Into the Daemon's Nest
Before the storm . . .
Wolf
As his axe bit, Wolf felt the weariness of the past few days drop away from his heavy limbs. All around him his brother’s blades rose and fell, and he grinned at the chance to finally be doing something other than march in the rain. He glanced down and prepared to pull his axe free, as his battle-brother Heinrich strode to his side. Like Wolf, the man was resplendent in well-fitted plate that glinted in the watery sun of the late morning. Oiled steel plates covered the entirely of Heinrich’s legs, emerging from beneath and ornately gilded chausses of mail and plate. A golden sash emerged from under the pauldron of his armoured left arm, starkly contrasting the black enamel of his breastplate and faulds. His fighting arm bore no plate. Like Wolf, he favoured freeing his sword arm to allow a more supple turn of the blade. Yet instead of his greatsword Heinrich bore a heavy woodsman’s axe - and a feral grin under his open-faced helm.
“Sword arm getting weak, is it? Time to go back to shovelling hose-dung!” he said. Wolf looked at his own blade, buried deep in the green wood of a freshly lopped tree. The blade had almost gone clean through, belying Heinrich’s jest: Wolf’s strength was as mighty as ever.
Around the pair the business of felling and cutting timber went on at a furious pace. The Commander’s Engineers had begun the process of building towers for the upcoming siege, and as always Sergeant Ostermann had volunteered his elites for the task. Never one to miss an opportunity to train, the black-bearded champion of the Bogenhafen Greatswords passed out the axes with savage delight. “A Greatsword’s worth is measured by his strength” the sergeant bellowed loudly whenever he was given an audience. This was why the regiment was felling trees in full battle armour, so when the time came to hew heretic flesh even the mighty northmen would fall.
Wolf removed his helm and wiped his brow. He was pleased to train again. To his mind, it was high time the regiment returned to the thick of the fight: the sheathed blade eventually grew dull. Like the Commander, they had arrived too late at The Hourglass to do little more than mop up. At Bernhof, they had anchored the battleline as the commander directed his allies to victory. Like the regiment, Wolf had not needed to unsheathe his blade that day although many others had fallen doing so. He had witnessed the final charge of the Panther Cub, and seen Black Steffan return to lead the fight atop his mighty winged steed. He had even travelled with the Commander to witness the fight at Morrstadt, when they still believed the Harbinger to be their saviour.
This time he prayed to Sigmar they would be in the vanguard, bearing the Commander’s personal standard to the heart of the enemy stronghold. It suited him, he mused, the call to glory. Wolf had been raised among minor nobility, although he could not claim to be one of them. As the son of the ostler to the von Reinard family, he had been allowed friendship with the sons of nobles. His prodigious strength had been noted early, and he had earned the respect and friendship of the scion of the von Reinards, Rutger, in training hall and hunt. It was through Rutger that his place in the Greatswords had been assured, although it had not been until his first action with the regiment, repelling the charge of a horde of boar-riding greenskins at the Batlle of Five Waters that he had felt truly accepted. Many of the regiment were career soldiers, who had earned their places through years of hardened and distinguished service in the Bogenhafen rank and file. Men like Heinrich, who had led regiments of halberd and pike in skirmishes too numerous to mention. At Five Waters, it had been Wolf’s blade that cut down the greenskin battle standard – and the monstrous green-black orc that bore it – with a mighty blow that had severed standard, limb and the head behind it. After that day Wolf had truly been an equal, although ever-the-joker Heinrich still found ready taunts to remind him from where he had begun.
“The blade is blunt” Wolf said, and with a gentle tap on the back of the axehead the trunk split in two. Heinrich laughed, and the two warriors lifted the felled tree into line with a dozen others.
A cold horn sounded, and the laughter melted away like a sea-mist in a morning breeze. The call to battle. “Let’s hope your sword is sharper,“ Heinrich said and the two men threw down their axes and strode purposefully to the muster.
