He knew he was being followed. That’s why he had rigged his route through the rocky landscape. He had laid several mines along his track so far. Finishing the last one, the dwarf looked up.
Dressed in full leather armor and with the blue color theme of his regiment, McGotrek surveyed the surroundings. Newly enlisted into the ranks of the 3rd Bitterstone Thunderers, he knew that the Badlands was filled with goblins and worse. He had been given a old spanner and a standard rifle – the gun being in a far superior state than the spanner. Because belonging to the Bitterstone Thunderers meant shooting. A lot of shooting.
Being aware of his surroundings was the first thing he had learned. Knowing that goblins could move completely silent, was the second thing he had learned. And as his sergeant had told him on his first day in the Thunderes:
“The third thing ye younglings need ta kno’? Bomb the zurf outta every goblin ya meet.”
That’s why McGotrek didn’t flinch when he heard the explosion behind him. It must have been some 500m back. Followed by the strange squeels goblins make when they either die or laugh, McGotrek knew the goblin warband counted atleast 10. Nothing survived his homemade napalm mines.
Smiling to himself, he picked up his tools and started moving. He would have to pick up his pace if he wanted to survive the track through this part of the BadLands…
Part 2. Northern mountains, Badlands.
McGotrek was breathing heavily. Sweat was dripping down his head. His black beard was covered in dust and gun powder. The heat in the mountains was fierce and the glare from the white stone of this region dazzling. But he had to continue, because he knew that what was after him would kill him in an instant.
The goblin warband had been chasing him for two days now, and more had joined the Greenskin group. For some hours he could hear the terrifying sound of orcs. And not just any type of orc. McGotrek knew that this region of the Badlands belonged to the Deathskull Tribe. They were strong but stupid as oxen. That’s why he had a easy time luring the Greenskin into traps when they got a bit too close. Booby traps, hidden mines and sniping with his rifle, was the tools he had, and he had used them all. In fact, McGotrek had killed so many of his pursuers that they now kept their distance to him, looking to surround him as wolves do. His supplies and time were running out. But suddenly he recognized his surroundings.
He was running into a valley with dead bushes at the side, and rocks covering the ground. With mountain walls on both sides, this was a perfect valley for an ambush. This was a bad place to be if you were alone. A lot of things could go wrong. You could get blocked on both sides, or your attackers could hurl rocks down on you.
But luckily for McGotrek, he had finally reached his destination. While running, he glanced back and saw the Greenskin warband close on his heels. They were yelling in their wretched language, throwing fists and even knocking each other down into the rock-covered ground. But it was too late – McGotrek had completed his task. Smiling like a youngling tasting the very best of Bugman for the first time, he yelled
“OI LADS! Im ‘ere and I’ve brought ye all a gift!”
It would seem for an outsider that he had gone mad and was talking to the dirt and mountain sides, but suddenly laughter started echoing from the valley sides. His outburst was answered by a shout, the voice of pure rock
“Good job recruit. Now stop yer running and find yer rifle, this is where the fun begins!”
McGotrek couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, but he knew that he was in relative safety. He stopped running and turned around to face the Greenskins. Stupid as they were, the goblins and orcs also stopped and looked confused at each other. They had heard the shout as well. A moment of silence descended on the valley.
But then a well-known command could be heard from the sides.
“FIRST RANK FIRE! SECOND RANK FIRE! GIVE THEM HELL, LADS!”
From the valley sides, sixty camouflaged dwarves of the proud 3rd Bitterstone Thunderes let lose their volleys on the Greenskin warband. The noice from the guns was incredible in the valley. McGotrek took up his rifle and fired into the green sea of goblins and orcs, not caring to aim. It was impossible to miss. Instantaneously, they had already killed more than half of the Greenskins.
He had completed his task by luring the Greenskins away from their camp and out into the wastelands, where he had been given an exact position by his sergeant on where to meet up with the rest of the Thunderes.
And thus once again, McGotrek was smiling to himself and started doing was he was trained to do. Not running but shooting – a lot of shooting.
Part 3. The great trade route, Marshes of Madness.
Thorrum stumbled along the torn part in the earth, tripped on a buried root and fell to his knees. The sounds of heavy footfalls sounded behind him. Something large was speeding through the bushes. He could hear it come nearer and nearer. He was in no doubt that it was hunting him.
Thorrum stood up and looked around him. He couldn’t see anything from the wild growth. Silence descended. And then something heavy dropped from the tree next to where he had tripped. It smashed onto his back and drove him to the ground. All it took for Thorrum to die were two stabs in his belly, the last one resulting in his innards falling out of his stomach.
