His soldiers were waiting for him, though they had taken up positions around the building so that the sorcerer could not escape. The building looked like some kind of warehouse, its upper levels converted to a rich abode. At Grunwald’s nod, one of the soldiers, a veteran warrior built like an ox, kicked a side door in, the wood around the frame splintering.
Before he could shout a warning, the soldier had thundered inside the darkened warehouse, his momentum carrying him forward. A light flared, and coruscating energy enveloped the man, crackling through the colour spectrum as it washed over his skin. He fell to the ground, twitching and convulsing and bulges appeared beneath his clothing as his flesh mutated.
One of Grunwald’s pistols boomed, the shot slamming into the soldier’s head and ending his torment, but still the body shuddered and contorted with malign magic. The soldier’s face bulged as fingers pushed impossibly from within. A pale talon ripped a hole through his skin, and long, multi-jointed fingers struggled to tear the flesh away. Like a suit of fine clothes being ripped open, the man’s skin was torn from the crown of his head to his sternum, the steel of his breastplate melting and bubbling away as if it had been subjected to an inferno. The body of the soldier was ripped opened before the horrified eyes of his comrades, and the mutilated, perverted corpse thrashed around on the ground as the foul daemonic entity pulled itself from within.
The air was filled with the stink of ozone and cauterised flesh, and the infernal being rose from the still convulsing corpse like a demented newborn, its pinkish flesh covered in blood and mucous.
It was crouched, and its eyes blinked open as it unfolded its long, gangly arms. It seemed to have no head, or rather its head was squashed into its chest, and its yellow irises were filled with insanity and unholy, manic energy. Worm-like protuberances appeared in its flesh and they waved around blindly foul and disturbing.
A long slash of a mouth that almost bisected its torso split open, exposing thousands of tiny, coral-like teeth, each one covered in miniscule barbs. It exhaled, a long throaty breath, and a bluish mist of magical energy coiled from within the foul creature, and a demented giggle from the pit of hell erupted from the creature’s lips. Like a discarded flesh-shell, the split corpse of the soldier that had birthed this foul daemon still twitched upon the ground at its feet.
With a snarl, Grunwald stepped forward and slammed the sole of his boot into the creature’s face. He connected solidly, his whole weight behind the blow, and the creature was thrown backwards. It rolled, cackling hysterically, and scrambled about on the floor, gangly arms shaking above it.
“Cleanse this place in the name of Sigmar!” Grunwald roared, surging inside the warehouse, the soldiers a step behind him.
He heard a muttered incantation in the tainted dark tongue of Chaos, and threw himself into a roll as an arc of purple light reached towards him from the wooden staircase that climbed up to the second level and beyond. It impacted with the wooden table beside him, and its form was instantly altered almost beyond recognition, the curving wooden legs twisting, barbs and spines erupting through the woodgrain. Its solid surface sagged inwards like melting wax before bursting into green flames.
A blue fireball roared past Grunwald as he rose to his feet, hurled by the cackling daemonic creature that had fashioned it out of the air above its head. There was a desperate screaming behind him as the flames caught several soldiers, but Grunwald did not turn. With pistol in one hand and his flanged mace in the other, he leapt towards the fell being. The pistol boomed, taking the creature in one of its wild eyes, and it stumbled backwards, blue smoke coiling from the wound. It began to melt, its unnatural form turning to viscous liquid as it died.
Leaping over the vanquished daemon, he surged up the staircase, taking them three at a time. He could see the magos now, backing higher away from him, blue fire streaming from his eyeballs. He had a smile on his face, and Grunwald snarled as he closed in on the hated foe.
Something grabbed his leg as he leapt up the stairs, and he fell heavily, face first into the solid wood. He felt claws bite through his thick leather trousers, and turned around kicking at whatever held him. It was a smaller version of the creature he had just killed, though its flesh was blue-tinged and it wore a frowning expression rather than manic glee upon its face.