As his axe bit, Wolf felt the weariness of the past few days drop away from his heavy limbs. All around him his brother’s blades rose and fell, and he grinned at the chance to finally be doing something other than march in the rain. He glanced down and prepared to pull his axe free, as his battle-brother Heinrich strode to his side. Like Wolf, the man was resplendent in well-fitted plate that glinted in the watery sun of the late morning. Oiled steel plates covered the entirely of Heinrich’s legs, emerging from beneath and ornately gilded chausses of mail and plate. A golden sash emerged from under the pauldron of his armoured left arm, starkly contrasting the black enamel of his breastplate and faulds. His fighting arm bore no plate. Like Wolf, he favoured freeing his sword arm to allow a more supple turn of the blade. Yet instead of his greatsword Heinrich bore a heavy woodsman’s axe - and a feral grin under his open-faced helm.
“Sword arm getting weak, is it? Time to go back to shovelling hose-dung!” he said. Wolf looked at his own blade, buried deep in the green wood of a freshly lopped tree. The blade had almost gone clean through, belying Heinrich’s jest: Wolf’s strength was as mighty as ever.
Around the pair the business of felling and cutting timber went on at a furious pace. The Commander’s Engineers had begun the process of building towers for the upcoming siege, and as always Sergeant Ostermann had volunteered his elites for the task. Never one to miss an opportunity to train, the black-bearded champion of the Bogenhafen Greatswords passed out the axes with savage delight. “A Greatsword’s worth is measured by his strength” the sergeant bellowed loudly whenever he was given an audience. This was why the regiment was felling trees in full battle armour, so when the time came to hew heretic flesh even the mighty northmen would fall.
Wolf removed his helm and wiped his brow. He was pleased to train again. To his mind, it was high time the regiment returned to the thick of the fight: the sheathed blade eventually grew dull. Like the Commander, they had arrived too late at The Hourglass to do little more than mop up. At Bernhof, they had anchored the battleline as the commander directed his allies to victory. Like the regiment, Wolf had not needed to unsheathe his blade that day although many others had fallen doing so. He had witnessed the final charge of the Panther Cub, and seen Black Steffan return to lead the fight atop his mighty winged steed. He had even travelled with the Commander to witness the fight at Morrstadt, when they still believed the Harbinger to be their saviour.
This time he prayed to Sigmar they would be in the vanguard, bearing the Commander’s personal standard to the heart of the enemy stronghold. It suited him, he mused, the call to glory. Wolf had been raised among minor nobility, although he could not claim to be one of them. As the son of the ostler to the von Reinard family, he had been allowed friendship with the sons of nobles. His prodigious strength had been noted early, and he had earned the respect and friendship of the scion of the von Reinards, Rutger, in training hall and hunt. It was through Rutger that his place in the Greatswords had been assured, although it had not been until his first action with the regiment, repelling the charge of a horde of boar-riding greenskins at the Batlle of Five Waters that he had felt truly accepted. Many of the regiment were career soldiers, who had earned their places through years of hardened and distinguished service in the Bogenhafen rank and file. Men like Heinrich, who had led regiments of halberd and pike in skirmishes too numerous to mention. At Five Waters, it had been Wolf’s blade that cut down the greenskin battle standard – and the monstrous green-black orc that bore it – with a mighty blow that had severed standard, limb and the head behind it. After that day Wolf had truly been an equal, although ever-the-joker Heinrich still found ready taunts to remind him from where he had begun.
“The blade is blunt” Wolf said, and with a gentle tap on the back of the axehead the trunk split in two. Heinrich laughed, and the two warriors lifted the felled tree into line with a dozen others.
A cold horn sounded, and the laughter melted away like a sea-mist in a morning breeze. The call to battle. “Let’s hope your sword is sharper,“ Heinrich said and the two men threw down their axes and strode purposefully to the muster.
