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  At that, Magnus let slip a long, bitter laugh. He looked at Grotius, a wolfish smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Ah, my friend,’ he said. ‘You’ve been badly advised. If you need a master engineer, look elsewhere. There are good reasons for my leaving the service. Yours was a nice story, and I feel for your loss, but you’ll need to find someone else to be your gunnery captain.’

  Grotius maintained his equable expression, and placed his hands comfortably across his broad stomach.

  ‘You would do well to consider the proposal,’ he said, weighing his words carefully. ‘The count himself has been told of your presence here. Matters have been set in motion. Decisions have been ratified. I trust you know what that means?’

  Magnus felt his anger rising. He placed his tankard down roughly on the bench beside him. This would have to be cut off before it could go any further.

  ‘Sigmar damn you!’ he hissed. ‘You have some guts to come here and talk to me like I was some boy of your master’s. I’ve served in armies larger than you’ve ever seen. I’ve commanded batteries of a hundred guns and answered to Marshal Helborg himself. If I had a weapon…’

  Grotius’s eyes went flat.

  ‘But you don’t, do you?’ he said, acidly. ‘Even I’ve heard of the Ironblood pistol. Where is it now? In the hands of some strumpet witch hunter? You’ve squandered everything, Ironblood. Whoever you used to be, whatever you used to command, now you’re just another feckless wanderer, ripe for nothing but the press or the poorhouse.’

  Magnus’s eyes blazed, but the words died in his throat. Despite it all, the accusations hit home. Grotius had done his work well, and knew where his vulnerable points were. The agent’s lip curled slightly in a sneer.

  ‘I began reasonably, in the hope that you might be persuaded to see the gracious opportunity the count has extended you,’ Grotius said. ‘He’s a man who’s used to having his wishes granted. I suspect he would be extremely disappointed to learn that his offer has been turned down.’

  Magnus felt his anger sink into a kind of dark resignation. He was new in Hergig, and the few friends he had here would be no protection if he made enemies of the authorities. He knew just enough of the ways of the Imperial hierarchy to appreciate the position he was in.

  ‘Now that you put it like that,’ said Magnus, not bothering to hide the scorn in his voice, ‘I’m inclined to listen further. Tell on.’

  Grotius let his vicious expression slide, and the benign air of satisfaction returned. The man had all the deceit and silky manners of a career diplomat.

  ‘The resources at your disposal would be considerable,’ he said, matter of factly. ‘There are several big guns, many smaller pieces, and the crew to man them. There are also companies of handgunners, some equipped with the famous Hochland long guns. They’ll all need close supervision. The commander of the army, General Scharnhorst, is not a believer in the new sciences. That is to be regretted, and is also why we need you. Since you’re so proud of your prior experiences, I cannot believe a man such as yourself would have much of a problem with our requirements.’

  Magnus found himself only half-listening. The evening had gone from merely bad to terrible.

  ‘I suppose you have the plans all prepared?’ he said, looking at the thin foam on his beer grimly.

  ‘The place the margravine has chosen is called Morgramgar,’ he said. ‘I will arrange for our charts to be sent to you. It is a citadel, high up in the mountains, reputedly built on a single spur of rock. She has not chosen the location idly. Morgramgar was built to withstand a siege. It will be hard to reach, and even harder to storm. I won’t lie to you, Ironblood. The task will be arduous. There is much about the rebellion we don’t know. And if tales of Kleister’s riches are to be believed, we cannot be sure how many men she has bought. We need commanders of calibre, not hired swords.’

  Magnus drank again, feeling the sour liquid slip down his throat easily.

  ‘You paint an attractive picture,’ he said. ‘No wonder you’re having trouble recruiting. What of this Scharnhorst? Is he good?’

  Grotius couldn’t conceal a slight flicker of discomfort before his face resumed its habitual smoothness.

  ‘He’s one of Hochland’s most decorated soldiers,’ he said, lowering his eyes. ‘He has commanded many of the elector’s armies.’

