Sword of Vengeance, page 34
The rest of Helborg’s irregular infantry marched in semi-ordered detachments on either flank of Bloch’s troops. They looked scared and uncertain. The prospect of liberating Averland, so attractive under the warm sun, now seemed like a fool’s errand. They were heading into the depths of Chaos, and even the simple-minded knew the great enemy when they saw it. Bloch placed little faith in them. At the first sign of serious trouble, they’d break. The only hope was to join up with the larger Imperial forces before that happened.
Ahead of them all rode Schwarzhelm, Kraus and the few cavalry Helborg had given them. The Emperor’s Champion looked as stern and unyielding as a mountain. He, and he alone, inspired some faith that this wasn’t merely a vainglorious march to death.
‘Herr Bloch.’
A forgotten voice rose over the growing clamour. Bloch felt his heart sink.
‘Herr Verstohlen,’ he replied, looking up to see the familiar figure of the spy riding alongside. Something of the habitual smug expression had been erased from the man’s lean face. His eyes were ringed and heavy with fatigue, and his tailored clothes were ripped and stained. ‘You’re still here, then.’
‘Just about.’ Schwarzhelm’s agent had his pistol in his free hand, loaded and ready to fire. ‘I’ve not seen you for some time.’
‘Strange, that.’
‘And you’ve lost your lieutenant.’
‘Captain Kraus is back where he belongs.’
Verstohlen smiled. There was little mirth in it, just a wry grin at the foolishness of the world.
‘As we all are,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m not much at home on the battlefield, commander. It disagrees with me. The last time I fought under Schwarzhelm, you were good enough to let me tag along.’
Bloch squinted up at him, wondering, as ever, whether Verstohlen was mocking him.
‘We’re infantry,’ he said. ‘Your horse won’t fit in.’
Verstohlen swung down from the saddle, landing lightly beside Bloch. He gave his steed a thump on the flanks, and it lurched away from the approaching battlefront, no doubt pleased to be heading away from the horrors ahead.
‘Any better?’
Bloch scowled. He’d not known what to make of Verstohlen at Turgitz, and he had little enough idea now. The man was an enigma, and enigmas were no use to him.
‘If you want to use that gun, then be my guest. But get in the way, and I’ll skewer you myself.’
Verstohlen nodded seriously.
‘Quite right, commander,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’
Ahead of them, the rearguard of the enemy finally spotted the advancing ranks of Schwarzhelm’s troops. Soldiers began to turn to face them, still several hundred yards off.
‘To arms!’ came the cry from Kraus.
All along the line, steel glittered as it was swung into position. Men made the sign of the comet, adjusted their helmets, pulled breastplates down, mumbled prayers.
Steadily, silently, Grosslich’s men broke into a run towards them. The soldiers looked strange, as if their eyes had been replaced with pools of witch-fire.
‘On my mark!’ roared Kraus.
Schwarzhelm clutched the Rechtstahl with his right hand and bowed his head in a silent dedication. He’d be the first one in.
‘I feel that we never had the chance to get to know one another properly,’ said Verstohlen as the pace of the march picked up. Though he tried to hide it with levity, his voice was shot through with fear.
‘Some other time, perhaps,’ muttered Bloch, waiting for the order to charge.
‘I’d like that.’
Then Kraus swung his sword wildly over his head.
‘Men of the Empire!’ he bellowed. ‘Death to the enemy! Charge now, and Sigmar guide your blades!’
With a massed roar of their own, the halberdiers surged forwards. Behind them came the Averlanders, faces pale with terror, hands clasped tight on their weapons, sweat glistening on their brows.
At their head rode Schwarzhelm, sword blazing red against the flames, his throaty cries of defiance and hatred rising above the tumult. In his wake, desperate and valiant, five thousand infantry streamed into the well of fire and death.
Helborg felt the ash-hot air stream past him as he spurred his horse into a gallop. Schwarzhelm had committed his troops, drawing attention away from the Reiksguard and leaving the field clear for the charge. The squadron comprised fewer than fifty horsemen, including himself and Leitdorf – a laughable force with which to threaten a host of thousands.
