The dead streamed around the shieldwall, a host of shambling corpses and skeletal warriors marching towards the city. Scores of wolves loped alongside them, accompanied by darting packs of white-bodied flesheaters. Daegal could not count them, but he knew there were too many for them to handle.
Mutters of fear passed through the assembled people, the men and women of Reikdorf suddenly regretting their choice to march into this arena of warriors. Daegal could feel their fear and recognised the teetering panic that could unman them in a heartbeat. He had felt it before at the defeat by the river and knew how devastating it could be. Warriors on the brink of victory could flee a battle believing it lost if they saw their fellows running from the enemy. Sergeants said battles weren’t won or lost by individuals, but Daegal knew better.
His fear had hollowed him out at the river, but as he watched the wolves and carrion eaters coming towards him, that fear was replaced by anger. These monsters had taken his honour, stripping him of the one thing he had been assured was his right and destiny as an Asoborn.
Though he had seen only twelve summers, his anger burned like an inferno in his heart.
He drew his sword as the first wolves clawed into the line of people, hurling themselves forward with fangs and claws tearing. Blood sprayed and men and women died as the wolves tore them apart. The carrion eaters came on their heels, dragging men to the ground where they were pounced upon by yet more and eaten alive as they screamed in pain.
A creature with black beads for eyes and a mouth filled with broken teeth threw itself at him, and Daegal swung his sword for its neck. It bit deep into the beast’s flesh, and Daegal kicked its corpse from the blade as another came at him with its claws outstretched. He cut its hands off and stabbed it in the throat. Blood spattered him, and the reek of it drove him to even greater heights of fury. He plunged his sword blade into the flanks of a dead wolf chewing on the entrails of a man Daegal had spoken to moments before. His name had been Eoland. He had been a baker of bread, but his days of preparing loaves and sweetbreads were now over.
Daegal fought with all the courage and strength he had forgotten by the river, killing a dozen enemies with as many blows. All around him, the people of Reikdorf took heart from his steadfast courage, holding their ground in the face of these monsters. The tide of flesheaters and wolves broke upon the line of ordinary men and women. Blood soaked the earth, and hundreds had died in the opening moments of the fighting.
Daegal ducked the snapping jaws of a wolf and jammed his sword down its throat. Its mouth snapped shut as it died and broke the blade in two. He swept up a fallen spear, a coloured rag tied just behind its iron tip. He heard screams of pain and terror, and knew the courage of these people hung by a thread.
As it had at the river, a moment’s heroism or courage would decide the outcome of this fight. Daegal raised the spear above his head, letting the chill winds catch the fabric tied to the spear. Blue and red streamed above him, not a flag, but merely two rags in the colours of Reikdorf. Though the day was grim and dark, they shone as bright as though freshly dyed and lit by the noonday sun.
The flesheaters saw him raise the makeshift banner and he saw their uncertainty.
This was his moment. This was his one and only chance to reclaim the honour these monsters had taken from him.
“People of Reikdorf, with me!” shouted Daegal.
Daegal plunged the spear into the belly of a snarling wolf and charged from the bloodied ranks of citizen warriors, an Asoborn war shout on his lips.
And the people of Reikdorf followed him.
—
Champions of Life and Death
The Asoborn shieldwall splintered and buckled against the charge of the black knights. Men and women were hurled from their feet by the impact of the dead riders, but more Asoborns rushed to pick up the fallen shields and plug the gap. Skeletal horsemen plunged through the shieldwall, hacking with darkly glittering swords. Garr swept his twin-bladed spear through a black rider’s horse, bringing him down in a clatter of bone and plate. Maedbh’s bronze blade stabbed down, plunging through the rider’s helm and extinguishing the green light shimmering beyond his visor.
Garr nodded his thanks, but Maedbh was already on the move, spinning around as the thunderous sound of horsemen slamming into iron-rimmed shields boomed once more. Cuthwin now fought with a spear, wrenched from a dead man with his spine all but severed. Beside him Fridleifr rammed his own spear through a rusted gap in a dead knight’s breastplate. Sigulf protected his brother’s flank, holding a heavy shield and slamming it forward along with the rest of the Asoborns.
