Gunnar lore - Chaptire 004 - Naissance de Jambe de fer

The Birth of Iron-Leg

The War of the North was raging.

Harassed by hordes of goblins, the human nations had called upon the United Dwarven Confederation under the aid and trade agreements concluded with the dwarven nations. War was never good for business, so the Confederation had answered the call and committed its forces.

For Gunnar Fierabras, this was his first real deployment to the front. Barely had he landed on the humans' planet when he was directed to a Lynx troop transport already heading toward the fighting. He had just been assigned as a heavy machine gunner to a Hurlevent unit. The Lynx made good time. Gunnar watched the countryside from the rear of the troop carrier. The road followed a river whose waters flowed peacefully between its banks, perhaps the only peaceful thing he had seen since arriving. The airfield, by contrast, had resembled an enormous beehive in full frenzy. Dwarves ran between aircraft. Supplies were hurriedly loaded into Lynxes that set off again almost immediately. Entire platoons waited for transport, sprawled on their packs, eating, sleeping, or joking as though they had always lived amid the racket. Crickets took off constantly while others were already returning to be rearmed. In the distance came the sound of explosions, and thick columns of black smoke rose into the sky. And despite it all, Gunnar was proud. At last, he would be able to put to use everything he had been taught over the years.

When he reached his unit's perimeter, a commander pointed out his assault section's position and the bivouac where he was to leave his belongings. It was a buried bunker covered with a thick layer of sandbags and pierced by firing slits on all four sides. Hardly inviting, admittedly, but solid enough to spend off-duty hours there without worrying about the first shell to come along. Gunnar checked his tactical vest and trotted toward the position he had been given. Three elderly dwarves sat on a mound of earth. About a hundred metres from them, a D-037 compactor and anti-tank obstacle-laying drone was setting out a double line designed to stop any armoured breakthrough. Closer by, a D-030 trench digger was biting horizontally into the ground, opening a passage two metres wide and one metre twenty high, throwing a cloud of earth and dust to the side. Suddenly the D-030 stopped, veered four metres to the right, backed up, then repeated the same manoeuvre several times. Gradually, the emplacement intended for the heavy machine gun's mounting took shape.

The three old hands watched the machine, laughing and commenting on every one of its hesitations.

'Recruit Gunnar FIERABRAS, reporting for duty!' Gunnar called.

They turned with almost provocative slowness and looked him up and down.

The fattest of the three gave him a mocking grin.

'Here comes the greenhorn! And look at that: His Lordship turns up with an AR-550 while we're still stuck with our old AR-41s. Makes us look a bit shabby, lads.'

The other two burst out laughing.

'I'm Thorvil. Those two beauties behind me are my cousins, Maldor and Dorak. Introductions over. Now get to work, lad.'

He pointed to a shovel and a stack of empty sacks.

'The D-030 has dug up all the earth you'll need. Fill those sacks and reinforce the defences around the Wishker. At your age, going back to the sandpit shouldn't be too difficult.'

The three roared with laughter again. Then they calmly packed their pipes and began smoking while Gunnar started shovelling. Before long, sweat was pouring off him. His arms burned, his back ached, and dust stuck to his face. But he did not slow down. He wanted to show the three veterans that he was more than a kid fresh out of recruit school with a shiny new weapon. The hours dragged by in cruel monotony: Gunnar filled, carried, stacked. The other three smoked and watched him struggle, trading jokes. When two rows of sandbags finally protected the Wishker's emplacement, Thorvil clapped his hands.

'Right. That'll do. Now you're going to see something a little more interesting than a shovel.'

The three set to work. Gunnar immediately realised he was watching professionals. No sooner had the heavy base of the Wishker been taken from its transport crate than it was assembled with impressive speed. Maldor and Dorak then had to lift the machine gun's body together, so massive was it. Once mounted on its assisted carriage, its weight became almost deceptive: the mechanism allowed that enormous mass to be moved with astonishing precision.

Dorak gave Gunnar a friendly slap on the shoulder.

'Come on, you're coming with us. We've been rotten enough to you. Let's fetch the ammunition before the party starts.'

Deep down, Gunnar thought, they weren't bad fellows. Just three soldiers nearing the end of their service, wanting nothing more than to return to civilian life. As they talked, he learned that all three came from the same town: Kirscheim. Without the army, none of them would probably ever have left it. Their families owned a factory there, and they spoke of their town with the quiet pride of people who knew exactly where they belonged in the world. Thorvil even pulled a small flask from his jacket.

'Here. Try this, greenhorn. It'll put some hair on your beard.'

