Bladestorm

by Matt Westbrook

  He strode to the rampart wall, and rested one gauntlet upon the black iron, pointing out at the canyon mouth with the other. The craggy corridor of stone lay a few hundred yards to the west of the Dreadhold, the ghoulish howl of the orruk horde still echoing from its jagged mouth.

  ‘The canyon is narrow,’ he said. ‘Narrow enough for a few hundred men to defend it wall to wall. If we can hold the enemy charge, we will bottleneck their force. Thin it out. Buy the time we need for the Lord-Relictor to finish his work.’

  There was a silence. Mykos was sure every Stormcast present was thinking the same as he. Any force sent out to perform such a task would likely never return. It was a solid enough position to defend, but the moment the enemy force broke through they would be surrounded and destroyed. Against a cavalry charge, they would have no opportunity to retreat even the relatively short distance back to the fortress.

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Eldroc, and all present acknowledged the defensive expertise of the Lord-Castellant, the Keeper of Keys. ‘This fortress will not withstand an assault by several thousand fresh troops. We must deny them the pass. It is a natural choke point, and the only method we have of evening out this fight.’

  Thostos nodded. ‘The Bladestorm will march,’ he said. ‘We will hold the pass. Lord-Celestant Argellon–’

  ‘No,’ said Mykos. His heart hammered in his chest, but he felt a sense of surety and purpose that he had not felt in a long time. ‘No, Lord-Celestant Thostos, this is the Argellonites’ task.’

  Thostos looked at him, and for once Mykos did not feel uncomfortable gazing into the harsh blue glare of his eyes.

  ‘You must lead them,’ he said. ‘This is your mission, brother. Let me and my men buy you the time you need to complete it.’

  ‘This is our mission, not my own.’

  ‘Think of your battle against the lord of the Dreadhold, Thostos,’ said Mykos, shaking his head. ‘Did Sigmar reach out through the realms to restore you, only to have you fall here? No, your task is still to come. This is mine.’

  There was a long silence, with nothing but the roar of the wind and the faint sound of drums in the distance. Finally, Thostos nodded stiffly. He snapped one gauntleted hand to his breast in salute, and Mykos did the same.

  ‘We have had our differences, Lord-Celestant Argellon,’ said Thostos, ‘but I have never doubted your courage or your ability. Hold the line, and do not give them a single bloodless step forward.’

  ‘For Sigmar, and for the lost,’ said Mykos. Then he turned to Eldroc. The Lord-Castellant placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Mykos smiled. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘Hold to your oaths, brother,’ said Eldroc. ‘We shall meet again.’

  There was little time to waste, and so in only a few minutes the five hundred warriors of the Argellonites Warrior Chamber were marching out of the Dreadhold, passing through the shattered gatehouse with its warped symbols of ruin and bronzed skulls. As they marched through, the Stormcasts assigned to shore up the ruined entrance saluted solemnly, striking a single fist against their chests. Despite the danger that awaited him, Mykos was not sad to see the last of the cursed fortress. It was tainted in a way that could never truly be cleansed, and the Lord-Celestant hoped that one day the forces of order would find the time to tear it down, stone by stone.

  Knight-Heraldor Axilon marched at his side, singing along in his deep baritone to the Battle-hymn of Defiance, a favourite amongst the ranks of the Argellonites. The deep, determined voices of the Stormcasts drowned out the witless howl of the orruks.

  ‘Send them a message, Knight-Heraldor,’ said Mykos as they stepped out onto the dry earth outside the Dreadhold. ‘Let them know that Sigmar reclaims this land.’

  ‘As you say, Lord-Celestant,’ said Axilon with a grin, reaching for his battle-horn.

  The voices of the Bladestorm warriors on the battlements blended with the singing of the Argellonites as they marched towards the mouth of the canyon. A clear, perfect note issued forth from Axilon’s battle-horn, a radiant sound of hope and glory that echoed out across the savage wilderness.

  ‘He will give us the time we need,’ said Eldroc, watching his friend march out towards an almost certain death.