Ulrike loosed carefully aimed shafts into the dead, sending arrows through the eye sockets of those warriors whose helmets had been knocked off in the charge. Maedbh took a two-handed grip on the sword as three dead riders smashed through the shieldwall. Their defence was shrinking with every passing second, the Asoborns unable to resist the unnatural power of the black knights. One rode towards her with a curved black sword raised above its head.
Maedbh ran at the dead warrior, her own sword hungry to slay this champion of the knights. She dived forward, rolling to her feet as the rider’s weapon swept over her head. She slashed her sword across the skeletal mount’s rear legs, shattering the bones and toppling the rider to the ground. A host of Asoborns pounced on the dead warrior, stabbing and clubbing his bones to destruction. The second warrior rode straight for the fallen Freya, dropping from his horse and striding towards the fallen queen with murderous determination burning in his eye sockets.
Maedbh ran towards him, but the third dead rider reared up before her, his horse’s bony limbs pawing the air. One hoof caught Maedbh on the shoulder and sent her spinning. She landed badly, slashing her arm open on the blade of her sword. Blood poured from the wound onto the blade and she felt a sudden sense of power and anger flow through her.
She rolled as the hooves stamped down, thrusting her sword straight up and into the horse’s ribs. Like a ruptured soap bubble, something intangible broke within the steed and its form came apart in a rain of bones. Iron plates tumbled to the earth, and Maedbh rolled as the beast’s rider dropped beside her.
Maedbh brought her sword around in a move of desperation. The rider’s sword slammed into her own, barely a handspan from her face. Its armoured foot slammed down into her stomach and she doubled up as the rider reached down and lifted her from the ground. Its helmet slammed into her face and blood poured down her chin as she felt her nose break. The sword fell from her grip and the pain of her wounds seared her once again.
She cried out as the gouges on her back flared and the slash on her arm throbbed as though dipped in boiling water. Maedbh looked through the slit in the dead warrior’s helm and into his eyes. She saw endless suffering there, a soul chained to the mortal world by dark magic and kept in enduring torment. Though nothing remained of the man this warrior had once been, his suffering was eternal and unrelenting.
The black sword drew back and Maedbh’s eyes focussed on the notched tip, picturing how it would punch through her ribcage and split her heart in two. The skull’s grin became wider, but before its sword could stab forward, the dead warrior’s head flew from his neck and the body collapsed. Maedbh slumped to the ground, scrambling away from the warrior’s remains as a glorious figure in fiery bronze stood above her with a hand outstretched.
“Thank you for looking after my sword,” said Freya, hauling Maedbh to her feet.
Ulrike and Cuthwin stood at the queen’s side and her daughter held a spear out toward Maedbh.
“My queen,” gasped Maedbh. “You’re alive.”
“Never more so!” roared the queen, turning and hurling herself into the fray.
Together with Sigulf, Fridleifr, Cuthwin and Ulrike, Maedbh joined Garr’s faltering shieldwall. Though Maedbh’s arm and back burned with pain, she fought like never before, unhorsing dead warriors with every thrust. Together with the Queen’s Eagles they fought like the legend
ary heroes of old, but even with such courage there was no way the shieldwall could hold. Warriors were dying by the dozen with every passing moment and the ring of swords and spears was shrinking like a patch of snow in spring.
A black rider thundered over a shieldbearer to Maedbh’s left and his steed, a black beast with skin like basalt, reared up as a powerful warrior leapt from its back. His black cloak unfolded like wings as he landed in the midst of the Asoborns. Maedbh had seen this man a handful of times only, and though he had changed beyond all mortal recognition, he still bore the features of Siggurd of the Brigundians.
The black riders charged through the gap he had broken, rampaging through the Asoborns and slaughtering them with slashing blows of their black swords. Siggurd hurled Garr to the ground, the heroic warrior’s throat torn out and his head lolling on a last shred of sinew. Transformed into something evil, Siggurd’s eyes blazed crimson with thirst and his fangs gleamed in the twilight as he bore Queen Freya to the ground.
Maedbh rushed to the queen’s side, but a backhanded blow from the vampire count hurled her back. Ulrike sent an arrow thudding into the blooddrinker’s back, and he roared in pain. His fangs bit down on Freya’s neck, but before he could tear out her throat, Cuthwin leapt onto the vampire and buried his knife in his side.
