Chapter 13
A strike from the left, a strike from the right. I barely managed to step away from the line of attack, and then… I wasn't fast enough. The blow landed between my shoulder and neck. It could have been a fatal wound… If it hadn't been delivered with a wooden stick. Specifically, half a shaft from a Skaven spear. I was learning to fence with two such sticks.
— How long have you followed the path of the warrior's duty? — Javier asked me, challenging, stepping back.
— Well… a few weeks, I suppose, — I answered honestly.
The Estalian's eyes widened. The Sigmarites, observing our practice fight from the corner of the cave, began to whisper to each other.
— I was a simple tavern servant until goblins burned down my village. I had to fight for my life. And then, somehow… I just got into it, — I shrugged.
— Then I beg your pardon for the judging look, young man. I must say, you handled yourself magnificently.
— I just tried not to die and to kill as many monsters as possible.
— Commendable aspirations. Especially the second one. However, your talent requires refinement. I am more a practitioner than a teacher, but I will suffice for a start. With your aptitude, you could eventually become an excellent Diestro. A duelist. However, constant training is required, of course. The sons of our family were trained in pens full of toros negros, wild mountain bulls. Their horns are blacker than this dungeon, and their temper is as fickle as a woman's mood. You can never guess when they will attack you or your opponent. If you withstand such trials, you gain eyes in the back of your head.
Javier spoke of these trials with clear warmth. He seemed to be remembering his youth and his homeland. His dark eyes stared as if through me.
However, Javier's speech provoked unexpected attacks from the Sigmarite leader. The one-eyed old man named Markus Schlossberg stood up and, in a semi-mad voice, began to drone:
— All these antics of so-called mastery are nothing compared to faith. Faith! It saved us. Not your little scrambles, Estalian. The Will of Sigmar led Jurgen to us! The Hammer-Wielder heard our prayers. By his grace, a simple tavern servant overcame the ratman sorcerer. And also…
Markus was off on a tangent again. Imprisonment in the Skaven mine had not been kind to the psyche of the former master cobbler from Wissenberg. Having lost an eye and his eldest son, he found solace in fanatical faith, and my appearance completely solidified his religious fervor. About a dozen former slaves shared his sentiment, and several more could be counted as moderately sympathetic.
In total, we managed to free eighty-five people and one Elf from the Skaven lockups. However, two former slaves died over the past day from wounds sustained during the uprising. Three more were also on the brink. Around eighty men and women remained more or less able-bodied.
An exhausted, filthy, yet quite motivated crowd. All those weak in spirit and body had long been eaten by the Skaven. Only strong people could hold out in the mine for any length of time. Now they were free. Their first reward for endurance was the opportunity to deal with their former tormentors. The second was a magnificent feast arranged by Erik.
The small adept of the Great Maw performed a true miracle. Taking a dozen women and one former butcher as his assistants, the Halfling butchered the strange menagerie of the rat caravan. A mountain of lizard-Squig meat was roasted over coals. Then Erik smoked some more rat meat. A serious journey lay ahead, and our number of hungry mouths had increased.
In parallel with the cooking, Erik managed to look after the not-very-adequate Elf. The girl or woman—I have no idea how old she actually is—was in a state of prostration. The Elf did not speak, showed no interest in her surroundings, or even her own fate. She ate if she was fed. She walked if she was led. The only thing the girl did on her own initiative was step away to relieve herself. At the same time, some of the less respectable people showed an unhealthy, or in some sense, healthy interest in her.
If it hadn't been for Erik's care, something not very decent could have happened.
Many in the squad disliked the pointy-ear. Adora saw her as a liability. However, the girl had changed her mind about killing her, putting forward a new suggestion:
— We could sell the pointy-ear to Imperial scholars or aristocrats who enjoy exotica.
Markus Schlossberg also felt no sympathy for the Elf. The Sigmarite leader condemned the spoiled essence of the ancient people:
— Though they are not as vile as the ratmen or the goblins… — preached the Sigmarite. — …their hearts are treacherous and full of the blackest malice.