  Magnus leaned forward, and placed his tankard on the table roughly.

  ‘Look,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘I don’t care what you think of him. This whole province is a backward hive of peasantry. Commanding a Hochland battalion is about as impressive as organising a village fayre. You may have a few decent handgunners up here, but that’s it. I’m going to need more than that. Sending an army into the mountains with a provincial hick at the helm will be suicide, for all of us. You’ll have to do better than that.’

  Grotius’s eyes went flat.

  ‘If we’re so backward here,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, ‘then it was a poor choice you made to live amongst us. You may not have appreciated it yet, being so new, but we are a proud people. You would do well to remember that. Not all Hochlanders are as tolerant as I am.’

  Magnus snorted with derision.

  ‘You need me,’ he said. ‘If you didn’t, you’d have dragged me to the gaol already. I know where we stand here, Grotius. If I refuse, I’ll suddenly find my every doing a matter of interest to the local sergeant. I’m too old and weary to play that game.’

  He fixed the agent with a dark look.

  ‘I can do your work for you,’ he said. ‘You know that. But I want payment up front, and I want the money to do it properly. My own team, and funds to hire whatever I think I need. And I want full command of the engineer companies. This Scharnhorst can do what he wants with the halberdiers and the archers, but I don’t want any interference with the guns.’

  Grotius returned the glare coolly.

  ‘You’ll get money,’ he said. ‘For yourself and for your company. The gunnery crews will answer to you. But don’t attempt to cross Scharnhorst. He’s the general, and he’s in command. I warn you, he won’t tolerate any attempt to undermine that. You’ve served before. You know how it is.’

  Magnus drained the last of his tankard. Three flagons’ worth already. How had he become so accustomed to it, so quickly?

  ‘And I command the heavy iron,’ he said. ‘I won’t tolerate any attempt to undermine that, either.’

  He placed the empty tankard on the bench beside him.

  ‘I’ll have to meet this Scharnhorst,’ Magnus said, wearily. ‘Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.’

  Grotius shrugged, pulled his cloak about him and looked over to the door. As he moved, all eyes around the tavern turned to him. The conversations ebbed again. The desperation to see him leave was palpable.

  ‘That’s your business,’ he said. ‘Now I must go. There’s much to arrange. Where are your lodgings? I’ll have the documents sent to you.’

  ‘Above the blacksmiths on Karlfranzstrasse,’ said Magnus. ‘There’s a coaching inn on the corner of the street. Get your man to ask for directions there.’

  Grotius nodded, and rose. As he did so, he threw a couple of coins onto the bench.

  ‘I’m glad you saw the opportunity here, Ironblood,’ he said, failing to keep the edge of disdain from his voice. ‘That concludes our business. I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, enjoy a drink, courtesy of the count.’

  Magnus bowed ironically, leaving the coins where they were.

  ‘I’ll be sure to thank him when we next meet.’

  Grotius turned and walked back towards the doorway. A few of the drinkers raised their heads slightly, but kept their eyes low. The cockerel squawked, and was silenced. The door opened, and the chill of the night rushed in once more. It slammed shut with his passing, and the flimsy wood shivered.

  The room relax
ed. Conversations became more animated, and furtive glances were shot in Magnus’s direction. The slovenly woman began to cackle. Magnus ignored her and looked at the coins before him. They shone dully in the dirty light. The sum was derisory. He’d been suborned so cheaply, with so little struggle. Even a year ago he might have laughed off a man like Grotius. The coins would have been hurled back at his preening, prancing face. He could have resisted the commission, taken his chances with the militia, broken free of Hergig and laughed in the faces of his pursuers.

  Not now. When the spirit had been broken, the carrion crows began to circle. With a heavy sense of futility, he picked up the coins. Magnus looked up at the serving woman, who was glaring at him with suspicion and hostility.

