Helborg was taken aback by the curtness of the response, but then he sensed something in the king’s tone. Honouring their ancestors nothing. The dwarfs of Karak Angazhar had something, some scheme or device, of which they did not wish him to know. He struggled for a moment between relief and annoyance. How could he plan effectively, form a strategy, how could he command an army if his own allies would not tell him what they were to do?
“Well, Reiksmarshal?” Gramrik prompted. The King of Karak Angazhar stamped the shaft of his axe-hammer on the rocky ground again and, as if in response, the clouds above them crashed with thunder.
“Grobi!” the alarm went up around them. A dwarf hurried up to Gramrik: “Grobi, my king. There are grobi warbands in the heights to the east.”
“How many?” Gramrik demanded.
“Two, three hundred, coming up from the ground,” the dwarf replied.
“We are out of time, Reiksmarshal. I must return to the tunnel before my miners bring it down.”
“Goblins! Goblins! Reiksguard to your horses!” the bellicose Osterna cried as he galloped through his men.
“Osterna!” Helborg bellowed, meaning to quieten his subordinate. Gramrik was already making to leave.
“Goblins, Marshal! Goblins to the north!”
“I…” Helborg began, and then realised what Osterna had said. “To the north?”
“Yes, Marshal.” Osterna pointed back the way the knights had come. “A few hundred to the north, blocking our path.”
“Grobi!” the call came again, but not from the north or the east. This time it came from the south, and at that Helborg realised that surprise had never been on his side at all.
“Treachery!” Gramrik boomed, clutching his axe-hammer in both hands.
“Never!” Helborg snapped back. “No knight of mine…”
“No dwarf would ever.”
The sky crashed again, echoing the two generals’ anger. Helborg’s guard and Gramrik’s warriors were tense, each eyeing the other, waiting to follow their commander’s lead. Preceptor Osterna, meanwhile, was organising his mounted knights into their squadrons, ready to attempt a break-out through the green horde.
“Get on your horses, manling, and run,” Gramrik boomed. “I was a skrati to allow myself to be lured from the hold. Angazhar will stand, as it always has, alone!”
Helborg looked at the furious dwarfen king, at the readied dwarfen warriors behind him, at the goblins advancing, surrounding his knights, and came to his decision.
He drew the runefang sword from its gilded scabbard at his side. The dwarfen warriors hefted their hammers and the Reiksguard went for their weapons in reply. Helborg prepared no blow, however, instead he reversed his blade and held it out to Gramrik. Even in the grim half-light the runefang still shone brilliantly.
“King Gramrik. Do you know what this is?” He indicated the runes etched deep into the metal. “Do you know what they mean?”
Gramrik did not need to read them. “Aye, there’s none of my kind that doesn’t.”
“They were a gift; from your High King to my Emperor. A gift of thanks for when Sigmar stood beside Kurgan Ironbeard in battle at the birth of my Empire. We stood together then. We shall stand together now,” Helborg stated calmly. “My brothers and I came to defend your hold and all within it. If you doubt me, then here, here is your gift returned. You may take it back.”
Gramrik’s thunder faded, and he held up his hand to refuse the ancient sword.
“I know why you truly come, Kurt Helborg of the manling Empire, but you have spoken well nonetheless. We shall stand together then, as Sigmar and great King Kurgan did. But it matters little unless one of us survives. They have surrounded us, and if my tunnel still stands it shall not for long. Your horses though, can carry you out. I shall make my stand here and buy you the time to escape.”
“If you do not return, King Thunderhead, then none of your kin will answer my calls.”
“Aye,” Gramrik admitted.
“Then you must return to your hold, no matter what the cost. We must make for the tunnel, as fast as we can. And if that is lost, we make our stand where there is something solid which may protect our backs.”
“Then put your backs to ours, manling. For you’ll find there’s nothing more solid than a dwarf with an oath to keep.”
Gramrik turned to order his warriors, and Helborg called Griesmeyer over. “Tell Osterna, forget our path back; we follow the dwarfs.” Griesmeyer nodded and went to obey, when Helborg caught his arm and brought him close.
“Find a horse yourself,” the Reiksmarshal ordered, his eyes fierce. “Get through their lines, however you can, and bring my army back to me.”
“Delmar!” Griesmeyer shouted through the storm, riding up beside him. “Keep your steed!”
Delmar looked about, confused; he raised his visor and a flurry of rain splashed against his face. “My lord?”
“The Marshal needs us to gather the army and bring it here. Dump anything from your saddle that you do not need to fight,” Griesmeyer replied. “We shall need the space, for we carry the life of our Reiksmarshal and the King of Karak Angazhar with us.”
Griesmeyer spurred his horse and Delmar followed. The two riders raced for the thinner section of the goblin encirclement. Against such determination, the few goblins in their path scurried to the side, and Delmar saw the path through was clear. But then the black arrows whistled through the air and plunged down upon them. Delmar felt their impact against his back and side and hunched over the saddle so as to protect his horse. He galloped clear, but Griesmeyer was not so fortunate. With a screeching whinny, the old knight’s mount fell.
Delmar heard the sound and checked his horse to glance back.
“On! On!” Griesmeyer shouted, already on his feet from his stricken mount. “Your duty first!”
Griesmeyer began to run from the eager goblins and their spears, and Delmar turned his horse and spurred it again.
Thorntoad squatted upon his palanquin as he watched the men and dwarfs panic before him. Seeing them squirm and struggle warmed him against the driving rain.