  ‘Let us hope so,’ replied Thostos. His voice was as cold and emotionless as ever. ‘All rests on the next few hours. If the fortress falls, we will not be in position at the Crystal Forest as Sigmar demands. The entire offensive may unravel.’

  Eldroc understood his Lord-Celestant’s concern. The timing was too tight. They must cleanse the Manticore Realmgate and pass through it into hostile territory, there to meet with the contact that would lead them to their ultimate objective. Sigmar was once again set to take the war directly to the forces of Chaos, and to do so every piece on the board had to be in the correct place at the correct time. There was a long path still to travel, and doubly so considering the losses they had already taken.

  ‘He will give us the time we need,’ he repeated.

  ‘It will hurt us to lose him,’ said Thostos. ‘Too often he lets his emotion rule him, but he is a fine warrior and a clever leader. His Argellonites fight well.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ agreed Eldroc.

  The Lord-Castellant sighed, deeply and wearily. Mykos Argellon would likely die this day, and in a flash of celestial power he would be called back to the halls of Azyrheim, where he would be reforged by the wondrous power of Sigmar’s storm. Perhaps he would retain a memory of the man he had been. In all likelihood, he would not. The thoughtful, noble man that Eldroc had grown to admire would be gone, and in his place would be… someone else. Someone damaged, and uncertain. Or perhaps someone cold and distant, like Lord-Celestant Thostos himself.

  This war would claim the best of them all.

  The sky above the Roaring Plains crackled and thundered, great grey clouds rumbling above the Manticore Dreadhold and bringing with them a stinging sheet of rain. Evios Goldfeather felt the downpour on his armour as he spiralled into the sky, climbing high above the canyon and searching for signs of the enemy.

  He could see them now. The walls of the canyon had a slight overhang which masked the winding tunnel, but even through the heavy rain he could see the bright yellow of the orruks’ spiked iron armour, splattered liberally with red symbols that contrasted violently with the green flesh of the brutish creatures.

  They had made the mouth of the cavern just in time. It would be only a few moments until the leading edge of the orruk horde crashed into the shields of the Celestial Vindicators. Evios was no coward, but he did not envy the Liberators who would stand in the front ranks, the first wall against which the tidal wave of enemy cavalry would crash.

  Movement above the canyon wall caught his eye. Out into the open air came strange, bloated, reptilian creatures, each with a whooping orruk astride its back. They were so stocky and powerful that it seemed impossible that their leathery wings could keep them aloft, let alone with a heavy creature upon their backs, but on they came at a fair speed, accelerating now that they saw Goldfeather’s Prosecutors heading towards them. Goldfeather nodded, satisfied.

  His first target of the day.

  Ideally, Mykos Argellon would have liked to push further into the canyon, establishing fallback points and switchbacks from which his reserve could launch fresh attacks when the momentum of the enemy charge played out. The ground here was stable, only just beginning to dampen and fill with the constant downpour. There were divots, potholes and occasional scattered rocks, but it was still decent cavalry terrain, largely flat and featureless.

  ‘Give me an hour and I could make this a killing ground,’ the Lord-Celestant muttered in frustration.

  There was simply no time. Perhaps two hundred yards into the canyon they halted and began to form up. The sound of the orruks’ chanting was overwhelming now, backed by the chaotic, arrhythmic sound of t
housands of iron-shod hooves. The ground shook beneath their feet, and rocks crumbled from the canyon wall and clattered off sigmarite plate.

  ‘Form the line!’ shouted Axilon. ‘Quickly now.’

  Barely heeding the cacophony that grew louder and louder with each passing moment, Mykos’ Warrior Chamber began to take up their assigned positions. Liberator-Primes bellowed orders, forming their men into compact blocks, wondrous tower shields raised, warhammers and blades held at the ready. This would be the solid core of the Argellonites’ defence, the beating heart of their formation. If they could hold the line in the face of the enemy charge, the Paladin retinues could push forwards from the second rank, exploiting gaps in the enemy line with ruthless aggression.

  Behind the infantry were the Justicars. They held their bows taut, ready to pour lightning up and over the heads of their brothers and into the orruk ranks.

  His warriors had barely finished manoeuvring into position when Mykos Argellon saw the leading edge of the enemy charge.

