Chapter 55 55: underground meat grinder II

------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Nachgeheim 22th ,2488 IC "Oh... does it hurt, little one?" I said mockingly as I dislocated the arm of a goblin who'd had the brilliant idea of trying to stab me in the back. I brought him down effortlessly after dodging his clumsy attack, and now he was nothing more than another test subject. A perfect live specimen to try out what I'd been developing with Hieronymus. I grabbed him by the neck and pinned him down, pressing my knee against his throat. The crack of his other arm breaking blended with a sharp, guttural shriek, like a pig at the slaughterhouse. "Don't worry... it's only going to hurt... a lot," I murmured, reaching for his own dagger and bringing it close to his face. I began channeling the winds of Chamon through the metal, causing the atoms to vibrate with increasing speed. The internal friction began to heat the blade slowly, and the goblin's shrieks intensified as the blade turned red, then orange, then white-hot. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as the glowing metal grazed his face. The goblin cried. Screamed. Twitched like a trapped animal, but I held him steady. Then I manipulated the metal—made it malleable, soft, flowing like molten clay—and with a small gesture, I slowly pushed it into his nostrils. He convulsed violently, and the wet sound of metal burning flesh from the inside mixed with his broken breathing and shredded throat, raw from screaming. "Ah... he's dead," I said in a flat tone, seeing his body go still. Only a bubbling goo leaked from his nose now, and a faint hum came from the metal still vibrating inside his scorched skull. I stood up, dusting off my knee. It had been a good test. Hieronymus used to say my control of Chamon without incantation was impressive—unsettling, even. But the real issue was something else: I couldn't use Lingua Praestantia in front of my men. It would raise questions—not only about my methods but about my very nature. They had to think everything I did came from Sigmar's blessings. So I was forced to learn the hard way: in silence, without chants, without theatrical gestures or signs that might give me away. I had become skilled out of necessity. A wizard who couldn't appear as one. And with each passing day, it grew easier. When I truly focused, foreign metal responded as if it were an extension of my will. I could feel it in the air, in the ground, in every rusted beam and every nail forgotten on the floor. A thought was enough. A single intention. And the iron twisted, sharpened, shattered, or melted at my command. An enemy's dagger could melt in his hand. A helmet could snap shut like a bear trap—though I could only do that to things I was physically touching. But here, in the heart of the mine, I felt stronger than ever. Everything was easier. What once left me completely drained now required only a thought, a gesture. A simple hand movement was enough to make the winds obey. I felt ready. When my men began preparing for the next day of skirmishes, we were better equipped than ever. Each musketeer carried fifty prepared shots, and for every hundred soldiers, I assigned one supply carrier: I gave them saddlebags filled with potions bought from the Temple of Shallya, specifically made to neutralize common poisons. We'd been lucky so far that the goblins hadn't used poisoned arrows. Still, the threat was there—and I wasn't going to take chances. The narrow terrain continued working in our favor—it forced the greenskins into close combat, where our pikes and tight formations tore them apart. But this time, I didn't settle for repeating the formula. More weapons kept arriving. New muskets. Better powder. And best of all: Hieronymus had started producing on his own, manipulating the winds with a precision I still struggled to match. He no longer needed help. He was manufacturing gunpowder almost constantly while I remained on campaign. And everything he produced went straight into my arsenals. "Come on... come on... today we continue the slaughter. Hard days lie ahead, but our duty as Sigmar's servants drives us to keep seeking battle against the horrors that threaten the Empire," I said, as my men lined up with discipline. Once more, we opened the gates of the dwarven fortress and marched through the long central corridor. The echo of our boots rang out like war drums against the ancient stone. "Stop! There are traps," I warned, raising my hand. I stepped closer and pointed to some taut strings, tied to a rudimentary mechanism made of wood with a rusted iron tip. I triggered the trap with the hilt of my sword. The wooden rod shot forward with a sharp snap. "Watch out for this. Keep your eyes open. Greenskins are crafty. The tip's coated with what looks like poison, so unless you want to end up on the ground vomiting blood, watch where you step," I said in a dry voice. It wasn't something I needed to worry too much about—I could sense every trap with metal inside. Iron and steel spoke to me, vibrated faintly, and I listened. Still, I disabled many manually, one after another. The ones made entirely of wood were the only ones that caught me off guard, but even those were simple. The same trap, repeated over and over. They only slowed us down. Eventually, the corridor forked. