Crying out to Grimnir, Thorrik charged at the beast, swinging the gleaming rune-axe back over his shoulder as he ran. The runic script up its haft blazed into light, white hot and eager, and with one mighty blow, Thorrik severed one of the beast’s back legs. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, and spirit-wraiths poured from the wound, their emaciated, ghostly faces twisted in pain and fear. They faded into nothingness as they dissipated into the air, and the monstrous beast collapsed to the ground, a piercing roar of pain bursting from its throat.
Chanting the war cries of his clan and hold, Thorrik stepped closer to the thrashing beast, and hacked deep into its neck. Then he stood back away from the mortally wounded monster, still chanting, and watched as the life slipped from it.
Blood boiled and spat upon the stone cavern floor, pouring from its wounds as it continued to thrash madly. Claws ripped up great rents in the stone, and more spirit shapes poured from the wound at its neck, screaming faintly and disappearing into the air.
The beast’s flesh rippled as uncontrollable mutation went through it, and spiked bones burst through the skin over its backbone, twisting and coiling together. A gaping mouth complete with teeth and a pair of whip-like tongues opened up on the flank of the dying beast, and one of its forelegs melted to become a grotesque, bloated flipper that slapped against the stone floor, splattering bubbling blood. The blue skin on its chest peeled away to expose ribs and pulsing organs covered in a film of blue fire, and this fire rose up high as the beast let out a final dying roar, spiderwebs of mutating flesh spreading across its face.
At last it was silent, and the blue flames died away. All that was left was a foul lump of rancid smelling meat and fur, a sickening corpse that spoke of the horrid touch of Chaos.
“Burn it,” said Grunwald, his voice hoarse, and he joined the others in stacking wood around the foul creature before hurling flaming brands upon it.
With his heart heavy, Thorrik stomped away from the others and began to meticulously clean the powerful rune-axe, his face grim.
To use this weapon, the heirloom that he had sworn and failed to deliver to its one and only living rightful owner, was a sacrilege that he would be forced to atone for. He polished the weapon in silence until, at last satisfied, he rewrapped it in oiled leathers, binding it tightly with knotted twine. Then he placed it back against the cave wall, and drew his pipe.
Surrounded by smoke, he sat in silence, brooding and lost in his own dark thoughts.
As the first rays of dawn pierced the cave mouth, the knights ventured cautiously outside. The orcs and goblins had gone, leaving behind crude totems perhaps to honour the beast of the cave. Their dead were left where they had fallen, and the cawing of carrion birds was loud in the morning’s silence as they fought over the richest pickings. Many of the knights’ corpses had been mutilated almost beyond recognition.
Exhausted and bone-tired, Karl ordered his templars to scout the area, and they found another cave, thankfully free of the sickening stench of Chaos. There they transferred their dead and their wounded. Those who had perished were laid to rest at the back of the cave, their hands grasping their swords, and the wounds of the injured were tended. Then the group rested, falling into a dreamless, healing sleep, the watch rotated every three hours.
Thorrik couldn’t sleep, and he sat in the cave mouth smoking his pipe as he watched the passage of the sun overhead. Finally even he succumbed to his weariness, and he slept.
BOOK THREE
The great city of Praag, in the lands of our Kislevite allies, has been taken by the foe. It is as if history is repeating itself, and the world is beset as it was during the Great War. Then, Magnus the Pious rode forth and confronted the enemy at the gates of Kislev, but alas, I cannot do the same—for the shadow of the enemy reaches far, and its vanguard cuts ever deeper into our lands.
Half of Talabecland has fallen to the foe—even the mighty Talabec has proved to be an ineffective barrier against their hatred and power. The ranks of Talabecland are supported by the armies of Reikland and Stirland, but still the enemy is barely held at bay.
However, if the Ostermark falls to the enemy then all will be lost.
Bechafen still holds out against the hordes of Chaos surging southwards, but its days are numbered, and almost all of the Ostermark has fallen to the enemy. The last Imperial armies there are desperately holding back the tide from sweeping behind our defences in Talabecland, but I fear they cannot resist for long.