Gunnar took a swig. The liquor burned his throat before leaving an aftertaste of apple.

'Apple?' he asked.

Thorvil looked offended.

'Of course it's apple! Family still. A marvel made of solid copper, hidden in the forest to avoid the tax on strong spirits. Wood-fired, the old-fashioned way.'

Maldor snickered.

'So well hidden that the mayor orders two crates from us every winter.'

'That's different,' Thorvil protested. 'Making it in secret improves the flavour.'

'And, more importantly, avoids the tax,' Dorak added.

All three burst out laughing. Thorvil took back his flask and looked at Gunnar.

'If you ever pass through Kirscheim, ask for Thorvil. I'll let you taste the real reserve. The stuff we don't serve to recruits.'

Gunnar smiled.

'Deal.'

The ammunition crates arrived shortly before sunset. The light gave the fortifications a rosy tint. A few fluffy clouds drifted slowly across an almost peaceful sky. Gunnar leaned against the sandbags he had filled himself. His arms, legs and back were aching, yet he still thought it had been a fine day. Before them stretched a gently rolling plain, almost devoid of trees. If the enemy came that way, he thought, they would see them from a great distance. Then he frowned. Something was moving at the far end of the plain. It wasn't smoke. More like dust. An immense cloud of dust rising as though a gigantic crowd were passing through. Behind him, the three veterans had stopped joking. Sirens began to howl throughout the dwarven fortifications. It could mean only one thing.

They were under attack.

For a few seconds, Gunnar stood fascinated by the advancing mass. He wanted to see. To understand. At last, to witness with his own eyes what an enemy army looked like on the move. Thorvil, Maldor and Dorak, meanwhile, were whistling casually. Maldor fitted the gunsight. Dorak opened the feed cover and inserted the first ammunition belt. Thorvil checked the cooling system. Then Maldor pulled back the bolt.

CLACK.

The sound brought Gunnar back to reality.

'Greenhorn, best not stand in front of the monster,' Maldor said. 'Sooner or later it's going to spit. Personally, I'd rather be behind it.' Gunnar moved aside at once.

Dorak grumbled:

'It's not fair. Last time I barely had time to fire off one crate.'

Thorvil looked at the approaching dust cloud.

'Don't worry. Judging by what's coming, I think we'll all get a turn to play with it.'

Then he beckoned Gunnar closer.

'Listen carefully. On a weapon like this, the gunner never works alone. Maldor fires. Dorak watches the belt: it has to feed properly. If the feed screws up, we change belts immediately. I watch the temperature. If it gets too hot, I inject a capsule of Freon into the cooling system. You defend the position if anything gets into the trenches... and when I ask for ammunition, you fetch ammunition.'

'Understood.'

Thorvil pointed to the defensive line.

'The Wishkers are positioned at regular intervals. Our sector ends where the next post's begins. We cover one another. As long as everyone holds their position, there are no gaps.'

Gunnar nodded. He wasn't afraid. Not really. He simply felt that strange sensation one must experience just before jumping into an abyss: that suspended moment when the body knows what is about to happen, but nothing has yet begun. The worst part, he realised, was the waiting.

He checked his AR-550. Magazine seated. Action cycled. Safety. Then he checked the spare magazines attached to his tactical vest one last time.

Ahead of them, the dust kept drawing closer. Thorvil picked up his transmitter.

'Post 13 to headquarters. Enemy sighted at six kilometres. Request permission to open fire at fifteen hundred metres. Over.'

The reply came almost immediately.

'Headquarters to Post 13. Permission to engage at fifteen hundred metres. Good hunting.'

At three kilometres, Gunnar finally made out figures. At two kilometres, he could see weapons, banners and the front ranks of goblins. At fifteen hundred metres, Maldor placed his hands on the Wishker's grips.

'Right...' he murmured. 'Time to work.'

The Wishker roared. The first burst went off like a thunderclap. In the distance, several goblins collapsed almost together. Maldor shifted the barrel slightly to the left. Another burst. Then he swept back to the right. The manoeuvre repeated. Short bursts became longer. Then longer still. Soon the Wishker seemed unwilling to stop. Goblins fell in groups, mown down one after another. And the more fell, the more kept coming. The plain seemed to produce them without end.

Smoke filled the air around the position. The acrid smell of propellant gases and burnt powder filled Gunnar's nostrils. Thorvil watched the thermometer.

'Cooling!'