His killer stood up and sniffed the air around it, looked down on his dead prey and said
“Stufid lit’le stunty finkin’ ‘e can out run me?! Harharhar! I’z da fastest o’ da boyz!”
The orc beast named Grufrip scratched his behind, smelled his large fingers, gagged and started searching through the dwarf. He was no ordinary orc. He was the war boss of the tribe called Da Freebootaz.
“Diz ugly ‘un’s gon’ make a fine banner wif his parts! Look, ‘e even got all four o’ ‘em! One, toof, teef, fourf!”
Grufrip was the biggest of his warband. Having beaten his competitors in single combat, he had been made boss of his tribe. He was covered in stolen armor from head to toe. His plate boots was dwarf made, his chest mail was from the human lands and the shoulder pads was of a dwarf design as well, though reworked so it could fit his inhumanly large shoulders. But his head piece was something he had received by his own killing. It was a large underjaw from one of the dragon ogres of the great mountains to the east. In his right hand he had something resembling a sword, and in his left he had a cleaver.
Grufrip was especially fond of his cleaver because its many uses. Not only killing but also chopping. Chopping was something Grufrip loved. In fact, he loved it so much he couldnt think of anything else he loved as much as chopping. Chopping gobbos…. Chopping dwarves…. Chopping onions…. So he thought to himself while cutting the dead dwarf up in smaller pieces.
“Deez stufid stuntiez gatz to learn dat Marshez iz my terf! Dey betta wait, soon enuff I’ll be bringing da boyz north to their homelandz o’ Barak Waaarh, and den we be havin’ a proper scrap!”
Awfully happy with his kill, Grufrip picked up the dwarf meat and began walking back to his war camp. He would have to get started preparing his tribe for the coming invasion of Barak Varr.
Part 4. In the heart of the Marshes of Madness.
McGotrek looked out into the Marshes as his platoon and he walked along the undergrowth. A mist had settled. Being a dwarf, he was unbothered by the rain and untroubled by the cold. He listened to the sounds of the forest. They had taken on a different quality. The birds had stopped singing. Something large and winged could be heard overheard making strange squeaks.
They had come to an area where the water had gathered. McGotrek tested the depth with his rifle, and he found it only came waist high. Without saying anything he signalled his fellow Thunderers to follow. The water came up to half the height of McGotrek’s chest. He carefully held his rifle above the water as he proceeded.
“I swear by mi mother’s golden locks, tha’ if I get one more o’ ‘em frekkin’ bugs in mi beard, im gonna take the oath an’ become a bug slayer!”
Thunderer Drengk said as he cautiously walked to McGotrek’s side. The glittering bugs were everywhere. Clad in the same uniform of the Bitterstone Thunderers, the platoon had been told to put dirt on the blue colours of their regiment. They were on a search and destroy mission deep in enemy territory, meaning camouflage and stealth were needed.
“Quiet on the fore!”
The hissed voice came from behind. It was like stone grating stone: A voice used to being obeyed and followed. Even though it was lowered, McGotrek instantly recognized it as belonging to his Captain Lesti Ardisson. Drengk immediately fell silent, returning to scanning their flanks.
Captain Lesti Ardisson was a legend among the Bitterstone Thunderers. Rumor had it, he had singlehandedly wounded an orc war boss named Krumlok Da Leakypants and even repelled a Dark Elf attack led by a fell sorcerer named Korze in his past. He never talked about it, said they were dark memories from a dark time.
But he could not escape from the fact that it made his Thunderers look up to him even more. These dawi would walk straight into the Chaos Waste and back if he told them to. Now, he had issued a scouting mission deep in Greenskin territory, and his solders had accepted without questions.
“This area belongs to the savage orcs. They gather here like flies, performin’ their strange rituals before turnin’ their attention to our borders.” Lesti Ardisson whispered to the dawi closest to him.
“But it’s also the homeland of the greenskin tribe o’ The Freebootaz. Deep Command told me they had heard rumors of a force gathering ‘ere. We need to find out if it’s true or not. So keep yer mouths shut and yer ears alive, lads.”
The 3rd Bitterstone Thunderers continued their treck through the marshes. Heads held high, but all coming to the conclusion that this mission would end in bloodshed, war cries and the thunder cracks from one hundred rifles. The eerie silence was enough proof for all of them.
The dwarves didn’t notice that yellow eyes were observing their movements through the Marshes. High up in the trees, a gang of little green coloured creatures were silently watching the dwarves move through the territory of their tribe. Pleased with what he had seen, the goblin leader signalled one of his evil companions to head back to the war camp. Surely, Grufrip would be happy to know that the tribe would soon be having a visit...
Part 5. In the heart of the Marshes of Madness.
“Attention! Prime and load! Aim! FIRE!”