Siggurd arched his back, his form blurring as though in mid transformation and he slashed a clawed hand across Cuthwin’s chest. The young Unberogen fell back, his chest in tatters. Siggurd screeched in anger, his fangs bared and bloody. Fridleifr stabbed the vampire in the back with his spear, the tip punching through his belly. Siggurd spun around, wrenching the spear from Fridleifr’s hands and tearing the weapon from his body. Faster than Maedbh could follow, the spear left Siggurd’s hands and plunged into the boy’s chest, punching through his armour and driving him to the ground.
Sigulf gave a cry of loss and anger and slashed his sword through Siggurd’s arm. The vampire screeched in agony as a wash of black blood sprayed from the wound. Siggurd looked at the wound, unable to believe he had been hurt.
“That stung little one,” hissed Siggurd, leaping forward to take hold of Freya’s son.
He looked into the boy’s eyes and laughed, as though at some private jest, before drawing a short-bladed dagger and ramming it into Sigulf’s belly. The boy screamed, but before Siggurd could twist the knife and spill his guts, another arrow hammered the vampire’s body.
Maedbh saw Ulrike standing behind the vampire, scrabbling to nock another arrow to her bowstring as Siggurd fastened his hungry gaze upon her.
“Blessed arrows,” he said, dropping the wailing Sigulf to the ground. “Little girls shouldn’t play with such dangerous things. Now I’ll have to make you scream.”
The vampire stalked towards Ulrike, who fell to her knees before the terrifying figure, his form blurring as his cloak billowed around him like the wings of an enormous bat. Siggurd’s eyes widened as his lower jaw distended and his fangs sprouted like daggers.
Maedbh clambered to her feet and staggered towards Ulrike, though she knew she could never reach her before Siggurd. Her pain was incredible, but she had to reach her daughter.
“Ulrike!” she begged, hearing a swelling roar around her. “No, please! Don’t hurt her!”
Siggurd lifted Ulrike from the ground. The young girl’s face was a mask of tears. Siggurd turned back towards Maedbh. He sniffed the blood on Ulrike’s face and his monstrous face broke into a horrid leer of understanding.
“Ah… this is your spawn,” said Siggurd. “Now you will watch her die.”
Before the vampire could say another word, the roaring in Maedbh’s head swelled as a mob of people charged into the black riders. There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands. Most were without armour, dressed in the garb of farmers and ordinary men and women. They fought with the fury of Thuringian berserkers, tearing the dead riders from their saddles and breaking them apart with blows from clubs, felling axes and scythes.
Leading them was a young boy spattered in blood and with the light of battle fury in his eyes. He fought with a spear tied with blue and red rags, and Maedbh saw he knew how to use it. The boy hooked the haft around the legs of an unhorsed black rider and stabbed it down into the dead warrior’s chest, twisting the blade before he withdrew it from the body. Dimly she knew she should know him, but how she could know an Unberogen boy escaped her.
The people of Reikdorf swarmed over the undead and drove them back. Siggurd threw Ulrike down as a score of howling men and women ran at him with spears and swords. Some of these, he could kill without difficulty, but all of them… Maedbh didn’t think so. She ran over to Ulrike and scooped her up into her arms.
“I’ve got you, dear heart,” said Maedbh. “I’ve got you.”
“Mother!” cried Ulrike, burying her head against Maedbh’s shoulder. “The bad man…?”
“Gone,” said Maedbh, oblivious to anything except her daughter’s weight. “He can’t hurt you now. Not ever.”
Ulrike wept into her neck, and Maedbh held her tightly, closing her eyes and willing the fear away as her body pulsed with waves of fiery pain. They stayed like that until Maedbh heard footsteps. She looked up and saw the young boy with the spear tied with the blue and red rags looking down at her.
“Is she all right?” he asked, and Maedbh caught the strong eastern accent in his words.
“Daegal?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “You remembered your spear training.”
He nodded, and suddenly he wasn’t a blood-covered Asoborn warrior, but a boy of twelve years. She gathered Daegal to her and hugged him and Ulrike close to her chest. At last, she released them both and said, “You were both so very brave. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. You fought like real heroes.”