He injected the first dose of Freon. The first ammunition crate ran empty. Dorak fed in the next almost without interrupting the firing. They were already halfway through the second when Thorvil shouted:

'We're running low on ammunition! Greenhorn! Get the drums! And hurry!'

Gunnar slung his AR-550 over his shoulder and set off as fast as his short dwarven legs could carry him. He climbed the ramp leading to the second fortification, reached the ammunition depot and found himself amid a frantic stream of traffic. Dwarves came and went carrying crates, belts, magazines and shells. The Wishker used drums holding five thousand rounds each. Gunnar grabbed three and strapped them to his back. Then three more across his chest. He looked at the remaining stacks. Thorvil had said they were going to run out of ammunition.

So Gunnar took another two under his left arm. And two under his right. Ten drums. Far too many. But he wanted to do a good job. The moment he set off again, he realised his mistake.

Running was impossible. Every step became a struggle against the weight crushing him. The straps cut into his shoulders, and the drums battered his back and chest. He sweated like he was in a sauna. But he kept going. Always.

When he reached the top of the path leading down to Thorvil, Maldor and Dorak's position, he could finally see the battlefield in all its horror. Thousands of goblins lay scattered across the plain.

Some looked as though they were merely lying down. Others were frozen in impossible positions. Heavy rounds had torn off limbs, shattered bodies and carved bloody furrows through the enemy ranks. It looked as though Death had run through the crowd, knocking everyone aside before turning them to stone where they fell.

Gunnar continued downhill. He was only a few metres from the position when he heard Dorak's voice.

'What the hell is that greenhorn doing? Has he got lost, or has he deserted us? Shit... I wouldn't have thought that of him.'

Gunnar tried to answer. He never got the chance. All along the horizon, the goblin guns began to sing. A song of death falling from the sky. The first salvo struck the bunker directly.

A tremendous geyser of earth, smoke and light swallowed Thorvil, Maldor, Dorak and the Wishker.

The shock wave hit Gunnar like a wall. He was hurled several metres backwards. When he got to his feet, he tried to run toward the position.

Then something stopped him. Silence. He could no longer hear a thing. Around him, the battle was still raging. He could see explosions. Figures running. Earth flying into the air. But no sound. Then a memory flashed through his mind: the old warrior he had met at Kar-Dhum on the day of Aedragon's coronation. During a bombardment, the warrior had told him, when you suddenly can't hear anything anymore... that salvo is meant for you. Gunnar had just enough time to think:

Just my luck. The world exploded a second time. He went flying. The flight seemed endless.

Then his back slammed into the ground. The drums strapped behind him dug into his lower back. Those across his chest crushed his ribs. For several seconds he couldn't breathe. When he recovered enough air to move, he tried to sit up. That was when he saw his leg. Or rather, when he saw that it was gone. Below the knee, almost nothing remained. A few metres away, in the dust, lay what had been the lower part of his leg. Strangely, he felt almost no pain. Not yet. Adrenaline was granting him a few seconds of mercy. Then he saw the blood. It spurted in pulses. The artery. The voice of Magnus the Ravager sprang into his memory.

You're wounded. Assess the injury. Act. Otherwise, Death will be the next thing you see. Gunnar tore off his belt. He tightened it just above the knee, grabbed a piece of wood and slipped it through the improvised loop. He twisted. Again. Blood was still spurting. Another turn. At last the pain came, savage and blinding. Gunnar gritted his teeth and kept twisting. The jet became a trickle. Then almost nothing. Yet his vision was already beginning to blur. His head spun. The figures around him grew indistinct. But one thing remained clear in his mind. Dorak's voice. He's deserted us.

Gunnar opened his mouth. His own voice seemed to come from very far away.

'I didn't abandon you...'

He tried to breathe.

'I'm here... I just took a little longer... it was heavy...'

His eyes searched for the bunker that no longer existed.

'Thorvil... Dorak... Maldor... I didn't leave you behind.'

Then his strength deserted him.

He slowly toppled onto his side. His head struck the ground and bounced slightly in the dust. No more pain. No more fear. No more battle. Only silence.

When Gunnar Fierabras regained consciousness, a part of him had remained on that battlefield. The lower part of his leg would never return. Later, surgeons would graft on a new one, made of metal and steel. The first visible scars would begin to accumulate on his body. But the one Crystal had left him would always remain the first. Gunnar Fierabras had survived his first real battle. Yet in the barracks, on battlefields, and soon in the stories told about the war, another name began to circulate. A name he would carry for the rest of his life.

Gunnar Iron-Leg.

That day, young Fierabras had left a leg on the battlefield.

And a legend had just taken its first step.