Further down the stairs a soldier was battling against another of the blue-tinged daemons that had birthed from the dying corpse of the first infernal being, and Grunwald saw him fall screaming to his knees as the creature clasped its long fingers around his face. Smoke and the stink of burning flesh rose from beneath its grasp before another purple and yellow liveried warrior clove his sword down through the creature’s head.
Grunwald kicked again at the monstrosity clinging to him, and its claws bit deeper, piercing his skin. Its fanged maw opened wide to close around his leg, but then a spear tip emerged from between its eyes, and it was lifted up and away from him by one of the soldiers. A blast of blue fire consumed the man, melting his flesh to the bone.
Grunwald rose on one knee, his hand reaching into his boot. The magos stood at the top of the warehouse stairs facing him.
“Feel the power of Tzeentch, pitiful mortal,” said the magos as he lowered his staff towards Grunwald, but the witch hunter’s hand flashed out and a dagger struck the man in his throat. He dropped his staff and clutched at the blade. Blood bubbled between his fingers and he stumbled forwards, falling heavily down the stairs.
As the figure rolled past, Grunwald kicked him hard, smashing the magos through the banister to fall ten feet to the hardwood floor below.
“Grab him!” he ordered, and three men leapt upon the fallen magos. “Hold him tight,” said the witch hunter as he stalked down the stairs, each boot fall echoing loudly now that all was silent bar the witch’s gargled gasps.
He stepped over bubbling masses of ichor, all that remained of the daemons summoned by the man. Unrolling a leather package he wore at his belt, Grunwald selected an implement from amongst his myriad tools, and knelt down alongside the magos. He held the pair of black iron pliers before the witch’s face, enjoying the look of pain and fear there now that the blue fire had left the orbs.
“Open his mouth,” he ordered a soldier standing nearby, whose face was pale. The man nodded, and knelt down alongside the witch hunter, forcing the magos’ jaws open.
Grunwald grabbed the man’s tongue with his pliers and pulled it out as far as he was able. Then he brandished a knife before him.
“You shall not speak your foul incantations as you burn,” he said, and began to cut. He prayed to Sigmar that this was the only enemy within their midst.
Outside, the hideous sound of the daemonic voice had died, to be replaced by the resounding beat of a thousand enemy drums.
The ground reverberated as the Raven Host advanced.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As if the magos’ first horrific incantation had been the signal to attack, the enemy marched down from the highlands to battle. While the Empire commanders sought to regain some order to their battle line and more of the mewling monstrosities spawned of Chaos magic from the flesh of Empire soldiers were slain, the enemy closed towards the village.
The chosen warriors of the Chaos host remained motionless on the ridge, but thousands of warriors descended around them, screaming praises to their gods and their war-drums pounding.
Dressed in furs and hefting weapons of dark steel, the marauders surged down the slope, a sea of warriors, their huge muscles daubed with swirling, tribal war paint. Some amongst them bore the favour of the gods, their flesh having been blessed by change—arms altered in form, muscles and bones warped into brutal killing appendages, or thick tusks jutting from their jaws. These warriors were revered as mighty champions, for the touch of the gods upon them was clear.
They screamed as they raced down from the high land into the mire at its base, and into the range of the guns of the Empire. As they surged into the ice-covered marsh, plunging thig
h deep into the icy waters, the first cannon shots boomed. Smoke and flame burst from the barrels of the mighty weapons of Nuln, and cannonballs smashed into the first ranks of the marauders, ripping limbs from bodies.
The massive balls of steel and iron skidded off the ground and bounced through the massing warriors, tearing through legs and bodies, crushing everything in their path. Under the watchful gaze of their lord and his elite chosen warriors, the marauders continued on, uncaring of their losses, scrambling through the mire over their dying companions.
Scores were drowned in the icy, reed-choked waters, and soon the marsh was thick with the dead.
Though a section of the Empire line was in chaos, as the blood-frenzied mutated spawn continued to lay around them causing havoc, the other sections of the army were unscathed, and they advanced upon the enemy struggling through the morass in the dip below the moorland.