  ‘Sigmar’s blood,’ said Axilon beside him.

  It was no army. No organised fighting force. Such definitions seemed entirely inappropriate. This was an extinction event, roaring down the channel of the canyon towards them. It was a tidal wave of rusting iron and hollering green flesh, borne aloft on tusked beasts with eyes that glowed with murderous red delight. There was no measured charge, no effort to form a cohesive line. They charged as a great spear, bounding towards the Vindicators’ position with no thought to their own, simply a demented glee at the prospect of battle. Mykos saw more than one rider disappear under the storm of iron as his mount stumbled and fell. Others were crushed against the canyon wall, the momentum of their fellows grinding them to pieces upon the unyielding stone. The first arrows of the Judicators fell in arcs of searing lightning, scorching and blasting riders from their crude saddles. It was like throwing pebbles into an ocean. They were only two hundred paces away now, and gaining speed.

  ‘Stand firm, brothers of the storm,’ Mykos shouted above the noise of the enemy charge. ‘Here we make these witless creatures pay for every loyal human life they have taken. They will break upon our shields and die upon our blades.’

  Axilon blasted another note from his battle-horn, and the sound soared and bounded around the canyon, filling Mykos’ heart with hope and determination.

  ‘Stand firm, warriors of vengeance! Stand firm, seekers of justice. Stand firm!’

  Liberator Archus was in the very front rank of the Stormcast position. He held his shield forwards and raised, his legs bent slightly, his back pressed firmly against the shield of the warrior behind him. Shields. He felt like laughing. As if a shield, even a wondrous one such as his, which had saved his life from countless dangers faced in the service of Sigmar, could protect him from the apocalypse that surged towards him.

  He shook his head, clearing away the doubt and the fear. He was going to die, but his death would slow the enemy charge just a fraction. The man behind him would die as well, but again his fellow warrior’s death would absorb a portion of that hideous momentum. With their deaths, they would mire the enemy, slow it down and leave it vulnerable to the hammers and blades of their fellows. What would this death be like, he wondered? He had never been reforged. He had heard tales, though, of hollow souls and lost memories. He wondered if it would hurt as much as his first death, when the Skullsworn had taken his scalp and left him to bleed out upon the stairs of his home, screaming his agonised oaths of vengeance.

  He would not miss that memory.

  They enemy was only a few dozen yards away now. The noise was astonishing. He could feel the vibration deep in his bones.

  ‘I’ll find you back in Azyrheim, my friend,’ shouted Tyron at his side. ‘The first ales are on you.’

  Archus heard laughter, and realised with surprise that it was his own.

  Lightning began to fall into the orruk swarm. Riders were pitched from their mounts, sent tumbling to the ground to disappear under the hooves of the creatures behind them. Archus’ eyes locked upon a monstrous orruk that barrelled straight at him, roaring and drooling in the throes of his battle rage. Time seemed to slow. He saw the blazing red eyes of the colossal boar, only a few yards away now. He heard the ragged panting of its breath, and smelled offal, sweat, and the tang of rusted iron.

  He roared his God-King’s name as the beast crashed into him. He felt an agonising crack as the arm that held his shield snapped, felt something crunch into the top of his skull. There was a burning pain that flashed across his body, a burst of searing light, and then nothing at all.

  The orruk charge struck home with the force of a falling mountain. The creatures’ great war-beasts smashed aside the shields of the Stormcasts with their mighty hooves, or tore straight through them with their heavy, iron-wrapped tusks. There are few sights so terrifying in war as a cavalry charge striking an infantry formation, and the sheer power and ferocity of the orruks only made the spectacle more violent and potent. Stormcasts were hurled through the air, broken and torn, or trampled into unrecognisable shapes under the incredible weight. The battlefield was strobed with flashes of blinding light as Sigmar’s fallen sons were called home. Shields forged by the greatest smiths of the age were torn asunder. Sigmarite armour was rent and malformed. Unfortunate orruk riders too caught up in the madness to retain control were catapulted into the depths of the Stormcast ranks, their beasts sent tumbling and rolling, squealing and dying.