The Bezerk
As his axe bit, Hrafnir once again felt the thrill of rage and hate needle into his skull. Though none could see it, a maniac grin of blood-flecked foam split the pale skin of his ruined face. His opponent, some would-be-champion of the Redmane clan, clattered to the earth, his majestic war plate rent through the spine where Hrafnir’s monstrously-headed axe had ended the fight. He wrenched blade free in a piercing shriek of steel on brass.
As if in answer the needles pulsed raw, unfettered fury into his skull. Though he could not see them in the strictest sense, he felt the tide of rage and triumph building in the warriors of the rout as they again cheered his victory, a harsh guttural roar torn from ravaged throats and bleeding lips, before bearing the vanquished body away. By dawn it would proudly adorn the rout’s blood-banner.
Hrafnir, his body hunched and raw from the fight, suddenly stood alone. Now the rout had gone so too had his sight, but he felt his other senses returning as the needles withdrew. It was not a welcome sensation. He could taste the iron-salt tang of his blood coursing from his lips where ragged teeth had torn old scars open to bleed afresh. He could smell the steel of The Cage where it pressed against the sun-starved paste of his face and tried to remember the feeling of the air of the north touching his brow, knowing that it would never again do so. The sudden ache for this simple sensation was quickly driven from his mind as the needles finally withdrew – cold agony as their barbed and tainted tips dragged meat and matter from the bone of his skull. He imagined the Daemonsmiths had laughed as they designed The Cage – as if such creatures understood the imperative that drove men to express such a human emotion as pleasure – revelling in the delicious and excruciating torment their needles would inflict. Hrafnir half-imagined he could hear their bestial roars even now, but then realised it was the rout, cheering in the distance as they crucified his beaten foe upon their standard. As always the sound was distorted and metallic, as his ears were entirely encased in the brass loops of The Cage as it pressed them to his head.
Hrafnir fell to his haunches. As with all weapons he had no use now that battle was done, and the emptiness of darkness swallowed him. It was in this pose of apparent sombre reflection that Ger found his master some hours later: a red-thewed giant: bowed; hunched; scars and tattoos dancing across swollen and impossibly muscled flesh.
“The storm rises, Blessadur,” he said, invoking the title of those chosen to bear the rout to glory, “Battle comes.”
“Fetch the rout,” came the reply, although the head gave no indication of speech, “We move.” Like some twisted serpent of red flesh, Hrafnir uncoiled. Rising to all eight feet of his full height he hefted the monstrous axe and rolled his titanic shoulders, as if reminding himself how they were designed to move. With terrible potential issuing from each muscle Hrafnir returned to life, and as Ger watched the spines that emerged from the featureless brass helm that completely enclosed his master's head began driving back into Hrafnir’s skull with a screech terrible to hear.
As his axe bit, Hrafnir once again felt the thrill of rage and hate needle into his skull. Though none could see it, a maniac grin of blood-flecked foam split the pale skin of his ruined face. His opponent, some would-be-champion of the Redmane clan, clattered to the earth, his majestic war plate rent through the spine where Hrafnir’s monstrously-headed axe had ended the fight. He wrenched blade free in a piercing shriek of steel on brass.
As if in answer the needles pulsed raw, unfettered fury into his skull. Though he could not see them in the strictest sense, he felt the tide of rage and triumph building in the warriors of the rout as they again cheered his victory, a harsh guttural roar torn from ravaged throats and bleeding lips, before bearing the vanquished body away. By dawn it would proudly adorn the rout’s blood-banner.
