‘Aye,’ Grombrindal rumbled. Hammerson could not say where the white-bearded dwarf had come from, or when he had arrived, but he was here now, and that was all that mattered. If this was to be the last war of the dwarfs, it was only fitting that the White Dwarf himself be there to fight alongside them. Grombrindal hefted his axe, and ran his thumb along the edge. ‘But he and the elgi woman are best out of it, eh? This is dwarf work.’
‘Aye, that it is,’ Hammerson said. He no longer felt tired. Though Gelt’s enchantments were fading, his warriors looked as fresh as the day they’d set out for Averheim, so long ago. It was as if the presence of the revered ancestor had renewed their strength.
He looked past the shield-wall and saw that the Chaos hordes, daemons and mortals alike, were readying themselves to charge once more. If they were allowed to get past the Zhufbarak, the Incarnates would pay the price. Hammerson raised his axe. ‘Plant the standards, lads,’ he bellowed. ‘I want to fight in the shade.’
With a loud rattle, the clan standards were stabbed into the ground, creating a makeshift forest of gold and steel. Hammerson looked up at them, and knew that he was seeing them for the last time. ‘I forged some of those myself,’ he said.
‘Good runework,’ Grombrindal said.
‘Not worth doing, otherwise,’ Hammerson said.
Flesh hounds howled, and bloodthirsters roared. Bloodletters shrieked and mortal warriors added their chants and screams to the daemonic clamour. The dwarfs ignored the noise. Hammerson nodded in satisfaction. ‘I wish Ungrim were here. He’d love this.’
‘He is here, lad,’ Grombrindal rumbled. ‘They’re all here, standing with us, in this moment. All the kings and their clans, be they thane, clansman or Slayer, they are with us now. Can’t you feel them? They are crying out for vengeance. Today is a day for the settling of all grudges, great or small.’
As the White Dwarf spoke, Hammerson thought he could see them. The ghosts of his ancestors moved through the ranks of the living to fill the gaps in the shield-wall. And not just the dead of storied centuries, but those more recent. He saw Thorek Ironbrow, and Ungrim Ironfist. He saw Thorgrim, the Grudgebearer himself, and others besides. Faces and names from history and recent days. It was as if the entirety of their people had come to witness this final act of defiance.
He saw Grombrindal standing upon a broad shield, supported on the shoulders of a one-eyed Slayer and a tankard-carrying ranger. The good eye of the Slayer met his own, and Hammerson felt his growing sadness washed away in a moment of anger. Anger that it had come to this, that all the great works of his people were now as nothing. The fate of the world would be decided elsewhere, by the hands of humans and elves.
For the dwarfs, there was only this. The whole of their history, brought to this point. Hammerson met Grombrindal’s gaze, and the White Dwarf nodded slowly. If it must be done, let it be done well, Hammerson thought. Whether they were dead or alive, that was the only way dwarfs knew how to do anything.
On the other side of the shield-wall, the Chaos horde had jolted into motion at last. Hammerson lifted his weapons. ‘We make our stand here,’ he said, trusting in his voice to carry to every ear. ‘No more running. We stand here, for the Black Water, for every hold, and the world entire. Do you hear me, sons of Zhufbar? Like the stones of the mountains… we will hold.’
EIGHTEEN
Caradryan spun his Phoenix Blade, blocking the deadly bite of the axe as it flashed towards him. The Chaos champion known as Arbaal the Undefeated roared in fury and hacked at the Incarnate of Fire again. Nearby, Ashtari shrieked in fury as he tore at the scaly body of Arbaal’s flesh hound. The daemon-dog wailed in frustrated rage as the firebird drove its beak into the beast’s flesh again and again.
‘I have slaughtered armies of elves,’ Arbaal roared. His axe reeked of hot blood, and it left trails of crimson smoke in its wake as he brought it slashing down towards Caradryan’s head. ‘I have broken the backs of dragons, and eaten the hearts of sea-leviathans.’
‘Your culinary practices are no concern of mine,’ Caradryan snarled, parrying the blow. His arms ached, but he whirled the halberd about as if it were as light as a feather. He twisted and spun, driving the Chaos champion back. ‘It does not matter to me how many you have murdered, monster. It ends here.’
Quicker than thought, Caradryan lunged, slashed and jabbed, striking Arbaal again and again. He knew that were he not host to Aqshy, he would have no hope of standing up to such a foe, let alone defeating him. But with the fire raging in him, he felt as if there were no battle he could not survive. It was a dangerous feeling. He had spent centuries honing his mind and body, and learning to control the rage that was the curse of every elf. But the fire called to that primal part of him, and lent it strength. He wondered if this was akin to what Tyrion had felt, when the fury of Khaine had driven him into madness and despair. There was a freedom in it that called to him, and that he longed to embrace. Instead, he whispered the mantras of Asuryan, trying to maintain focus.
Arbaal swatted the Phoenix Blade aside, ripping it out of Caradryan’s hands. The elf cursed himself for his momentary lack of focus and threw himself over Arbaal’s next blow, his hands reaching for the halberd’s haft. He caught the weapon and rolled to his feet, turning just in time to block a blow that would have split him in half. Shattered cobbles shifted beneath his feet as Arbaal put all of his weight behind his axe, and forced the elf back.
Caradryan wrenched his halberd to the side, trying to twist the axe out of his opponent’s grip, but Arbaal was ready for such a tactic, and he drove a fist into the elf’s belly. Caradryan staggered back, and lurched aside as Arbaal tried to smash him from his feet.
The axe gashed his arm, and Caradryan bit back a scream. His blood hissed and bubbled as it splattered Arbaal’s cuirass, and the Chaos champion hesitated, giving Caradryan a chance to put distance between them. As he retreated, Caradryan cursed himself for a fool. If he hadn’t moved when he had, Arbaal’s blow would have taken his arm off. He could feel the fire within him, demanding to be let out. But to do so would be to doom his warriors to certain death. Arbaal charged towards him, axe ready. The weapon howled as it came around. Only one chance, he thought.
Caradryan spun about and leapt backwards over the sweeping blow. He tumbled through the air and dropped down behind Arbaal. Even as the champion whirled to face Caradryan, the Phoenix Blade slashed out. Ancient armour, crafted in Khorne’s own forges, ruptured as the fiery blade tore upwards through it. Arbaal sagged backwards, clutching at the wound. He raised his axe, but Caradryan hacked his arm off at the elbow. Arbaal screamed in fury and lurched towards the elf, groping for him with his remaining hand.
Caradryan stepped back, out of reach, and pivoted, hammering the edge of his halberd into the space between Arbaal’s collar and the bottom of his helmet. The white-hot blade tore through the champion’s neck, and his head tumbled free to roll away across the cobbles. Caradryan sank back against a wall, panting. He placed a hand to the wound in his arm, and winced as his touch cauterised the bloody slash.
He looked up. Proud princes of drowned Caledor swooped fearlessly through the increasingly agitated skies on their dragons, braving the lightning and sorcerous fire that rained from the bloated clouds in order to drive back the enemy. As he watched, a dragon was struck by a Chaos-birthed bolt of emerald lightning and its smoking corpse plunged from the sky to demolish a row of ramshackle houses.