The wedge of riders around him tightened. Their massed hooves drummed on the packed earth as the knights swept towards their target. Half a mile to their left the walls of Averheim rose up into the storm-raked air, vast and dark. Ahead of them were file upon file of marching infantry, each clad in close-fitting plate armour and bearing a crystal halberd. Somewhere beyond them was Volkmar. The Theogonist’s position had been obvious enough from the vantage of the rise, but was now lost in the smoke and confusion of the battlefield.
The success of the charge all depended on speed and power. The first blow would settle things.
‘Karl Franz!’ roared Helborg as the first lines of the enemy came into view. The dog-soldiers before him turned to face the onslaught. Too slowly. They’d be ripped aside.
‘The Emperor!’ replied the Reiksguard, crying aloud as one. Skarr was at the forefront of the charge, his ravaged face enclosed in steel and his blade flashing.
Rufus Leitdorf rode on his left shoulder, leaning forwards in the saddle and with the Wolfsklinge unsheathed at his side.
‘For my father,’ he murmured, too low for the others to hear.
The gap shrank, closed and disappeared. The wedge of cavalry, a steel-tipped spear of white and red, slammed into the defenders. Grosslich’s infantry were ridden into the mire or cut down by the precision of the Reiksguard sword-work. Helborg kicked his horse onwards and it leapt into the press of Grosslich’s rearguard, lashing out and kicking its hooves as it laboured through the mass of bodies.
Startled by the sudden onslaught, the resistance was weak. A group of heavily-armoured dog-soldiers attempted to form a line against the charge.
‘Take them!’ cried Helborg, pulling his horse’s head round to meet the threat.
The Reiksguard wheeled, every horseman controlling his steed superbly. Without any drop in speed, the knights galloped at the wall of iron and steel. They crashed into the defence again at full tilt, breaking open the nascent line of shields and scattering the mutants. Some knights were knocked from the saddle or raked with a desperate halberd-stab from below, but the wedge remained intact, tearing forwards, heading ever further into the files of the corrupted troops.
‘D’you see him?’ shouted Skarr, crouching low in the saddle, his helmet drenched in blood and his sword still swinging.
‘Not yet,’ replied Helborg, impaling a dog-soldier with a downward plunge before bringing the Klingerach smartly back up for another victim.
Helborg felt stronger than he’d done since leaving Nuln. His shoulder spiked with pain, but he ignored it. Like Schwarzhelm, he lived for combat. Creeping around in the hinterland of Averland had been a drain on his soul. Now, surrounded by the filth he’d dedicated his life to eradicating, the tang of blood on his lips and the thunder of hooves in his ears, he was back where he belonged.
‘Keep on this course!’ he bellowed, directing his galloping steed towards a fresh attempt to halt them. ‘Rally to the Theogonist when we see him. Until then, kill all who get in your way.’
With that, Helborg swerved to avoid a looming dog-soldier, carving a deep gash in the mutant’s shoulder as he passed, before powering onwards to the line of mustering defenders.
His eyes narrowed under the visor and a warm smile creased his battle-scarred face. The hooves of his horse thudded as he hurtled towards his next target.
‘Sigmar preserves those who fight,’ he murmured to himself, licking his cracked lips with anticipation. ‘Blessed be the name of Sigmar.’
Schwarzhelm strode forwards and the Rechtstahl trailed a line of ripped-free gore behind it. He’d dismounted once the press around him had got too close and now went on foot amongst his troops, carving his way towards the sundered Imperial lines. Kraus was at his side, hammering away with his blade.
There seemed to be no end to the mutants, horrors and dead-eyed mortals looming up out of the dark, faces blank and blades swinging. The assault on Grosslich’s flank had almost stalled. Bloch’s men were capable of holding their own but the Averlanders were less accomplished. Schwarzhelm had seen dozens of them running from the field, crying with fear and leaving their weapons in the mud behind them. Those that remained were now surrounded, enveloped in the endless ranks of Grosslich’s legions. The mutants exacted a heavy toll for any forward progress. Only Schwarzhelm kept the drive going, hauling his men forwards by the force of example.