At a shouted signal hundreds of arrows were nocked to strings and crossbows readied. Handguns already primed were lifted to take aim.
With a shout, the barrage began, and the sky was darkened further as the first flights of arrows arced high into the air. Before they had even struck home, a second barrage of arrows was launched. They fell amongst the warriors of Chaos, and scores of men were struck. The shafts thudded into their bodies, piercing chests and necks, driving through thighs and heavily muscled arms. Men stumbled and were trampled into the marsh, but the survivors toiled on, and they reached the rising banks of the morass, struggling onto solid, snow-covered land.
The handguns and crossbows of the Empire spoke then, and great swathes of battlefield were obscured by the smoke of the guns firing. The crack of the handguns echoed sharply off the higher slopes, and hundreds of warriors fell as the wall of lead shot struck. The powerful weapons punched through shields and helmets as if they were made of paper, and more enemies were laid low as crossbow bolts drove through flesh. The cannons boomed again and they tore through the line of marauders.
Thousands of men were killed in the first moments of battle, but it was just the beginning of the slaughter that was to come.
Surrounded by a circle of soldiers, Grunwald stalked out into the open, kicking the staggering, bloody figure of the enemy magos before him. The crowd were pushed out of the way with halberds and spears, and he came to a halt in their midst. The sorcerer was on his knees, his chin and front soaked in blood, and he made pathetic sounds of agony, his tongueless mouth wide and dripping with gore.
One of the soldiers stepped forward at Grunwald’s order, and upended a small barrel of oil over the witch, who screamed incoherently. Another handed Grunwald a lit lantern, and he held it high above his head.
“Witness the fate of those who consort with diabolic powers!” he shouted, turning on the spot so that all could hear his words. “Such is the fate of all who oppose our lord Sigmar! And such will be the fate of the enemy army this day!”
Grunwald brought the lantern smashing down to the ground at the feet of the oil-drenched magos, and he was instantly engulfed in flames. His clothes and hair were burnt from his body, and his flesh blackened and blistered as the searing heat of the fire did its work.
Rising to his feet and with blood gushing from his mouth, the magos stumbled towards the crowd but a solid strike from the shaft of a halberd smashed him back to the ground. His tortured screams rose to the heavens, and the gathered citizens cheered loudly, pounding the air with their fists as the enemy was burnt to death, thrashing madly.
Within moments the life had departed from the witch, and he lay still.
With blood splashed across his face, Grunwald led the soldiers from the crowd. As he broke from the heaving mass of humanity, he saw the lines of the Empire soldiers and the swarming ranks of the enemy close.
Thorrik held his gromril shield before him as the barbarian hordes ran towards the Empire line, screaming and roaring praises to their dark gods. At a barked order, the halberdiers around him braced their long weapons, their deadly spiked ends extended outwards towards the charging foe, a sea of metal that the enemy raced into.
The distance between the armies closed quickly, and Thorrik saw the faces of the men he was about to kill.
They were fierce, many covered in tattoos and war paint, and they towered over him just as they towered over the men of the Empire. They roared as they raced across the even ground, swinging massive war-axes and barbed swords back for killing blows.
“For the Emperor Karl Franz!” shouted the sergeant of the regiment. “Now!”
The halberdiers took a step forward as one as the fur-cloaked northmen drew close, thrusting the spiked points of their weapons into the foe. The enemy struck with sickening force, and hundreds were impaled in the first onslaught as they ran headlong onto the Empire soldiers’ weapons.
The men of the Ostermark were driven backwards by the sheer weight of the enemy, and the screams of the dying and the clash of weapons was deafening. In front of Thorrik, one bearded enemy warrior dropped to his knees as a halberd point took him in the throat, blood gushing from the wound, and another roared through clenched teeth as he died, spitted upon another of the long-hafted weapons. A massive broadsword smashed down onto the haft of another halberd, which splintered beneath the blow, and Thorrik stepped forward and swung his axe into the midriff of the towering warrior, cutting him down before stepping back into line with the Empire soldiers to either side of him.