If the enemy bursts through these lines and descends on our rear in Talabecland, then it will only be a matter of time before the war comes to Altdorf itself. I dread to think what would happen if our shining capital fell to the infernal enemy. The resolve of our armies would be shattered.
I cannot allow such a thing to come to pass, and as such the Ostermark must hold, at any cost. I have dispatched the Reiksmarshal, Kurt Helborg, and a full demi-legion of Reiksguard knights to lead the Order of the Griffon to bolster that region. This weakens Reikland considerably and was met with much opposition, but I feel that it is necessary. I just pray that the Ostermark can hold until their arrival, for alone they will not hold against the Raven Host forces there.
And for all this, I know that what we suffer now is but the opening phase of the long war to come—the Raven Host has not yet unleashed its full strength against us. They seem determined to destroy Kislev utterly, so that when they do send their full strength against us, they would not have the threat of an enemy upon their rear.
But hope is not lost I have ordered armies to push north into the lands of Kislev. They march on Praag, for if we can reclaim that city of the damned, then the forays of the enemy will become stalled. I pray that by making a positive, aggressive move we will take the enemy by surprise and weaken him at his heart. There was dissent amongst my Electors at the decision, but the weight of their counsel was with me—the result of many months of negotiations.
It is a dangerous gambit, for marching north leaves our own lands less well defended, and the wolf is already in our midst. However, I feel that it is a necessary risk, and our only chance of success. I pray that my instincts prove to be the right course of action—there shall be none left alive to denounce me should it fail.
I go to Talabecland myself now, so as to be seen to be fighting on the front line. The resolve of our armies is a fragile thing, the gap between victory and defeat narrow. Joining the fight personally will make a more forceful statement to the soldiers and commanders of the Empire than months of politicking here in Altdorf.
I pray that the Ostermark holds, for the balance of the war hangs on it being able to weather the storm of Chaos until the Reiksmarshal arrives to bolster their strength.
May Sigmar be with us in these dark times. I truly fear the End Times draw near.
K.F.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Udo Grunwald stood over the twisted corpse. It was emaciated far beyond human endurance, and its ribs pushed against its grey, dead skin. Once it may have been human, but its shape was mutated and contorted, its flesh altered so that it truly could not have been called so when it died.
Its hands were no longer those of a man, but more closely resembled the hunting talons of a great bird of prey. In death, those talons had clenched tightly, the thick black claws digging into its own flesh. The skin of the talons and forearms were yellow and scaled like a bird’s, but there was also other evidence of foul, Chaotic mutation—soft, downy black feathers had burst through the flesh of the creature’s neck, forming a strange collar, and a bony spur of bone had split through the skin at the base of the creature’s neck, extending up along the skull like a sharp ridge.
But it was the creature’s face that was truly horrific, all the more so for it was almost perfectly human. The corpse’s face was drawn in a horrid expression of what might have been ecstasy, or glee—a smile that was chilling and horrific. Its eyes were wide and staring, the pupils and irises completely white. When the girl Annaliese saw the face of the co
rpse she backed away quickly, horror on her face, and Grunwald guessed that she had seen similar corpses before, just as he had.
“How long ago did it die do you think?” asked Karl. Grunwald shrugged his shoulders.
“Hard to say. The carrion-eaters won’t touch them. Very wise.”
It was easy to see what had killed the plague victim. Its arms were covered in sword cuts, and there was a deep gash in the figure’s head, but from his own experience Grunwald knew that these alone would not have stopped the foul creature—but the sword still protruding from its heart had done the job.
The witch hunter rose to his feet. They stood in the centre of a small village, thirteen hard days’ march from the base of the Worlds Edge Mountains. He didn’t know the name of the place, nor even if it had a name, for it was little more than a group of five shabby buildings. The plague had originated in the north, it was said, so it was not surprising that small villages like this had suffered such a fate. It was happening all across the Empire—people got sick, withering and falling into a comatose state before dying, at which time some foul sorcerous power makes them rise up to kill those tending them.