‘No mercy!’ he roared, stabbing the Rechtstahl through the wheezing throat of a mutant and ripping it out. ‘Keep your formation! Fear no traitor!’
He knew time was running out. They were too deep in to disengage.
‘Where now?’ panted Kraus, fresh from felling his man. His armour looked big on him, as if the weeks in the wild had physically shrunk the honour guard captain.
‘This is the right course,’ said Schwarzhelm, dragging a halberdier back out of harm’s way before crushing the skull of his looming assailant. ‘Unless the Empire army has fallen back to–’
With a scream, something dark and clawed flung itself from the enemy lines. It was cloaked in rags and had talons for fingers. The halberdiers shrank back, bewildered and terrified.
Schwarzhelm brought the Rechtstahl round quickly. Steel clashed against bone, and a flash of witch-light burst out from the impact. Kraus leapt forwards, blade at the ready.
‘Get back!’ roared Schwarzhelm, his sword dancing in the firelight, parrying and thrusting at the scuttling creature. ‘Your blade will not bite this.’
Kraus fell away, blocking instead the advance of a slavering dog-soldier. Schwarzhelm worked his sword with speed, matching the spider-sharp movements of the horror. Every time the Rechtstahl hit, a blaze of sparks rained to the ground. The creature leapt at him, screaming with frustration, talons lashing.
Schwarzhelm ducked under the scything claws, shouldering his mighty pauldrons to the assault and swinging the blade fast and low across the earth. The horror reacted, spinning back on itself to evade the strike, but too late. The Sword of Justice sliced through sinew and iron, taking off the creature’s legs and leaving it writhing in the blood-soaked mud.
Schwarzhelm rose to his full height, spun the sword round and plunged it down, pinning the horror’s torso as he’d done with Tochfel in Averheim. It let out a final screech of pain and fury before the light in its eyes went out.
With the destruction of Natassja’s pet, the dog-soldiers began to withdraw. None of them could stand against Schwarzhelm. In the shuffling confusion the halberdiers were finally able to push them back.
‘Morr’s blood,’ spat Kraus, looking at the twisted carcass still twitching in the slime of the field. ‘What is that?’
‘Another one I failed to save,’ replied Schwarzhelm grimly, stalking back to the front line. At his approach, the dog-soldiers fell back further. Soon his massive shoulders were busy again, hacking and parrying, driving the mutants inwards.
‘Reikland!’ came a voice then from further down the line of halberdiers. Schwarzhelm recognised it at once. Bloch. The halberdier commander was still unstoppable, as tough and enduring as old leather.
Schwarzhelm whirled round, hope rising in his breast. Drifts of smoke still obscured the battlefield beyond a few paces and the ash-choked darkness did the rest, but he could see the shadows of men running towards them.
‘Hold your positions!’ he bellowed, his gruff voice cracking under the strain. He couldn’t afford for his troops to get strung out.
Then, suddenly, there were halberdiers around him. They weren’t Bloch’s men, but wore the grey and white of the Reikland. They looked exhausted, their faces streaked with blood and their breastplates dented.
‘Against all hope...’ one of them stammered, limping towards Schwarzhelm like he was some shade of Morr.
Bloch burst from the right flank after him, grinning like an idiot.
‘We’ve broken through, my lord!’ he cried, exposing the bloody hole in his smile where something had knocked half his teeth from his jaw. ‘These are our men!’
Even as he announced the news, more Imperial troops emerged from the gloom. There were dozens, possibly hundreds.
‘Maintain the assault!’ growled Schwarzhelm, glowering at Bloch and pushing his way past the limping Reikland troops. ‘You pox-ridden dogs, form up like you’re in the army of the Emperor.’
Bloch’s men immediately responded, swinging back to face the dog-soldiers and charging the disarrayed lines. Their commander disappeared with them, in the forefront as ever, hefting his halberd with brutal enjoyment.
Schwarzhelm turned on the nearest Empire halberdier. Everything was in flux. They were still heavily outnumbered, and their only hope lay in restoring discipline.