Yeah. No honour, no beer. I'm aware. As for me, the Elf's fate was practically indifferent. I felt sorry for her, of course, but I am certainly not a Xeno-Psychologist to catch her runaway cuckoo and seat it back in her head. I have enough troubles of my own.
After spending one night in the captured mine, we continued our journey along the ancient Dwarf road.
I now had two main tasks: to learn to wield a weapon and to learn more about the surrounding world. Javier could help me with the first. And the Sigmarites unexpectedly came in handy for the second task. Although their little circle was extremely annoying, constantly trying to force me to pray, knowing those very prayers wouldn't hurt at all.
When Markus's religious ecstasy subsided a little, some remnants of the adequate Imperial burgher even awoke in him. He began to tell how he and his sons kept a cobbler's shop in Wissenberg, the capital of Wissenland.
Remembering his old trade, Markus tidied up my footwear during a halt. With a rusty Skaven knife, he cut open the toes of the leather slippers that barely contained my growing feet. Then he lengthened their sole using the released material. He turned the leather slippers into something resembling sandals.
— If, by the will of Sigmar, we reach the holy land of the Empire, I will make you good boots, — the old man promised. — And when you become a Templar, you will trample the enemies of the human race with those boots.
Another aspect of the Sigmarites' usefulness was the justification for my supernatural abilities.
Some time after the battle, Adora, accompanied by Javier, approached me and asked:
— Will you let me examine your wounds?
Wounds? Hmm.
My padded jacket, trousers, and even my shirt were soaked with dried blood. Worse, they showed clear rents from enemy weapon strikes. It was precisely around them that the bloodstains were concentrated. Everything hinted that I had taken a bad beating in the recent fights. Yet, under the torn clothes, there was not a single scratch.
— I'm fine, — I answered as calmly as possible.
— You'd better take off all those rags and wash your wounds properly, — Javier advised. — Trust my experience—fever and infection kill more often in war than steel.
Damn…
Javier thought I was just being brave, but suspicion was already visible in the girl's cold gaze.
— Nothing hurts. If it gets worse, I'll turn to you.
— Don't be stubborn, Jurgen, — the Estalian said good-naturedly, approaching and preparing to take off my gambeson.
Damn! That's bad. My reluctance to show my body could be interpreted as an attempt to hide Chaos marks. That's just how things are here. But the absence of wounds after such a massacre…
— Just a moment, — I replied, stepping away from Javier. — Let me just put down my weapon.
I then deliberately walked to the corner where the Sigmarites were hanging out, who immediately paid special attention to me.
— We need to examine his wounds, — Adora explained.
Markus nodded.
I took off my gambeson, pulled off my shirt, and…
— A miracle! — exclaimed the old man.
The Sigmarites did not fail me. They immediately attributed my strange regeneration to the patronage of their beloved god with a hammer. Markus fell into a religious ecstasy and burst into another sermon. Even the less faith-obsessed Javier was impressed.
— Before, I only praised Myrmidia, — he admitted. — But now I will also offer special praise to your god.
Only Adora didn't seem to chalk up what happened to divine miracles. I noticed a barely perceptible smirk on her lips.
A little later, when we were alone, she dropped this phrase:
— Markus prayed to the gods for months, but they didn't heal a single furrow from the lashes on his back. They only added more beatings when the overseers heard the old man's mumbling. And Sigmar loves you very much, doesn't he?
She clearly suspects something, but she is unlikely to harm me now, when hordes of enemies are all around.
The first trial did not take long to arrive. At the end of the third day of traveling with the squad of slaves, we encountered an enemy. It was a band of Goblins, familiar to us. However, the situation was complicated by the fact that they were led by two hulking Orcs. Each one two meters at the shoulder and as wide as a bodybuilder on hellish steroids.