The strength and weight of the enemy was immense, and they pushed forwards relentlessly, drawing within striking range of the Empire line. Some halberds were ripped from the hands of their owners as impaled enemies sank to the ground, while others were smashed apart with heavy blows. The blood of the soldier to the left of Thorrik splashed across the dwarf’s armour as a sword blade hacked into the side of his head, the power of the blow ripping through the metal helmet and skull with ease. To his right a soldier was cut down as a heavily muscled barbarian smashed his blade down onto his collarbone, the blade driven deep into his flesh.
Thorrik’s axe blade slashed out, cutting the marauder’s neck open, and blood pumped from the wound before he dropped and was trampled into the ground.
The second rank of Empire soldiers lifted their weapons high, and the axe-blades of the halberds smashed down onto the heads and shoulders of the enemy, cleaving through metal and crunching through bone. Arms holding shields aloft were broken by the force of the powerful blows, but the enemy was amongst the soldiers of the Empire now, and the killing began in earnest.
Fuelled with growing resentment as the men at his side were hacked down, Thorrik hacked around him with fury. He chopped through one marauder’s forearm, the severed limb dropping to the ground, still gripping a sword tightly. With his reverse blow, Thorrik smashed the axe into the man’s face, and he was knocked backwards, his skull cleaved.
Blows rained in against him, but Thorrik weathered them all with dwarfen stoicism, growling with anger as each attack struck against his armour. His fury rose with each impact, and he hacked around him madly, his wrath lending him strength.
Nevertheless, in a close quarters fight, the enemy were stronger, fiercer and had less fear of death than the men of the Empire, and they began to drive the Ostermarkers back. Scores of soldiers were dying, and Thorrik could sense that the battle was shifting in the enemy’s favour.
“Knights of the Blazing Sun! Forward!”
The resplendent line of knights kicked their steeds forward, and they began to gallop across the open ground, their lances held upright. Karl rode in the lead, his face grim beneath his helmet, as they rode towards the melee.
The ground thundered beneath their hooves, and the preceptor felt a savage joy to be riding into battle once more—it had been too long. Hearing the pounding of hooves as the heavily armoured knights moved across the battlefield, the enemy turned to face this new threat, and a splinter force detached from the main force, its line wheeling to take the charge of the knights.
That was what Karl had be
en hoping for, and he altered the angle of the knights’ approach, riding hard for the gap that was opening up in the enemy line.
The banner of the order whipped like the sails of a great ship in the wind, and Karl rejoiced at the feeling of speed and power. It had been a great honour to be placed in command of the regiment, for never had he led so many of his warrior brethren into battle. The head of the temple of Bechafen had taken the remainder of the knights to the north-east, for word had come in the early hours before dawn of a fast moving enemy strike force that was seeking to outflank the Empire army, and he had deemed the threat serious enough to ride out and meet it personally.
Turning his head to the side, he nodded to the knight riding beside him—the only knight amongst the regiment who did not wear a full face, visored helm—and the man lifted a horn to his lips and blew a series of long notes upon it. The sound blared across the battlefield before them, and Karl began to lower his lance from its upright position.
“Myrmidia, guide my lance,” he said, invoking the goddess of his order.
The warriors they were closing in on hurried to close the gap in their lines, but Karl could see that they would be too slow to react. Still, they showed no fear, moving eagerly towards the knights thundering across the field. As they pounded ever nearer and the knights lowered and couched their lances, Karl picked out one particular warrior as his target. The warrior had a swirling blue icon painted on the left side of his face, and the same marking was painted upon his bare chest. In his left arm the man hefted a brutal axe, but his right arm was what attracted Karl’s attention, for it was far from human in nature. From beneath the warrior’s heavy metal shoulder plate it emerged, the limb covered in dark feathers. There was an extra joint between wrist and elbow, and the fingers had been reformed into the gripping talons of a great bird, though they were a striking yellow in colour.
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