Hrafnir, his body hunched and raw from the fight, suddenly stood alone. Now the rout had gone so too had his sight, but he felt his other senses returning as the needles withdrew. It was not a welcome sensation. He could taste the iron-salt tang of his blood coursing from his lips where ragged teeth had torn old scars open to bleed afresh. He could smell the steel of The Cage where it pressed against the sun-starved paste of his face and tried to remember the feeling of the air of the north touching his brow, knowing that it would never again do so. The sudden ache for this simple sensation was quickly driven from his mind as the needles finally withdrew – cold agony as their barbed and tainted tips dragged meat and matter from the bone of his skull. He imagined the Daemonsmiths had laughed as they designed The Cage – as if such creatures understood the imperative that drove men to express such a human emotion as pleasure – revelling in the delicious and excruciating torment their needles would inflict. Hrafnir half-imagined he could hear their bestial roars even now, but then realised it was the rout, cheering in the distance as they crucified his beaten foe upon their standard. As always the sound was distorted and metallic, as his ears were entirely encased in the brass loops of The Cage as it pressed them to his head.
Hrafnir fell to his haunches. As with all weapons he had no use now that battle was done, and the emptiness of darkness swallowed him. It was in this pose of apparent sombre reflection that Ger found his master some hours later: a red-thewed giant: bowed; hunched; scars and tattoos dancing across swollen and impossibly muscled flesh.
“The storm rises, Blessadur,” he said, invoking the title of those chosen to bear the rout to glory, “Battle comes.”
“Fetch the rout,” came the reply, although the head gave no indication of speech, “We move.” Like some twisted serpent of red flesh, Hrafnir uncoiled. Rising to all eight feet of his full height he hefted the monstrous axe and rolled his titanic shoulders, as if reminding himself how they were designed to move. With terrible potential issuing from each muscle Hrafnir returned to life, and as Ger watched the spines that emerged from the featureless brass helm that completely enclosed his master's head began driving back into Hrafnir’s skull with a screech terrible to hear.
Marksman
As the axe fell, the marksman rolled aside and sprung into the firing position. Quicker than thought the arrow flew, and struck his attacker square in the throat. A liquid scream burst from the northman’s throat as he clutched at the shaft. But before he could snap off the arrow, the marksman had already ended the fight with his long knife.
“The last of them?” he asked, as two of his grey-cloaked companions emerged from the dust and ash thrown up by the sudden violence.
“Aye,” said Pech, the taller of the two. Like the marksman, he was clad in hunting garb: mottled cloaks of green-grey rendered monotone by the smearing of ash; well-worn leathers and tall grey boots; a ready quiver of white-fletched arrows slung to the hip ready for drawing. “The last,” he said, and spat upon the corpse.
A flutter of feathers announced the return of Eyes, and Pech looked up to see the bird alight above their heads. The tawny, round-eyed owl settled into position on one of the blackened tree-branches overlooking the clearing. Its head spun on its neck scanning the ground around the marksmen. It gave a single hoot, and other huntsmen emerged from the surrounding trees. All deferred to the marksman, as he knelt to examine his latest kill.
“Another scout”, he said, his voice flat and emotionless. Like every one of his men, the marksman had been changed by years of battle the northmen had brought to their homes. Finishing with the fallen man, his eye passed over the clearing, noting the blasted trees all around them. “So much destruction” he thought, yet showed no emotion – now was not the time to open that floodgate. Only when the battle was done and he stood victorious would he allow feeling to return. Or he would lay dead, he mused, and feeling would not matter.
For five days the marksman and his hunters had scouted the road leading to the ‘Nest. It had been a harrowing journey for all of the men. Like he, they knew these lands of old, when they had still been verdant and the game plentiful. It would be hard to imagine what life might be found here now. Along the road every tree was blackened and scorched, and ash drew up to each withered stump as the pungent sulphuric wind drove it into clumps over the dried barren earth. Even the sky here was burnt. Pech had been the first to notice it: a deepening red hue that had replaced the ever-present storm clouds that had accompanied the column since they had entered the hourglass and drawn nearer to their goal. What sorcery was at work he could not guess, and he didn’t care to. That Morr had granted him foes to draw down upon had been a blessing. The cold mechanical action of nock-draw-loose had snapped him back into the focus he needed.