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Using my link to Chamon, I felt the flow of metal ahead. If we kept going straight, we would reach a large chamber. It was nearly empty—only a few torsos covered in metal. Few. Harmless. I sent a detachment to clear them out. They found a few stray goblins blindly digging a tunnel. They died quickly, without resistance. Upon inspecting the area more carefully, we realized it was some kind of dwarven cemetery. There were tombs... all opened. I couldn't feel any metallic presence inside them or deeper down. Only raw ore from the surrounding rock. "The tombs were already looted. Nothing left that could've been protected from the hands of the greenskins who attacked our friends in the mountains," I murmured, jotting the information into my campaign log. I stored the manuscript inside a reinforced leather satchel I carried with me. We turned back and rejoined the rest of the troops. They were already positioned before another large gate of the fortress. When we opened it, a new tunnel was revealed. Long. Ancient. And I felt it immediately—goblin presence everywhere. This sector seemed to have multiple side chambers. All infested. We advanced slowly, clearing room by room. Sweep, eliminate, move on. But soon, the first wounded began to appear. The small doors didn't allow our pikes to form ranks like in the main tunnel. The soldiers were forced to fight with swords and spears in tight quarters. And it became clear—my men were unbeatable in formation... but in one-on-one combat, they were just regular soldiers. Not duelists. Every wounded man meant triple the loss: one out of action, two more to carry and escort him back to camp. And almost all goblin weapons were poisoned. Surviving the cut wasn't enough—you had to race against time before the venom did its work. I ordered every injured man to be taken immediately back to camp to be treated with the few Shallyan potions we had left. There was no margin for error. Every delay cost a life. For almost an hour we advanced, room by room. The greenskins had understood that facing us in the main hall was suicide, so they chose their ground: ambushes in cramped chambers, traps at the entries, attacks from the shadows. In that environment, where our pikes were useless and muskets too long, they had the advantage. The corridors branched out again and again, like the rotting roots of an ancient tree. And we kept going, clearing every corner, but the list of wounded kept growing rapidly. And with it, came the first dead. I felt a weight in my chest when I saw the first of ours lifeless. A young boy. He didn't even have a beard yet. He died from a neck wound that turned gangrenous in minutes. I still didn't have the stomach to accept what it meant to be a commander. To watch my men die from orders I had given. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes for just a moment. While my men organized themselves to clear two rooms at once, I turned my attention to a nearby chamber still unexplored. I didn't wait for them to enter. I extended my hand and clenched it tightly, beginning to manipulate the winds of Chamon. I sensed the iron in the daggers, the spear tips, the crude goblin hilts. I unleashed friction between atoms, accelerated their vibration. And I heard it almost instantly. The screeching began right away. The iron burned in their hands. Some tried to drop their weapons, but it was too late—they'd fused to their fingers. Others simply ran, bursting out of the chamber like rats on fire, hands covered in molten metal, screaming like slaughtered pigs. My men looked at me in shock at what had just happened. They didn't understand why the goblins came running out of their hiding spots screaming like the damned, nor why so many had their faces or hands covered in molten iron. But they didn't ask. They accepted the miracle as the work of Sigmar. Since the trick had become easy for me, I kept repeating it in several rooms. I hid my hand movements behind my cloak or my soldiers' backs, so no one would realize I was responsible. No one could suspect what was really happening. After many skirmishes, wounds, and screams, we had three dead. Three. The number weighed on my chest like lead. But the section was almost clear. Thousands of goblins lay dead in the hallways, reduced to pools of blood and crushed meat. We kept pushing forward until we reached a new section of the fortress: what seemed to be the main tower. It was separated from the rest, surrounded by an inner wall of black stone. And there, at the top, we saw goblins stationed on the walls, armed with bows and spears. "Take cover!" I shouted to my men, who pulled back into the nearest corridor. This was clearly a dwarven killing ground. If we stepped out into the open, the goblins would turn us into pincushions. The musketeers cautiously moved ahead, looking for firing angles without exposing themselves. While they got into position, I joined the vanguard and, without making obvious gestures, began pointing at some of the goblins on the battlements. The priority targets. The ones giving orders. The ones who aimed best. I manipulated the winds of Chamon and focused on the arrowheads. I felt each one. Dozens. I had to focus my entire will on altering their metal structure, shifting the particles until they began to melt in midair. The screams came immediately. One goblin fell from the walls as molten iron burned his cheek and he lost his balance. Another ran in circles, stepping on one of the arrows that had fallen to the ground as a bubbling mass. But the strain was overwhelming. I felt the sweat soaking my neck, and my breath grew heavy. My teeth ached. My fingers trembled. "Now... take them now... advance!" I managed to shout between gasps, trying to hide how exhausted I was. "Shoot the goblins while they're disorganized!" My vision blurred for a second, but I forced myself to stay on my feet. I couldn't show weakness. Not now. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------