The End Times | The Lord of the End Times by Josh Reynolds

Author:Josh Reynolds
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2015-03-23T16:00:00+00:00

Gotri Hammerson clashed his hammer and axe together, summoning fire and heat. Beastmen fell, consumed and turning to ash even as they charged towards the Zhufbarak line. The runes of fire dimmed as he lowered his weapons. The dwarfs had taken up the flank, without asking permission. The elves had, in a rare display of sense, left them to it without protest. Now guns and good Black Water steel threw back the Children of Chaos again and again.

The beasts poured out of the trees in a disorganised mass. The giant, gangly shapes of ghorgons and cygors roared and smashed aside ancient oaks as they lumbered after their smaller cousins, and knots of bellowing minotaurs carved a path through their own kind to get to the dwarf lines. All of them were thrown back, again and again.

‘Ha! We’re hammering them just like the Ironfist did at Hunger Wood, Master Hammerson,’ one of his Anvil Guard barked, his broad face streaked with powder burns and blood. ‘They’ll remember the Zhufbarak, sure as sure.’ He swung his axe and beheaded an ungor as it scrabbled ineffectually at his shield.

‘Aye, and if you don’t pay attention, Ulgo, they’ll be the only ones to do so,’ Hammerson snarled. He smashed his hammer down, shattering a crude blade as it sought his gut, and gave its wielder an axe in the skull by way of reply. As he wrenched his weapon free, he raised his voice. ‘I want a steady rate of fire. I want them pummelled into a greasy patch on the topsoil, lads, and an extra tankard of Bugman’s best to whoever brings down that Grimnir-be-damned ghorgon over there.’ The rhythmic snarl of gunfire answered him as the lines revolved, fresh Thunderers stepping forwards to take the places of those who had just fired. The Zhufbarak were a millstone, grinding over the enemy. They had plenty of powder and shot, and a sea of targets. Some beastmen inevitably made it through the fusillade, however, and when that happened, it was time for the rest of the throng to earn their ale.

The ground trembled. He craned his neck and saw Jerrod and his knights smash into the enemy centre like a hammer striking an anvil, and couldn’t restrain a smile. ‘Good lad,’ he grunted. The Bretonnians fought like it was what they were bred for, and they hit almost as hard as a proper cannonade.

Something flashed at the corner of his eye, and he turned. His smile faded. Gelt stood at the heart of the battle-line, standing head and shoulders over the two dwarfs set to guard him – they were members of Hammerson’s own Anvil Guard, clad in gromril armour and bearing heavy shields marked with runes of resistance and shielding. Stromni and Gorgi, good lads, he thought. Hard lads, like ambulatory boulders with as much brains between them, but once they’d set their feet and locked shields, nothing short of death would move them. Gelt was safe with them.

Not that he needs much

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