He glanced at Eyes, and gestured into the deepening gloom. Noiselessly, the bird flew off in the direction indicated, and the marksmen and his men stalked after it. As they faded into the trees, the wind swirled around the clearing, and set about the business of burying another body in the ashen, bone-filled dust.
As the axe fell, the marksman rolled aside and sprung into the firing position. Quicker than thought the arrow flew, and struck his attacker square in the throat. A liquid scream burst from the northman’s throat as he clutched at the shaft. But before he could snap off the arrow, the marksman had already ended the fight with his long knife.
“The last of them?” he asked, as two of his grey-cloaked companions emerged from the dust and ash thrown up by the sudden violence.
“Aye,” said Pech, the taller of the two. Like the marksman, he was clad in hunting garb: mottled cloaks of green-grey rendered monotone by the smearing of ash; well-worn leathers and tall grey boots; a ready quiver of white-fletched arrows slung to the hip ready for drawing. “The last,” he said, and spat upon the corpse.
A flutter of feathers announced the return of Eyes, and Pech looked up to see the bird alight above their heads. The tawny, round-eyed owl settled into position on one of the blackened tree-branches overlooking the clearing. Its head spun on its neck scanning the ground around the marksmen. It gave a single hoot, and other huntsmen emerged from the surrounding trees. All deferred to the marksman, as he knelt to examine his latest kill.
“Another scout”, he said, his voice flat and emotionless. Like every one of his men, the marksman had been changed by years of battle the northmen had brought to their homes. Finishing with the fallen man, his eye passed over the clearing, noting the blasted trees all around them. “So much destruction” he thought, yet showed no emotion – now was not the time to open that floodgate. Only when the battle was done and he stood victorious would he allow feeling to return. Or he would lay dead, he mused, and feeling would not matter.
For five days the marksman and his hunters had scouted the road leading to the ‘Nest. It had been a harrowing journey for all of the men. Like he, they knew these lands of old, when they had still been verdant and the game plentiful. It would be hard to imagine what life might be found here now. Along the road every tree was blackened and scorched, and ash drew up to each withered stump as the pungent sulphuric wind drove it into clumps over the dried barren earth. Even the sky here was burnt. Pech had been the first to notice it: a deepening red hue that had replaced the ever-present storm clouds that had accompanied the column since they had entered the hourglass and drawn nearer to their goal. What sorcery was at work he could not guess, and he didn’t care to. That Morr had granted him foes to draw down upon had been a blessing. The cold mechanical action of nock-draw-loose had snapped him back into the focus he needed.
He glanced at Eyes, and gestured into the deepening gloom. Noiselessly, the bird flew off in the direction indicated, and the marksmen and his men stalked after it. As they faded into the trees, the wind swirled around the clearing, and set about the business of burying another body in the ashen, bone-filled dust.
Craftsman
Running his calloused and weathered finger along the axe’s edge, admiring the keen edge and sensing the power of the forge running through the curling runes that etched a filigree of promised pain along the blade. Dol-Dalokher was again forced to concede that his father had been better skilled at the forge’s fire. As usual the thought was accompanied by his gorge rising, as the hate for his nearest ancestor boiled to the surface. As usual, the thought that his father’s handiwork had also been his ending doused the fire. He allowed his thoughts to dwell upon his father’s leathery face, twisting in agony as his son wrenched the rune-etched blade from his chest in a shower of scarlet viscera. Dur smiled, a wholly feral and unpleasant affair. The old man had been a fine ‘smith, but a poor warrior. Dol’s craft was in the wielding of the blade rather than its forging, as his father had discovered to his doom.
With a bestial growl, Dol-Dalokher hauled the axe to his shoulder and collected his chipped and war-scarred shield from where he had rammed its bronze spike into the hardpan. Time to hone his craft. Around him, his bone-brothers likewise prepared. Horned helms cast in bronze glowed red in the dusk-light as points of fire glinted from the rictus fangs cast into their faceplates. Dull lambent energy glowed dimly from the runes cast upon myriad weapons. To see so many made Dol’s eyes begin to ache. With mechanical precision the bone-brothers began to fan out into a lose cordon, until they were little more than hunched shapes silhouetted in the torchlight. A fierce potential exuded from each shape, and Dol again growled in anticipation.
