03 - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Gruppen fell back, choked on his own blood and bone. Grosslich rode over his body, trampling it into the slick of mud beneath, letting his wounded creature take its revenge. Only when there was nothing left to stamp on did he pull the raging beast away, tugging at the reins hard. The scourge of the Drakwald was gone, his proud career ended at last on the corrupted plains of Averland, alone and surrounded by the enemy.

  “Enough,” said Grosslich, calming his snorting mount. “There’ll be more.”

  The dog-soldiers had finished off the others. They stood around stupidly, waiting for fresh orders. Beyond them the battle raged, intensifying in scope as more and more troops were committed by their desperate commanders. The Imperials were showing commendable spirit, but there weren’t enough of them and they weren’t of the same calibre as Natassja’s creatures.

  Grosslich wished he could take some pleasure in that. Slaughtering such men was nothing to be proud of. Even as victory edged towards his grasp, he felt a deep and stubborn sickness lodge deep within him.

  He’d dreamed of glory. Of a realm that men would admire and envy. Whatever the result of this battle, he’d never be granted that now.

  “Oh, go and find something to kill,” he muttered to his guards, and watched bitterly as they loped back towards the fiercest fighting. They never questioned a thing. They’d never question anything.

  With a heavy heart, his armour streaked with blood, the elector withdrew from the frontline, back to the position of command, leaving his slaves to continue the struggle. Above him, the Tower loomed, a roost of daemons and sorcery, the mark of his failure.

  * * *

  Maljdir looked around him, blood and sweat clouding his vision. Volkmar’s vanguard had penetrated far across the plains, fighting their way through the maze of trenches and across the ridges of spikes. Even though the Light magisters’ spell had waned, Volkmar still blazed a trail. Though the casualties around him grew ever heavier, the Imperial army still clustered to his call. As the day waned and the meagre scraps of shrouded sunlight bled away, his was the only pure fire left on the battlefield. Like moths around a candle-flame they huddled close to its warmth, given heart in the face of the endless hordes raging towards them. The Theogonist was heading to the centre of the defences, and a light of madness was in his eyes.

  Maljdir took up the standard in his left hand, hefting the heavy stave against his shoulder. In his right hand he carried Bloodbringer, swinging it with as much vigour as the other warrior priests. The dog-soldiers were everywhere now, snarling and tearing at the Imperial troops, bringing them down through sheer savagery. The armour-plated priests were the only infantry in Volkmar’s retinue capable of taking them on one-to-one. The mutants were taller, faster and stronger than the average halberdier and killed two of them for every one of their warped kin that was taken down. Against such losses, Volkmar’s surge was doomed. Soon they’d be cut off entirely, their defences whittled away and the spearhead isolated.

  A dog-soldier leapt across Maljdir’s path, growling as it swept up its halberd, aiming for his chest. Its iron mask had been torn from its head, exposing the distended muzzle and canine teeth. The flesh was human-like, ripped and moulded into its new shape by surgery and sorcery. Maljdir dodged the blow, dropping back with surprising speed before spinning back with a counter-strike. Bloodbringer swung heavily, slamming into the soldier’s flank, smashing the breastplate in and cracking the ribs beneath it. The mutant was knocked sideways, stumbling across the ground before recovering and coiling for a second attack.

  It never came. Bloodbringer swept back on the reverse angle, catching the horror square in the face. With a rip and a snap the dog-soldier’s head came off, dragging the body up after it on a string of sinews before the whole corpse thumped down into the mud, feet away.

  Maljdir hardly broke stride, crushing the severed skull under his boots as he ploughed after Volkmar and looked for the next victim. The momentum was relentless, exhausting. The Theogonist seemed to have no tactics other than rampage. The vanguard was moving ever closer to the walls of Averheim, still barred by a sea of foes and clothed in a thundering wall of flame. Dark shapes swam within that blood-red curtain, curling like fish around the column of madness. Maljdir could sense the corruption there, spilling out from the inferno.

  Volkmar must have sensed it too. That was where the Theogonist was heading. He cared nothing for the battlefield now, nothing for the lives of the thousands of men who still fought in the trenches and under the shadow of the war machines. He was after Archaon, and the rest of the army was expendable to that delusion.

  “He’ll damn us all,” growled Maljdir, dispatching another dog-soldier with a crunching blow, hardly pausing in his onward march.

  Bloodbringer felt light in his hands. Volkmar was only a few paces ahead, raving and spilling golden light from his fingers. His back was unprotected.

  “Sigmar’s blood,” he said, judging the path his hammer would have to take to end it. “He’ll damn us all.”

  “Reiksguard to me!”

  Helborg crested the final rise before the city, and its damnation was laid out before him. They’d arrived to the east of the battlefield. The fighting was less than a mile away, spread out across the plain below.

  All thought of gaining the Averpeak was instantly abandoned. The ridge smouldered away in the north, its flanks broken by the power of Grosslich’s war engines. Six infernal devices still survived, their jaws gaping red and angry. Around each of them were thousands of troops, staining the land black with their numbers. At the very foot of the Averpeak, a mile distant from the walls of the city, the line of battle ran in a vast, snaking curve.

  Helborg squinted through the drifting smog. There were banners flying. Many infantry companies fought, but they were heavily outnumbered by Grosslich’s defenders. There was no shape to the Imperial assault, just a straggling melee towards the walls. Only at one point did the Empire army seem to be making headway. A column of soldiers had pierced deep into the enemy lines, moving fast towards the city gates. There was a brilliant golden light at the tip of the column, blazing in the heart of the darkness.