  ‘Another,’ he said in a thick voice.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Is there anything which embodies the might of the Empire of man more than the cannonry it can bring to bear? What other nation of the world has mastered such dread science? What other race can deploy the lines of death-dealing iron as we can? With every passing year, our metallurgists discover more, and our alchemists distil purer and more potent strains of the blackpowder. Though the lost souls of Chaos may sweep down from the Northern Wastes, and the savage greenskins assail us from their foul holes in the mountains, we have nothing to fear as long as we remain true to the sacred lore of the machine. In it lies our salvation, our redemption, and our one true hope.’

  Address given by Solomon Grusswalder

  Master of the College of Engineers, Nuln

  Thorgad Grimgarsson waited silently in the shadows under the trees. Glamrist felt light in his gnarled hands. It always did, when the time came. A thin reflection of moonlight gleamed along the blade. The edge was as sharp as the High King’s own. He’d ground it himself. The only way to get it done properly.

  Ahead, the faint light pooled in the narrow clearing. There was movement. Thorgad narrowed his eyes. Years of living in the lamplit halls of his ancestors had made them almost as good in the dark as they were under the sun.

  ‘Grobi,’ he mouthed, letting his lips curl with disgust.

  He ran a finger lightly along the axe blade. Even in the weak light, the runes were visible. They gave him comfort. Soon they would be drenched in black blood. It had been too long since Glamrist had drunk deep. The spirit of the weapon was taut with readiness.

  There was a low chattering. The grobi were careless. Too rarely were they disturbed in the heart of the forest. This was their realm, a world of throttlings and chokings, a miserable life of preying on the unwary and the foolish. Even if he had not been schooled to hate the race from birth, Thorgad would still have despised them. There was nothing in the world more deserving of death than a goblin.

  One of them shuffled into full view. It was wearing a dark cloak. A hooked nose poked out from under it, and there was a quick flash of curved yellow teeth. Others scuttled into the clearing. They were excited. One of them had picked up a trail of something. They clutched their weapons in scrawny hands. Gouges, sickles, nets, twisted scimitars. The chattering grew louder. They were moving off.

  The time had come. Thorgad made a final assessment of their numbers, then hefted Glamrist expertly.

  ‘Khazuk!’ he bellowed, and burst from the undergrowth.

  In a second he was amongst them. The axe whirled in the air. A slick of blood splattered across Thorgad’s beard and breastplate. The stench of it clogged his nostrils.

  The goblins broke like animals, squealing and squawking. Some leapt up into the trees, scrabbling at the bark. Others darted into the foliage. Thorgad went after them like a hunter after rabbits, swinging the heavy blade with abandon. The muscles in his powerful arms responded instantly. It had been too long since they had done anything but hammer iron. The change felt good.

  The slowest of the grobi were soon cut down. Their twitching bodies lay amid the bracken. Tattered cloaks hung from briars. The sound of their screams echoed from the tree trunks.

  But then it changed. One of them must have noticed Thorgad was alone. A series of barked orders ran through the forest. The dwarf stood in the centre of the clearing, panting. Silvery light limned the open space. Beyond, the shadows clustered, as dark as nightshade. The squawking stopped. The rustling branches fell still.

  Then, one by one, points of yellow light appeared. Dozens of them.

  ‘Grungni’s beard,’ muttered Thorgad. ‘More than I thought.’

  He spat on the ground, turning slowly, watching the sets of eyes multiply in the gloom. He was surrounded. Still they waited. He let his breathing return to normal. His eyes narrowed. They would have to rush him to have any chance. Who would be the first to try it? He found himself grinning.

  ‘Come on then!’ he roared, breaking the eerie silence.

  They came. A wave of chattering, snickering hate. In the half-light they looked like rats, swarming across the ground. The first of them reached him. One leapt up, its thin face distorted with fear and malice. A second later it fell to the ground, nearly sliced in two.

  More came at him. Thorgad felt something grasp his ankle. A scimitar whistled past his neck. Fingers as hard as iron rods scrabbled at his cloak. He kept moving. Glamrist was working quickly now. He hurled it in wide arcs, smashing apart any grobi that got too near. The shining blade was soon as black as pitch, stained with a thick layer of gore. He could feel his own blood trickle across his right arm. One of the grobi knives had hit home. In his activity, he’d hardly noticed it. The axe sang. The squawking rose in volume.