The slave horn sounded, and it was time. The black steel doors of the spined cages at the centre of the cordon swung open on their oiled hinges, and the rabble emerged. Most were scrawny ill-fed things, as most humans were, and they ran in desperation to their doom. Three headed straight for his position, and Dol was quickly about his work. Short, razor slashes and brutal deathblows finished the first two in a heartbeat. The third required more artistry. With an extravagant move, Dol drew back his blade as if to swing and offered the slave an opening to run through. The slave, half-starved and manic with fear took the opening, only to realise its folly as Dol drove his shield into its midriff. The full weight of the stocky, heavy-thewed Dwarf uncoiled from behind the shield, and the slave went flying, its torso broken and ribs cracked. A sickening exhale of pain accompanied its final breath, and Dol savoured the sound as he turned and delivered the deathblow. He felt his father’s pride echo through the runes in his blade, as they drank in the fear and pain.
A bellowed challenge drew his attention away from the sensation, and he saw with vicious delight a fresh slave emerge. But this was no ragged man-thing. Instead, a Dwarf burst from the slave-pen. Scarred, shaven, but nonetheless unbowed the Dwarf had fashion a weapon from one of the cage’s black steel spines. The hate written the Dwarf’s features matched his own, and Dol gripped his blade and shield tighter, thrilling at the chance to test his mettle against a more worthy foe. He met the Dwarf’s challenge with a battlecry of his own, and strode toward his foe.
As soon as Dol moved within range, the Dwarf attacked: it was no less than Dol expected of one so unused to wielding the depth of hate his race had found such a capacity for. It unbalanced his foe, and he struck with almost feral fury. A rain of blows tore red-flecked chips of iron-oak from Dol’s shield, but none pierced his guard as he braced and presented naught but steel, bronze and wood to the foe. More blows rained. Dol knew the Dwarf would not tire: even his weak-willed kin of the west had his race’s stout and enduring prowess. He allowed the Dwarf to become used to striking the shield.
The two dwarfs circled, the slave raining blows against Dol’s stern defence. Finally, Dol saw the opening he had been awaiting. Turning his body, he allowed fis foes strike to meet his shield full-on, and the change of approach was rewarded as the slave’s weapon stuck fast in the notched timber of the shield. Dol twisted, and the weapon was wrenched from the slave’s grip. It spat a curse at him, daring him to finish the fight. Deftly, Dol spun his father’s axe in his hand and struck with the flat of the axe-head, smashing into the slave’s face and bearing him unconscious to the ground. The runes in the blade sang, ready to claim another kill, but Dol’s will was the greater. Instead he buried the axe-head in the ground and stood over the fallen slave.
“A fine start, cousin,” he said, savouring the moment, “but you have more hate to learn.” Satisfied, Dol rejoined the fight. There was little further challenge to be found. Gathering around his bone-brothers, he drank deep from the well of malice and rejoiced in the thought of the fight to come. As if in answer, distant horns sounded.
“Our kin!” he bellowed, and bestial roars rose to join his cries.
Running his calloused and weathered finger along the axe’s edge, admiring the keen edge and sensing the power of the forge running through the curling runes that etched a filigree of promised pain along the blade. Dol-Dalokher was again forced to concede that his father had been better skilled at the forge’s fire. As usual the thought was accompanied by his gorge rising, as the hate for his nearest ancestor boiled to the surface. As usual, the thought that his father’s handiwork had also been his ending doused the fire. He allowed his thoughts to dwell upon his father’s leathery face, twisting in agony as his son wrenched the rune-etched blade from his chest in a shower of scarlet viscera. Dur smiled, a wholly feral and unpleasant affair. The old man had been a fine ‘smith, but a poor warrior. Dol’s craft was in the wielding of the blade rather than its forging, as his father had discovered to his doom.