  “Volkmar,” said Helborg as his knights clustered around him. Forty-six Reiksguard remained. The swirling clouds reflected from their armour, glowing red from the fires on the plain below. “I’ve seen that power wielded before.”

  “He’s out of position,” said Skarr, frowning. “His army’s coming apart.”

  Schwarzhelm came alongside them. The Rechtstahl was naked in his hands, ready for action. There was no time for deliberation. The Empire army was in disarray, outnumbered, out-fought and leaderless.

  “Lord Schwarzhelm, lead the infantry to bolster the Imperial lines. Rally the men, and give them some purpose.”

  “And the Reiksguard?” asked Schwarzhelm.

  Helborg drew the Klingerach. The dark metal glinted, still marred by the notch on the blade.

  “We can cut through those troops,” he said, snapping his visor down. All thought of the long days of sickness had left him. His heart pumped powerfully in his chest again, fuelling the arms that carried the runefang. “We’ll fight to Volkmar’s position. This field isn’t lost yet.”

  Last of all, Leitdorf drew up to the height of the rise, his ruddy face aghast at the devastation below.

  “My inheritance,” he announced grimly, gazing across the carnage.

  “Indeed so, my lord,” said Helborg, readying for the charge down into the inferno. “You will ride with me. My blade is keener than it was the last time we fought together and my body is restored.”

  Unholy winds, laced with ash and throbbing with heat, rushed up from the battlefield. Helborg’s cloak billowed out, revealing the splendour of his ancient armour. The hawk-pinions of his helmet seemed to catch an echo of the golden rays streaming from Volkmar’s staff, etching the metal with a faint sheen against the shadows.

  “If Sigmar wills it,” he said, raising the Sword of Vengeance and pointin
g it towards the heart of the horde below, “we will yet bring destruction to those who have turned away from His light. Ride now, and may His protection be with all of you.”

  Achendorfer let the last pages of the book crackle and fade away. His long fingers, warped and melded with the leather, curled back round, free from the weight at last. The grimoire had been burned away like so much else.

  No matter. Its work had been done.

  He gazed up lovingly at the Stone. No light reflected from its sides even though the lamps in the walls of the chamber still burned strongly. It was as black as a pupil, a void at the base of the city. By contrast, everything around it was flickering and ephemeral. The shaft above it soared into the far distance, hundreds of feet of thundering fire. He stood alone at the base. This was the origin, the source of all that was to come. The thought pleased him.

  Achendorfer took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the flames enter his lungs. Down here, the bloodfire was at its thickest. It didn’t consume or damage mortal flesh, but it hurt. He felt the searing heat of it against his throat, scraping at the flesh, testing him and probing for weakness.

  “Is all ready, lizard?”

  Achendorfer hadn’t heard the queen enter. He snapped back to attention, whipping round to face her.

  “Of course. The Stone is waiting.”

  Natassja didn’t smile. Such mortal gestures were losing their grip on her. Her humanity was now little more than a skein, a fragile barrier between the world of laws and the raging Chaos within her. Achendorfer could see it in her eyes. Those white-less orbs, for so long two cool, tolerant points within that sleek face, had now sunk into darkness, mirroring the Stone. He doubted that she even saw the world of matter truly anymore. For such as her, a realm of pure sensation awaited, a flux of emotion and desire. Perhaps the same would come for him one day.

  “Then begin again,” she said.

  Achendorfer bowed. He no longer needed the book for such work. The words had been burned on to his mind across the many hours of labour. His lips formed around the words unbidden, his muscles fully attuned to the shapes of the forbidden speech.

  “Bedarruzibarr,” he intoned. The bloodfire in the chamber flared up at the sound. “Bedarruzibarr’zagarratumnan’aka’akz’berau.”

  On and on the syllables droned, just as they had for weeks, soaked into the walls of iron and etched in the blazing sigils far up the shaft.

  Natassja walked slowly towards the stone, her steps mannered and ceremonial. From far above, beyond the wards, there came the sounds of daemons singing.

  “Akzakz’berau,” they chorused, and a feral joy was locked into the fractured, cherubic voices. “Malamanuar’tieramumo’klza’jhehennum.”

  Natassja raised her slender arms in supplication. Her skin darkened to nightshade, glowing darkly like embers. With a faint hiss, her sheer gown slipped from her shoulders and coiled around her feet.

  Achendorfer knew he should look away then. He remained rapt, and a thin line of drool ran down his chin.

  He kept chanting. The daemons kept chanting. The bloodfire seared the air, pregnant with the coming storm. Natassja’s hair began to lift, rippling like wind-lashed silk, exposing the sweeping curves of her flawless outline. Across her flesh, signs of Slaanesh glowed into life, swimming over the skin and moulding into new and wonderful shapes.

  She began to grow.

  Blood replaced the drool on Achendorfer’s skin. A kind of ecstasy gripped him.

  “Abbadonnodo’neherata’gradarruminam!” he raved, swaying with the movement of the bloodfire.

  This was it. This was what the root had been for, the deception, the armies, the torture, the construction, the book, what all of it had been for.

  For so long She had been coming. Now, finally, She was here.

  Bloch marched at the head of his detachment. His halberdiers went steadily. There was no running or hollering, only a disciplined, well-ordered advance. He’d arranged the men into four companies of forty men, ten across and four deep. A few extra men had been tacked on to his lead group. Not much of a return from the thousands who’d marched under Grunwald.

  As he went, he muttered a prayer to Sigmar, to Ranald, to Shallya, and a general benediction to anyone he’d left off the list. The enemy ranks were within sight and the charge would not be long coming. The clash of arms was huge and heavy, echoing across the plains and rebounding from the ruined Averpeak. The nearer they came to it, the darker the skies became.

  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 othe
r 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.