The sound of over four hundred rifles was like thunder cracks. And the enemy fell in the dozens as the first rank of the Bitterstone Thunderers let loose their volley. The first rank of the dawi went down on their knees and started to reload their guns. Now, the second rank stepped forward. They aimed and fired their deadly long guns into the enemy. This was a tactic well known throughout the dawi karaks, but it was a tactic which the Bitterstone Thunderers had perfected.
One step at a time, the dwarves slowly went forward, closing the gap between them and their ancestral enemy. They fought like they worked in their dwarven mines: with calm and precise movements, conserving their strength.
“Bitterstone! Advance on my positon!
The order came from Lesti Ardisson, the captain of the Bitterstone Thunderers. Immediately, the front rank of the dwarves took one step forward and let loose another volley. The orcs fell like flies.
McGotrek stepped forward with his rifle at the ready. He was looking down the length of it, scanning for orcs or goblins to shoot. It was hard to see anything in the smoke from so many rifles, but he could hear the enemy out in the mist. Howling war cries emerged from the gloom, the sound of great bellowing roars that could only belong to black orcs. On his left, Drengk stood with his rifle in the same stance as McGotrek. To his right, his sergeant Arthur Arnbitter stood, scanning the front. He was completely silent.
McGotrek wasn’t sure if his sergeant was actually looking for enemies or trying to focus. He knew that Arthur was fond of a weird alcoholic brew called schnaps which he carried and drank everywhere, even on the battlefield.
A silence had settled over the battlefield. Before, the dense under growth in this part of the Marshes of Madness would have made it impossible to see twenty meter ahead, but the fighting had reduced trees and bushes to nothing. Now, you could easily scan one hundred meter ahead. Smoke lay heavily over the ground.
“Look to the skies, lads! Arthur yelled.
McGotrek looked up but he couldn’t see anything. Grimacing, he looked at Arthur. But just as he was about to ask his sergeant what he had seen, a strange thing hurtled out of the gloom towards him. He moved to one side and it rocketed by him. For a moment, McGotrek caught a brief glance of what looked like a goblin wearing a pointed helm and flying with wings. The creature was laughing as it dived head first into the ground and died.
Suddenly, the air was alive with goblins flying towards the dwarves. Their squeaking could be heard even on the ground where McGotrek stood. He was about to aim his rifle at the sky, but before he could do so, great figures came out of the mist ahead of him. Great black orcs covered in stolen plate mail with great shields and cleavers. This was a greater threat than flying goblins.
“’ere we go again, lads!” Someone behind McGotrek yelled.
“Dwarfs of Ekrund!”
The battle cry of the Bitterstones went up from the dwarves and the shooting began in earnest.
Across the battlefield, the Greenskin army strode forward in great numbers. The sheer numbers made it impossible to move in any direction than straight into the enemy fire. But that was the plan, directed by the war boss himself.
Amidst the biggest bull orcs and the lieutenants, Grufrip slumbered forward. He was huge. Twice the height of a dwarf and almost as wide as he was tall. His armour was made up of scrap metal and looted plate. Shots ricocheted off his mail while he was laughing and goading his army forward.
“FORWAAAAAARGH!!!”
Grufrip roared. The Greenskin army took up his battle cry and surged forward.
“Diz stuntiez wont be leavin’ diz landz of da Free Booterz!”
He said to one of his lieutenants. The huge orc nodded his agreement. Grufrip slapped him in his face and hysterically started laughing.
“We’z gon teach ‘em how da boyz fight an’ den we’re off to dere ugly keepz in Barak Waaaargh. I’z got a cleva plan up my breaches, whizt dey dunno anyfin’ aboot!”
Grufrip now said to no one in particular. His bodyguards were too stupid to understand what he intended.
Grufrip decided that the time of thinking was over, the time of fighting had come. He swung his axe in the air, loosening his great muscles and started running. Slowly but surely, the Greenskin army quickened their pace. It was like an avalanche coming down on the dwarves. Much blood would be shed in this battle. Just before Grufrip lost control over his body and succumbed to the war god of Gork. Or Mork, he saw something to his right. It looked like dwarves and it had the colour of blue, strangely similar to the colour of the dwarves ahead of him. But before he could focus, the two armies clashed together and the fighting began…..
Part 6. In the heart of the Marshes of Madness.
A dawi is watching the two armies close in. He’s standing on a hill top overlooking the battlefield.
His name is Gwelthaz and he’s a corporal in the Bitterstone Thunderers. He’s clad in full plate armour in the blue colours of his regiment. He’s got an axe in one hand and a shield almost as big as himself in the other. He’s seen his share of battles and he’s seen friends and family die before him on the battlefields across the Old World. The feeling of sorrow and mourning have no place in his heart, because succumbing to things like that will get you killed. Only grief remains. And anger.