  Still they came. More were arriving from the deeps of the forest. Thorgad swung round, looking for an escape route. There was none. Much as he hated to admit it, he might have been a little ambitious. A vicious-looking grobi leapt up towards his face, teeth snapping. Thorgad felt the spittle on his skin, smelt the putrid stink. With a snarl of disgust, he brought his left fist up. Bone crunched, and the cloaked horror crumpled. Thorgad spun around again.

  Too late. He felt the sharp pain of the gouge as it bored into his thigh. Glamrist flashed, and the grobi staggered backwards. Its entrails spilled, gleaming in the starlight.

  Thorgad grunted as the pain radiated up his leg. This was getting difficult. More grobi fell. His arms were streaked with blood, his face spattered with it. Still they jumped towards him. He felt something grab hold of his cloak again. The grip held. Two more sprang towards him, flails spinning. In their hateful eyes, there was the glint of victory.

  Thorgad roared with frustration. He jabbed and hacked the axe head into the attackers. He wrenched his arms around, trying to dislodge the clutching hands. He could feel himself losing balance. The axe was ripped from his fingers. From somewhere, he heard a high cackle of glee. Even as he was dragged down into the undergrowth, he managed to take two more with him, smashing their brittle heads together until their eyes popped and the skulls fractured. As he felt them clamber over him for the killing blow, he had time for one last curse.

  ‘Grimnir take you all!’ he spat, watching the scimitar blade rise above him.

  It never fell. Something spun across the narrow clearing, flashing in the starlight. There was the whine of crossbows. Bolts thudded into their marks. The blade fell uselessly from the goblin’s hands. It tumbled back to the ground. The squealing broke out again. More shafts found their targets.

  Then the dwarfs came, charging across the clearing, axes swinging. The grobi broke and ran. These odds were less to their liking. They were pursued, driven back into the endless shadows of the forest. From the depths, the sound of killing began again.

  Thorgad pushed the limp body of the dead grobi from him. He shook his head to clear it. That had been too close. Painfully, feeling the deep wound in his thigh, he hauled himself back onto his feet.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ came a gruff voice.

  Thorgad looked up. The dwarf before him was almost entirely encased in ornat
e armour. His helmet was engraved with the likeness of Grimnir, and he carried a heavily decorated warhammer, already running with goblin blood.

  Thorgad grimaced as he leaned on his wounded leg.

  ‘Heading east,’ he said, retrieving Glamrist from where it had been dropped.

  ‘You almost lost your blade,’ the armoured dwarf said, disapprovingly. ‘That would have been a great shame on your family.’

  ‘My family already bears shame,’ said Thorgad. ‘It’s why I’m here. But you have my thanks.’

  The armoured dwarf took off his helmet and extended a gauntlet. His hair was ivory-white and his beard was long and pleated. A venerable warrior, then.

  ‘Snorri Valramnik,’ he said. ‘And you owe me nothing. Killing these vermin is its own reward.’

  Thorgad grasped the dwarf’s hand.

  ‘Thorgad Grimgarsson,’ he said.

  Valramnik raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Grimgarsson?’ he said. ‘That explains why you’re here. You should be more careful.’

  Thorgad didn’t reply. He tore a strip from a dead goblin’s cloak, and begun to wind it around his wound. The bleeding was already slowing. It would heal soon. The dawi were made of strong stuff.

  Valramnik looked over his shoulder. His warriors were returning to the clearing. The last of the grobi were either dead or driven far off.

  ‘We can’t stay long,’ the old dwarf said. ‘A debt of honour takes us south. But this meeting may be more than chance.’

  He leaned towards Thorgad, and his voice lowered.

  ‘I know what you seek,’ he said. ‘Your time may be at hand. The umgi are fighting over the Morgramgariven. War will come soon. A good dawi knows how to take his chance.’