With a bestial growl, Dol-Dalokher hauled the axe to his shoulder and collected his chipped and war-scarred shield from where he had rammed its bronze spike into the hardpan. Time to hone his craft. Around him, his bone-brothers likewise prepared. Horned helms cast in bronze glowed red in the dusk-light as points of fire glinted from the rictus fangs cast into their faceplates. Dull lambent energy glowed dimly from the runes cast upon myriad weapons. To see so many made Dol’s eyes begin to ache. With mechanical precision the bone-brothers began to fan out into a lose cordon, until they were little more than hunched shapes silhouetted in the torchlight. A fierce potential exuded from each shape, and Dol again growled in anticipation.
The slave horn sounded, and it was time. The black steel doors of the spined cages at the centre of the cordon swung open on their oiled hinges, and the rabble emerged. Most were scrawny ill-fed things, as most humans were, and they ran in desperation to their doom. Three headed straight for his position, and Dol was quickly about his work. Short, razor slashes and brutal deathblows finished the first two in a heartbeat. The third required more artistry. With an extravagant move, Dol drew back his blade as if to swing and offered the slave an opening to run through. The slave, half-starved and manic with fear took the opening, only to realise its folly as Dol drove his shield into its midriff. The full weight of the stocky, heavy-thewed Dwarf uncoiled from behind the shield, and the slave went flying, its torso broken and ribs cracked. A sickening exhale of pain accompanied its final breath, and Dol savoured the sound as he turned and delivered the deathblow. He felt his father’s pride echo through the runes in his blade, as they drank in the fear and pain.
A bellowed challenge drew his attention away from the sensation, and he saw with vicious delight a fresh slave emerge. But this was no ragged man-thing. Instead, a Dwarf burst from the slave-pen. Scarred, shaven, but nonetheless unbowed the Dwarf had fashion a weapon from one of the cage’s black steel spines. The hate written the Dwarf’s features matched his own, and Dol gripped his blade and shield tighter, thrilling at the chance to test his mettle against a more worthy foe. He met the Dwarf’s challenge with a battlecry of his own, and strode toward his foe.
As soon as Dol moved within range, the Dwarf attacked: it was no less than Dol expected of one so unused to wielding the depth of hate his race had found such a capacity for. It unbalanced his foe, and he struck with almost feral fury. A rain of blows tore red-flecked chips of iron-oak from Dol’s shield, but none pierced his guard as he braced and presented naught but steel, bronze and wood to the foe. More blows rained. Dol knew the Dwarf would not tire: even his weak-willed kin of the west had his race’s stout and enduring prowess. He allowed the Dwarf to become used to striking the shield.
The two dwarfs circled, the slave raining blows against Dol’s stern defence. Finally, Dol saw the opening he had been awaiting. Turning his body, he allowed fis foes strike to meet his shield full-on, and the change of approach was rewarded as the slave’s weapon stuck fast in the notched timber of the shield. Dol twisted, and the weapon was wrenched from the slave’s grip. It spat a curse at him, daring him to finish the fight. Deftly, Dol spun his father’s axe in his hand and struck with the flat of the axe-head, smashing into the slave’s face and bearing him unconscious to the ground. The runes in the blade sang, ready to claim another kill, but Dol’s will was the greater. Instead he buried the axe-head in the ground and stood over the fallen slave.
“A fine start, cousin,” he said, savouring the moment, “but you have more hate to learn.” Satisfied, Dol rejoined the fight. There was little further challenge to be found. Gathering around his bone-brothers, he drank deep from the well of malice and rejoiced in the thought of the fight to come. As if in answer, distant horns sounded.
“Our kin!” he bellowed, and bestial roars rose to join his cries.