Both groups stood facing each other in a relatively wide part of the tunnel. Our "army," thanks to Javier, was lined up in a semblance of an infantry line. The front row was occupied by the strongest men, who took up shields and blades. Only I had a proper sword. The rest made do with crooked Skaven cleavers. Behind us was a line of spearmen. They were mostly women and thinner men. We placed the cart on the right flank to cover us from being outflanked. Our left edge abutted the stone wall.
Magg, of course, stood in the center and slightly ahead, his club resting on his shoulder. Erik climbed onto the cart, ready to defend our provisions, his spices, and the donkey Ponky with a spear, a pistol, and a meat mallet. The apathetic Elf stood behind the cart with the long-suffering animal.
— Second row, half a step back, — Javier commanded. — Give us a little room to maneuver. Those with polearms, do as I showed you. It's not difficult. Hack them down in the name of Sigmar and Myrmidia so that we may see the light of the sun once more!
In front of the goblin band, the pair of Orcs towered. Genuine Boyz in horned helmets and crude iron shoulder pads.
— Don't try to block their blows, — Javier whispered to me, standing to my left. — Their strength is immense, but they lack dexterity and harmony. Evade them if possible. Let our big guy deal with them, and you and I will help.
— Look, Wortug, — the Orc on the left rumbled at that moment, pointing at us. — Ogre-type is boss of man-things.
— I'm lookin', Urdug. Am I blind, you git-head? Let's bash the man-things, and we'll take the Ogre to walk with us.
— Are you completely thick, Wortug? He'll eat our gobba and snotty. Let's bash everyone and roast 'em!
— No, you're the thick one, Urdug! I'm the boss now. I bashed you yesterday.
— And I bashed you the day befor… befor… anyway, before that. So I'm the boss too. Get it, git-head?!
I noticed traces of constant fighting on the Orcs' faces. Their features were even slightly deformed from the regular disputes over who was currently the boss of the band.
— No one is bashing anyone here, — declared Magg, always ready to support an intellectual conversation with his constructive arguments. — I'm gonna bash you right now!
Both Orcs turned angry faces towards the Ogre, baring large tusks covered with a yellow coating. There were archers in the goblin band. That's bad. We only had spare spears that could be thrown from the second row, Erik's pistol, and stone shards. Alas, we hadn't yet figured out how to use the Warp-Jezzail.
The enemy could stay put, burying us under a hail of arrows. Then we would have to advance ourselves, which would be very problematic, given our lack of drill training. However, we were somewhat lucky that the Goblins were led by two such quarrelsome Orcs.
— Waaagh! — roared one of them, raising a huge cleaver. — Forward, runts!
— Waaagh! — the second one supported, brandishing an axe.
The Gobla hesitated slightly, but the Orcs literally kicked them into the attack. Excellent! The enemy was about a hundred meters away.
I crouched lower, trying to fully cover myself with my shield from the barrage, as Herr Pik once did. It was harder for the others. Skaven shields were noticeably smaller than normal human ones. However, the Goblins did not achieve a tight barrage. The Orcs were driving the runts forward.
In the murky light of the oil lanterns, a shrieking and howling mass of Gobla moved towards us. How many of them? No less than a hundred or two.
Fifty meters, thirty…
People from the second row began to throw spears and stones. The Gobla also responded with everything they could get their hands on.
The Orcs charged straight at Magg and me. Two big, angry louts, perpetually squabbling with each other. They seemed to embody Gork and Mork—the Orc gods. These two green deities also constantly fought somewhere up there in the Boyz' paradise.
I prepared myself, trying to remember what I had managed to learn from the swordsman. Correct stance, to cover the maximum attack sector, don't expose the elbow, sword and shield must work in sync. Perhaps only the last truth would truly come in handy in the coming melee.
— Waaagh!