  The shield wall should not have held. Against the sheer, overwhelming force of the orruk charge, the front ranks of the Argellonites should have been swept away, their lines disintegrating and the rear ranks swallowed up as they turned to flee. The simple dynamics of war demanded it.

  Yet the three hundred stoic Liberators that formed the wall did not falter. The front ranks were utterly destroyed, but the compact formations behind them did not break, did not shy away from the monstrous tonnage of flesh and iron that crashed into them. Every warrior had a veteran’s knowledge of warfare, and they knew that if they lost their solidity, they would lose everything. Grim-faced Celestial Vindicators accepted their deaths, setting their feet and refusing to move a single step in the face of their obliteration.

  ‘Senseless, foolish creatures,’ spat Axilon, as he watched the spear of orruk cavalry grind itself further into the breach it had created. He stood with Mykos at the side of the battle, on a jutting spur of rock to better observe the chaos. ‘How does this bloodshed profit either of our races? To think that we once called these beasts allies.’

  ‘Not these creatures,’ said Mykos. ‘Look at them, brother.’

  These orruks were broad and tall, rippling with muscles and wrapped in crude yet formidable iron armour. They had none of the savage desperation that Mykos had seen in others of their race. They radiated power, confidence and strength.

  ‘They have thrived in Sigmar’s absence, grown strong and bold,’ he said. ‘If these orruks were to gather in numbers, the Mortal Realms would tremble.’

  ‘Then we must slaughter this lot before they get any grand ideas,’ said Axilon. He raised his battle-horn to his mask, and blasted out another series of triumphal notes.

  ‘Paladin retinues forwards,’ shouted Mykos, raising his grandblade and indicating his heaviest shock troops, towering Retributors with their crackling, lightning-wreathed hammers, and grim Decimators, carrying broad executioners’ axes. Unleashed at last, these warriors charged eagerly through the small channels that now opened in the Liberator shield wall, crashing into the orruks that now pushed deeper into the Stormcast position.

  Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather was enjoying himself, which was possibly somewhat unseemly given the dire circumstances, but undeniable nonetheless. As the battle raged below, the heralds of the Argellonites found themselves outnumbered and surrounded by the reptilian flying mounts of the orruks. The bulky creatures swooped and snapped at the Prosecutors,
and their howling masters hurled axes and spears or tried to grab the wings of the Stormcasts as they swept past. The orruks had the numbers, but they lacked the manoeuvrability of their foe.

  Goldfeather tucked his wings in and dropped out of the way of one of the creatures, hearing the crunch as its slavering jaws snapped closed just a few inches above his head. He let himself fall several feet, summoning another storm javelin into his hand as he did so, and then spread his wings wide, catching a rising squall and hefting his weapon. He hurled, and the javelin burned a hole through the skull of an orruk rider, flipping him sideways in a somersault that dismounted him and sent him spinning off into the rain.

  As much as he welcomed the chance to battle in the violent, unpredictable gales of the Roaring Plains, this needed to end quickly. The Lord-Celestant needed their assistance on the ground, and the longer the Prosecutors were tied up here, the longer they would leave their fellow warriors exposed without aerial support.

  Decimator-Prime Kyvos felt righteous rage course through him as he and his warriors pushed forwards through the narrow gaps that the Liberators had efficiently created between their shield wall squares. Across the entire Stormcast position the Warrior Chamber’s elite shock troops were rushed to the front line to combat the orruks that had broken through. As exemplary as every Liberator was at the art of combat, vicious, cramped close-quarters battle was the specialty of the greenskin.

  Kyvos had fought the things before, and while he despised their short-sighted lust for battle and their witless, artless lack of culture, he would never deny their skill at arms. Ahead he could see the colossal shapes of the orruks’ grunting war-beasts, which kicked and spat and bucked with furious abandon in the midst of the melee. The greenskins were hurling themselves at the Liberators’ shields, smashing and hacking gracelessly but effectively with jagged axes and spiked clubs.

  ‘No quarter!’ Kyvos shouted as the battlefield opened up before him. ‘No mercy for the enemies of the God-King!’