‘Who’s the senior officer here?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know, my lord. Kleister is dead, and Bogenhof is–’
‘You’ll do then. Get these men into detachments. Four deep, ten wide. Do it now. Follow my lead, and we’ll clear some space around us. This isn’t over yet.’
The halberdier looked back at him, first with surprise, then with a sudden, desperate hope.
‘Yes, my lord!’ he cried, before rushing to form his men up as ordered.
Schwarzhelm turned back to the fighting. If there were any more of those creatures, he knew he’d be the only one who could take them on.
‘What now?’ asked Kraus, hurrying back to his side.
‘Get in amongst these men,’ said Schwarzhelm, striding without break to catch up with Bloch’s men. ‘Get them organised and follow me. There’ll be more of them as we go, and they all need leading.’
‘So where are we taking them?’
Schwarzhelm turned back to shoot Kraus a murderous look.
‘Grosslich must have seen us by now,’ he said, his eyes narrowing under his helmet. ‘He’s here somewhere, and when I find him, he’s my kill.’
Then Schwarzhelm stalked off, massive and threatening, his sword thirsting for the blood that followed it whenever it was drawn.
The walls of the city soared up into the sky, braced with iron and crested with thirty-foot-high sigils of Slaanesh. The curving symbols glowed red, throbbing in the darkness and spilling their unnatural light across the storm-born shadows.
Volkmar was close enough now. He could taste the tang of corruption streaming from Averheim, locked in the column of rumbling fire. There were presences in the aethyr, darting shapes swimming in the currents of translucent crimson. He could see their outlines, a twisted fusion of woman and Chaos-spawn.
‘I am coming for you,’ he growled, swinging his staff round to blast a lumbering mutant from his path.
Volkmar knew neither fatigue nor fear now. As truly as he knew his own name, he knew the Lord of End Times had come back to face him again. This time, the result would be different. He’d seen the other side of reality, had gazed across the planes of immortal existence and felt their cold embrace. Now enclosed in the sinews and blood of a man once more, he would not return there. Not until the Everchosen lay at his feet, drowning in his own betrayer’s gore.
Volkmar felt a sudden hand on his shoulder, huge and heavy. He spun round, the Staff of Command responding instantly with a blaze of sparkling faith-fire.
‘This is enough.’
Maljdir stood before him. The huge man was covered in sweat, blood and grime. The battle-standard at his shoulder was charred and ripped. The warrior priests surged onwards around the two of them, driving the enemy back further.
‘What d’you mean?’ hissed Volkmar, eager to return to the slaughter. ‘He’s in there. We’re almost on him.’
Maljdir looked agonised. Perhaps it was fear. The old Ulrican had never displayed fear before. That was disappointing.
‘Look around you.’ Maljdir forcibly turned the Theogonist to face the following troops.
It took a moment for his eyes to clear, dazzled as they were by the splendour of his Staff.
‘Where are my men?’ he asked, suddenly filled with doubt.
There were fewer than three hundred left, all bunched together, fighting to keep up with the charge of their leader. Most of those that remained were warrior priests. The wizards were gone, and there was no sign of Roll. Even as Volkmar watched, a swordsman in the rear of his column was torn apart by a ragged thing with talons for hands, his flesh flung over the heads of his comrades as he screamed.
‘They couldn’t keep up!’ cried Maljdir. ‘You’ve dragged them to their deaths. We must pull back.’
Volkmar hesitated, and the light of his staff guttered like a candle-flame. He couldn’t withdraw. Not now, not with the city so close.
‘We’re almost at the gates,’ he insisted, shaking off the priest’s hands. ‘I can feel his presence in the city...’
‘You’re deluded!’ roared Maljdir. ‘Chaos is here, but not the one you seek.’
Even as he spoke, more mutants closed in around them. They sensed the end, and were no longer daunted by the Staff.
Volkmar reeled, feeling his visions lift from his eyes. The anger was still there, but the mania had gone, extinguished by revelation.
‘We cannot...’ he started, and never finished.
A snarling pack of dog-soldiers charged into the line of warrior priests ahead of them, knocking them back and hacking them down. Volkmar’s forces had become a beleaguered island amid a swirling maelstrom of enemy troops. It was too late to go back, and hopeless to go on.