Ulrike smiled through her tears, and Daegal held himself tall, as though some dreadful weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked back over her shoulder and Maedbh saw Freya carrying Sigulf while Fridleifr and Cuthwin had their arms around each other’s shoulders to hold themselves upright. Both were bloody, but they were unbowed.
“Siggurd?” she said.
“Fled,” answered Cuthwin. “When the people came, he took to the air and flew away.”
Maedbh nodded, looking to her queen with relief beyond words. Freya was pale and unsteady on her feet, and blood streamed from the wound at her neck. Sigulf’s eyes were closed and his belly wet with crimson. His chest rose and fell, but weakly.
“He’s alive?” asked Maedbh.
“Barely,” said Freya, her voice cracked and faint. “We have to get him back to Reikdorf.”
“We all need to get back,” said Cuthwin. “We’ve seen this lot off, but there’s more of them coming this way.”
Maedbh looked to the east, and the flame of hope was smothered in her breast as she saw thousands more skeletal warriors marching in lockstep towards them. They had weathered this attack, but the dead had many more warriors to send into battle.
“Everyone back!” she shouted. “To Reikdorf!”
Krell’s axe slashed down, but instead of cleaving through armour and flesh as it had done in his slaughter of the Red Scythes, this time his blade was halted by gromril armour and the strength of mountains. The towering monster paused in its butchery and looked down at the stout forms opposing it. The furious light in the champion’s eyes burned even brighter, as though recognising the stunted forms before him from battles fought thousands of years ago.
Master Alaric felt the power of Krell’s blow throughout his body, his great-grandfather’s shield almost bent in two by the force. The shock reverberated through his armour and he thanked Grungni that he’d thought to strengthen himself with several firkins of beer.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” he sneered at the long dead champion. “No wonder Grimbul Ironhelm was able to beat you.”
Krell roared with renewed fury, and his axe came up as a hundred dwarfs charged him. Alaric hurled hi
mself at the ferocious champion whose name was entered countless times in the Dammaz Kron, his every transgression written in the blood of the High Kings of the age. He hammered his axe against Krell’s blood-red form, feeling the star-iron of his axe bite a hair’s breadth into the skull-etched plates of armour. Krell roared and slammed his axe down on a dwarf warrior’s head, cleaving him from skull to groin. Blood sprayed the armour of his comrades, and they attacked with renewed fury.
Like the great pistons of Zhufbar, the dwarf axes beat the black armour of Krell, cutting shards of cursed iron away from his body, but leaving the giant, skeletal body beneath unharmed. Alaric circled behind the undead champion, rolling beneath the return swing of the black axe that left six dwarfs bisected at the waist. The ring of iron and gromril tightened around Krell, but the sheer weight of numbers only seemed to drive him to greater heights of frenzied delight.
Krell’s axe swept left and right, and those it didn’t kill were hurled away to land with the butchered human horsemen. An injured warrior, the one Alaric had spoken to, watched the fight in pained amazement. Alaric would sooner eat grobi dung than fail in front of a manling. The shameful life of a slayer awaited such unfortunates. That was not going to be Alaric’s fate.
Yet more of the undead were moving up behind Krell, pushing forward in giant blocks of marching skeletons and lurching corpses. Hundreds of bats wheeled overhead and ghostly wisps of howling shades swirled around them. One way or another, this fight would need to end soon, for there was no way his dwarfs could hold against such numbers.
Alaric waited until Krell swung his axe in a low arc, killing another four dwarfs, before throwing aside his shield and leaping onto the dead champion’s back. He wrapped his hand around a broken hunk of armour and beat his axe against Krell’s shoulders.
Plates shattered under the assault, and Krell arched his back as he felt Alaric’s presence. He roared and spun around, seeking to dislodge Alaric as the remaining dwarfs pressed their attack, battering his thighs with axe blows and hammer strikes. Sparks flew from the red armour, like metal fresh from the forge on an anvil. Alaric fought to hold on as he thundered his axe against the metal of Krell’s armour. He felt his grip slipping and slammed his axe though a weakened plate, wedging himself in place by gripping an exposed rib within the unclean iron.
[Sigmar 03] - God King Page 35