In grim silence the group left the village. It seemed; that all of the Ostermark had suffered a similar, or worse, fate. They passed dozens of villages and small towns, once thriving communities now reduced to smoking ruins. Evidence of war was everywhere, from the skeletal corpses to broken swords, armour and arrows that they trod into the ground beneath their feet. Some were laid low by plague, others by violence and war, while others were remarkably untouched, but their inhabitants nowhere to be found.
The Ostermark was the most north-eastern state of the Empire, bordering allied Kislev to the north and the towering heights of the Worlds Edge Mountains to the east. While much of the Empire was swathed in forests, much of the Ostermark was high moorland or marshes, dangerous and bleak countryside dotted with villages and fortified road warden stations. And now, thought Grunwald, its people had been massacred.
Cut off from the Empire since they boarded the dwarf steam engine in Black Fire Pass, they had received no word of the progression of the war, and for all Grunwald knew, they were now in enemy territory, behind the Chaos lines sweeping down from the icy north.
As they skirted the smouldering remains of yet another village, he made the sign of Sigmar to ward off the Ruinous Powers. In silence they marched past a massive pile of skulls arranged carefully one on top of another to form a pyramid some fifteen feet in height. Each skull had been scorched in fire, and was bereft of skin or hair, and a blue mark had been daubed onto the forehead—a stylised, wide, staring azure eye.
As they passed, a cloud of ravens and crows launched themselves from its peak, cawing loudly as they began to circle around it, almost protectively. Other groups of birds could be seen rising in the distance, circling “My clan is fighting north of Bechafen,” said Thorrik. “And so that is where I go. I will continue on to the north, with or without you.”
“And if there is nothing left of Bechafen?” snapped Karl.
“Then I will join my ancestors,” said Thorrik.
“If the Empire forces pulled back from the Ostermark, your clan would have retreated with them,” said Grunwald.
“Aye, that is true, but we don’t know that Bechafen has fallen.”
“Look around you dwarf!” snapped Karl. “We have seen no life since leaving the foothills of the mountains. Thirteen days and not a living human soul! And yet we have seen what, a dozen villages and towns sacked by the enemy? Bechafen is over a hundred miles to the north! If the enemy are laying waste to the land this far south, Bechafen is no more.”
“Be that as it may, without solid proof that my clan is no longer there, that is where I go.”
“Then you are a stubborn fool,” said Karl. “Bechafen is where my knights and I were due as well, but to head on blindly is folly. We must seek the armies of the Empire. I say we cut to the west and head towards Talabecland, or to the Stir.” The dwarf did not respond.
“I too will head on to Bechafen with Thorrik,” said Annaliese, breaking the tense silence.
“What?” said Karl. “Has everyone lost their sense?”
“Why would you wish to head there?” said Grunwald. The girl’s eyes were clear, fearless and confident.
“Sigmar sent me to the north,” she said with a shrug. “And Bechafen is to the north.”
“Karl speaks the truth, girl,” said Grunwald. “Bechafen is most likely no more. The Reiksmarshal would surely have pulled back the forces of the north to face the enemy on more favourable territory.”
“And give up this land that Sigmar united to the ravages of the enemy? This land we stand upon is the Empire. It must not be handed over to the enemy without a fight.”
“The fight has been going on here for centuries,” said Grunwald. “And it would be folly to throw away the armies of the Empire in a fruitless war on terrain already lost.”
“Surely running away like a dog with its tail between its legs will only strengthen the foe,” said the girl, her eyes blazing with passion.
“You know nothing of what you speak,” said Grunwald, losing patience. “You are a farm girl playing at war, but you know nothing of it. To go north blindly will lead to nothing.”
“I’m sure the thousands who have already been killed in the Ostermark, their villages destroyed, would be filled with pride to see the armies of the Empire fleeing before the enemy,” said Annaliese scathingly.
“Villages can be rebuilt,” snapped Grunwald. “But if the Empire itself is shattered, there will be nobody to rebuild them.”
