathering, but Canto knew he was still paying close attention, even so. He was a cool one, was the elf, and he stank of powerful magics. Even though he was a prisoner, Canto knew it was best not to get too close to him. Dechala, however, seemed unconcerned. She caressed him gently, as if trying to tease a lover awake, and leaned close, her tongue flickering.
She caught Canto watching her, and wrinkled her nose in a fashion that had him momentarily forgetting the six arms and the spiky bits. Don’t even think it, Canto, he thought. Those who knew such things said that Dechala’s embrace was a moment of pleasure, followed by an eternity of pain. She had been in Ind, he knew, alongside Arbaal, bringing the wrath of the gods down on that far land, until she and her rival had been scooped up by whatever dark forces were responsible for such things and brought to Middenheim.
He turned away as one of the others he’d brought to the temple at Archaon’s behest made his feelings known. ‘Cease your prattling, Geld-Prince,’ Arbaal the Undefeated rumbled. ‘The gods have called us here to do battle with their enemies. Would you deny their wishes?’
‘And are you so arrogant as to know the wishes of a god not your own?’ the horned, winged creature known as Azazel, the Prince of Damnation, purred as he sauntered out from behind Archaon’s throne. The daemon prince’s talons clicked across the haft of Ghal Maraz, where it was mounted above the throne.
Arbaal growled wordlessly and hefted his axe. A large, scaly paw pressed itself to his cuirass, stopping him from hurling himself at Azazel. ‘None of us know the will of the gods,’ Throgg, the self-proclaimed King of the Trolls, rasped. ‘At least not until it is too late.’ The troll was larger than any other of his kind that Canto had ever had the misfortune to run across. And his eerie self-control was equally as disturbing as Dechala’s sinuous attempts at seduction. They said the troll had been plucked from Kislev by the whims of the gods, and that he bore the marks of battle on him. Canto wondered who would be insane enough to go toe-to-toe with Throgg. Then, he wondered whether they had survived.