I tried to dodge the Orc's axe, but there clearly wasn't enough room. I had to close with the shield, taking half a step back. A searing pain shot through my left arm. The shield thumped its lower edge onto the stone floor. That's how strong the Orc's blow was. However, I managed to save my body and head.
In response, I stabbed the enemy in the face. I acted purely on instinct, forgetting all of Javier's instructions. The lunge was weak. Without putting my weight into the thrust. Such an attack could injure a Goblin or a Skaven, but the Orc didn't even notice it.
He raised his axe above him, twirling it for a new crushing blow. I tried to cover myself with the shield again, but my arm was terribly sore and unresponsive, and my Rage had only built up a little. I had to try to evade. However, Javier came to my aid. With surprising dexterity, he leaped forward, ramming the nearest Goblin with his shield on an outstretched arm. In this way, the Estalian managed to gain a little free space to bypass the Orc from the side. Almost in the same movement, he slashed the brute below the knee, simultaneously stepping back.
The green-skinned thug hesitated from the surprise. I then, putting my body weight into it and taking half a step forward, stabbed the Orc from below under the heavy chin. At the same time, I managed to turn sideways to let the axe blow pass by.
The Orc tried to roar, but black blood bubbled on his pierced throat. However, the green-skin was not planning on dying. He swung his axe at Javier, and hit me with his free hand so hard that I flew onto the shoulders of the second row. If I hadn't been wearing a helmet, I would have gotten a concussion.
The Orc was about to pile his bulk onto me, but two spears from the second row shot toward the brute's face, forcing him to defend with his axe and hand. The Orc swatted at us like annoying midges. And like mosquitoes, we deprived his body of blood.
Javier got the Orc in the ribs, I slashed, aiming for the face, a treacherous spear from the second row passed my torso, plunging into the green-skin's groin.
That same spear that Pik had given me. Adora had taken that relatively decent weapon for herself before the fight.
Impaled on the spear and offended at the man-things, the Orc became an easy target for our attacks. Javier, meanwhile, shifted towards Magg, helping him deal with the second green-skin.
Rage had already begun to accumulate in my blood-chalice. I hacked, stabbed, and was now practically unrestrainedly carving up the dying Orc.
The Goblins were also being pushed back on all fronts.
One of the Sigmarites covered Markus with a makeshift shield made of planks, while the latter frantically swung a glaive, praising the name of the Hammer-Wielder god. Even the weakest of the women, remaining in the back rows, threw stones and stabbed with spears. The Goblins clearly underestimated our squad of battle-hardened vagrants. Despite their pitiful appearance, these people had already spilled Skaven blood and realized that only by weapons would they carve their way to the desired freedom.
Even before we finished off the Orcs, the Goblins ran. The shrieking wave rolled back, but I was not going to let them go so easily.
Leaving the half-dead Orc, who was barely resisting, I raised my sword high and rushed in pursuit. The arm with the shield no longer hurt much. More precisely, the pain simply didn't interfere with my fighting. I struck the retreating Goblins on their backs and necks with a fervor worthy of any Ratman warrior.
Magg threw his club. There was an old game called Gorodki. It involved knocking down special figures made of cylindrical wooden blocks with a thrown stick. This was similar, only instead of wooden blocks, there were shrieking Goblins.
The freed slaves also joined the chase. Together we inflicted a terrible slaughter on the Gobla. I filled the sacrificial chalice to the brim once, absorbed it, and then filled it halfway again. Moreover, when I managed to gain a little control over the furious impulse, I began to try not just to swing the sword, but to practice my strikes.
No more than a couple dozen green-skinned runts escaped our wrath. The rest lay along the Dwarf road.
The squad suffered practically no losses. Fewer than ten people received minor injuries. The presence of some kind of tactic, and even the most basic drill work, played a role.
Markus and his company offered prayers to Sigmar, Adora examined the wounded, and Erik cast a satisfied gaze over the deposits of fresh Gobla.
— Ah, good, — the Halfling declared, squinting blissfully. — We won't starve for the next few days.