He’s been looking forward to this moment, because the time has come for a reckoning with the accursed Greenskin leader Grufrip. In all his years amongst the living, Gwelthaz has never heard or seen an enemy who has killed as many dwarves as Grufrip. And now, it is time to settle the score.
There’s a battalion of ironbreakers arranged behind Gwelthaz. The finest and most experienced from his Karak, they have answered his call to war. He knows the name of every single dawi, and he knows that they have all agreed to fight by his side, because he promised them that Grufrip would be on the field of battle.
The captain of the Bitterstone Thunderers named Lesti Ardisson told Gwelthaz the night before the battle, that he was to hold his ironbreakers on the flank of the Greenskin horde and wait until they had engaged the main army. He would then lead his battalion right into the side of the Greenskin, push on through, turn and go straight for their leader. And now it is time.
Gwelthaz looks down on his hand and realizes that he’s shaking. But it isn’t because he’s nervous: It’s anger. Deep inside him there’s a fury building that has been well known to him for a long time. It has become a friend. It is a rage that will guide him when the battle starts, help him survive the gravest injuries and help him push through the Greenskin front line.
He turns his head and looks at his battalion of ironbreakers one last time. They’re all ready. He puts his axe in the air and shouts
“Never forgive, never forget!”
The war cry is picked up by his warriors and then they slowly but surely move down the hill and into the fray. Unlike his brothers in the thunderer platoons who fight in organized ranks where discipline reigns supreme, the battalions of the ironbreakers are front line experts. Their job is to hold the enemy back, thus allowing the ranged units of the army to rain destruction upon the enemy. That’s their defensive role. Their offensive role is to form a wedge and use their pure strength to push their enemy back step by step. And that is what Gwelthaz intends to do. They’re picking up their pace: like an avalanche coming down the mountain side.
They move through the bushes and undergrowth of the Marshes making it impossible for the enemy to track them. Only the sound of battle guides Gwelthaz and his warriors. They cannot know if the enemy is aware of their attempt to outmaneuver them. They’re closing in.
A moment later and they’re out of the dense undergrowth. Gwelthaz quickly gains his bearings and sees that the Greenskin horde isn’t aware of their coming - They’re locked in a fierce fight with the dwarven main army. As Gwelthaz and his warriors close in on the vulnerable side of their enemy, he barks out an order. Instantly, the front ranks of the ironbreakers close in and lock their mighty shields to the warrior next to him. A rare tactic only used by the most experienced warriors, it allows the dwarves to keep moving while fighting the enemy. Before Gwelthaz and his ironbreakers crashes into the enemy, he furiously roars
“Dwarfs of Ekrund!”
As a sign to his brothers in the main army that he has arrived. And as a sign to the Greenskin that their doom is upon them. The war cry of the dwarves can be heard across the battlefield but it quickly stops, drowned in the noise of Gwelthaz and his battalion crashing into the Greenskin.
All is mayhem.
One second Gwelthaz is blocking a blow from an orc, the next he is decapitating a goblin mounted on a wolf.
All is confusion.
One moment he is kneeling next to one of his warriors, urging him to get back up, and the next he is caving in the head of a troll with his shield.
All is blood red.
One moment he seems to be alone surrounded by Greenskin, the next he’s back in line with his fellow dwarves fighting off a fierce push from the enemy.
All is chaos.
But then he looks out over the field of battle and the haze of war. And a smile forms. He’s standing amidst enemies and allies alike trying to focus on the activity in the Greenskin backline.
“Surely, it cannot be” he says out loud in a calm voice in the center of the battlefield.
Gwelthaz is looking in the direction of the banners of Grufrip, but what his eyes have spotted isn’t his bodyguard, the mighty black orcs. It’s Grufrip himself being carried away by his warriors with a spear sticking out of his belly. Away from the battle and back into safety.
They need to push through. They need to make sure Grufrip is dead. They need to do it now. Thus, Gwelthaz turns around and instantly gets eye contact with his sergeant-major Drengk Burloksson some 300m behind. He makes a series of hand movements which only make sense for those learned in this form of dwarven communication.
Drengk nods and a moment later, the entire ranks of Thunderers are focusing their fire at the center of the Greenskin front line. The casualties are enormous, and it allows the Greenskin to form their army around the dwarves. It’s only for a series of bursts that the Thunderers focus their guns at the center – they have to cover the flanks again.
But it is all the room that Gwelthaz needs. He urges his warriors on. An unrelenting force, the ironbreakers pushes forward into the battle once again…