A shout came from up ahead, interrupting the argument, and Grunwald swung his gaze around to see the pale-skinned figure of Eldanair, his grey cloak whipping around him, gesturing to the east. “I see nothing,” said Karl.
“Wait,” said Grunwald, shielding his eyes against the glare. “There,” he said, seeing the flash of metal in the distance.
“I see it,” said Annaliese. “Riders?”
“Could be the enemy,” said Karl. At a shout from him, the Knights of the Blazing Sun drew their weapons and formed up around the preceptor.
Closer the riders came, a group of around a dozen or so men riding in loose formation. As they sighted the knights, they altered their direction and turned towards them, cantering swiftly across the open ground.
Eldanair stood with an arrow nocked and readied, but as the horsemen drew nearer Grunwald saw the tension leave his body, and his bowstring slacken.
“Outriders,” said Grunwald finally, relief in his voice.
They were young men bedecked in gleaming breastplates, plumes of feathers bobbing from their conical helmets. They rode swift unarmoured steeds, and as they drew near, the knights sheathed their swords. The young warriors wore braces of expensive pistols over their torsos, and light cavalry sabres were strapped at their sides. Their leader was a grizzled, bearded warrior who held a strange, multi-barrelled handgun loosely in one hand, its ornate butt resting on his thigh.
Karl stepped forward, his hand raised as the horsemen wheeled warily around the motionless figure of Eldanair. They drew their steeds to a halt before the preceptor.
“Hail, warriors of the Empire!” called Karl, and the leader of the horsemen dismounted to greet him. He was a stocky man, and he nodded curtly to the knight, still holding his ornate weapon in one hand. He seemed ungainly walking on the ground—truly, he was more suited to life in the saddle.
“And to you, preceptor,” replied the warrior, his accent thick. “I am surprised to see you here, in this forsaken land. The Raven Host controls the Ostermark.”
“We travel from Kadrin,” replied Karl. “Seeking to join the templars of the Blazing Sun in the north—the temple of Myrmidia in Bechafen.”
“Bechafen has fallen to the enemy,” replied the outrider grimly.
“The foe has crossed the Talabec, then?” asked Karl.
“It has,” replied the veteran o
utrider.
“And my brother templars?”
“They are falling back to Talabecland with the remainder of the armies of the Ostermark. Our forces gather there in strength, at Zurin and Unterbaum.”
“Unterbaum… the foe has pushed so deep into the Empire?” Grunwald was aghast—things were clearly much worse than he would have predicted.
“Yes, witch hunter,” said the outrider, turning his gaze towards Grunwald. His eyes flicked back towards Karl. “Your order are amongst the last to leave the Ostermark they are part of the army not a day’s march from here to the west.”
“Less than a day’s march away?” said Karl, his eyes brightening. The outrider nodded.
“An army accompanied by the Elector of the Ostermark himself. It marches for Talabecland, heading for Hazelhof.”
“Hazelhof?” said Grunwald, not recognising the name.
“A small village at the foot of the Kolsa Hills. It is of little consequence, yet the enemy seems intent on controlling the area—agents of the Order of the Griffon are trying to ascertain what it is they seek. We are to liberate the area.”
“So you are the rearguard,” said Grunwald. The outrider nodded.
“The enemy chases us, like rabid hounds. And they are closing in on the elector’s army—I fear it will not make Talabecland without battle. And it must hold, regardless of the odds. It seems that the enemy are moving against us in force—if the elector’s army breaks, then the enemy will be able to move into Talabecland unopposed, and strike against the flanks of the armies there. It would be disastrous.”
“What of the dwarfs stationed at Bechafen?” said Thorrik. The outrider gazed at the dwarf for a moment.
“I know nothing of them,” admitted the outrider. Thorrik grunted, and walked away.
“A day’s march,” said Karl thoughtfully. “Tell me, man, what of the enemy? Where are their armies?”
The outrider sighed. “They are all around,” he said. “Vanguard forces push deeper into Talabecland already, and I have heard that Ostland too is overrun.”
01 - Empire in Chaos Page 24