“See, Burakk Craw!” he said to the ogre pacing beside him. “The horns were not a trick. They are exactly where the prisoner said they would be!” Thorntoad watched to see in which direction the dwarfs were forming. “And now they show their path. Go to it!”
Burakk licked his lips in anticipation and loped away. Thorntoad hopped back and forth in his excitement. Even with forewarning, he had only time to gather a portion of his own Death Caps from their warrens, but the Biters in the north and the Stinkhorns to the south had been closer. He had run to death a dozen of his bearers rousting the two tribes, but it had been worth it. No matter what the dwarfs and the men did, in a few minutes they would be overwhelmed.
“My men are mounted, Marshal,” Osterna reported back.
“Good. The king is ready, you must clear his path.” Helborg pointed down the ridge to the south in the direction Gramrik was already marching. “Charge, break through, circle back and—”
Helborg’s voice trailed away. “Marshal?” Osterna asked, but Helborg was looking past him. There, in the north, a single knight was fighting alone against the tide of goblins rising against him.
“Griesmeyer,” Helborg said.
Osterna turned and saw it too. “I’ll bring my men around, Marshal. We will save him.”
“No,” Helborg countermanded. “Follow my orders. Protect the king.”
Helborg spurred away leaving Osterna no chance to argue.
Griesmeyer felt the goblin leap upon his back and scratch its nails across his visor, grasping for his eyes. He switched his grip on his sword and then swung it back over his shoulder as though he were a flagellant absolving himself with a whip. The sword cut through the goblin’s shoulder and into its back. Its grip loosened and Griesmeyer hauled it off him with his free hand.
He heard the goblins closing behind him again; with his next step he planted his foot an
d twisted, whipping his sword around in a rising stroke. One grasping goblin lost an arm, the second had his face cut in two. They fell back and tripped the others behind them. Griesmeyer did not stop to see the results, but struggled on. The mud beneath his foot shifted and, off-balance, he slipped. Desperately, he caught his fall, and his knee twisted and screamed as the weight fell badly upon it.
Through the drumming of the rain upon his helmet, he heard Reiksguard trumpets sound the charge ahead. For a moment, he thought he was saved, but the thunder of their hooves receded. Wherever they were charging, it was not for him.
He took another step and his knee near collapsed beneath him. He realised he could no longer run. This was the end, then. He turned and faced the horde behind him, and the goblins crowed as their prey stood at bay. He would see how many he could take with him. A dozen sounded fair. He had a bad leg, after all.
But then the thunder rose again.
“Reiksguard!” Helborg roared as he charged in. His mighty steed barrelled into the goblin warband and sent the closest goblins flying. He swept the deadly runefang around in a great arc and ended five more greenskin lives. His horse leapt forwards, trampling more beneath its hooves, and the blade scythed down again.
With a nudge of his heel, Helborg turned his horse from the goblins as they reeled back and spurred it towards Griesmeyer.
“Brother!”
Griesmeyer reached up his hand to grasp Helborg’s as he passed, but Helborg leaned out, lifted Griesmeyer bodily from the ground and swung him into the saddle.
“The army… the message…?” Helborg shouted without ceremony as they raced away.
“Delmar got through,” Griesmeyer gasped back, “Delmar got through.”
Siebrecht roared as he rode amongst Osterna’s knights. The goblins did not even stand, but broke before the knights struck. The knights followed through, stabbing at the backs of the dark-clothed goblins as they scrambled away Gods, Siebrecht exulted, such a feeling of power! Of unstoppable force! His heart raced. He felt sick. He felt magnificent. He struck down again and another black shape collapsed with a shriek, but he could hear nothing but the pounding of his blood in his ears.
“Turn!” Osterna roared. “Turn and reform!” Siebrecht did not even hear it until another knight smacked his helmet with the flat of his blade. Siebrecht caught himself and turned.
Behind them, in the gloom of the storm and the closing day, Siebrecht could barely make out the battle behind him. The king had led his warriors into the knights’ path, but the goblins to the east were moving in too quickly. Osterna had reformed, but Siebrecht’s distraction had left him far behind when the knights charged again. Siebrecht was thirty paces behind them, and so was the first to see the ogres.
Osterna’s men charged, but these goblins held. The horses kicked and the knights hacked away at their foe below them. Burakk and his ogres had run around the lower level of the ridge, out of sight of the Reiksguard, and then climbed up. They held their warcry back until they were only a few paces away. Preceptor Osterna, closest to them, whirled around in his saddle just in time to see Burakk’s mace smash into his face.
The blow was so powerful that it knocked Osterna’s head off his shoulders and sent it spiralling into the air. The knights’ armour, which had proved so invulnerable against the goblins’ weapons, was little defence against the strength of an ogre. The next knight was knocked from his mount by a mallet, his ribs broken. Another dodged away from the swing of a cutlass the length of a man, only to have it decapitate his panicking horse. More knights were culled as the hefty clubs and bludgeons broke skulls and snapped necks.
“Back! Back!” the order went up amongst the knights, and their steeds needed no encouragement. The ogres launched themselves forwards and tackled their horses to the ground, sending the knights sprawling into the waiting clutches of the triumphant goblins.
Just then a single cry rose above the ogres’ roars. It was Siebrecht charging in. He had not thought to hold back; he had just seen his brothers in peril and so gone to intervene. It was only when the ogres turned to look at him, that he realised he was about to die, and that it would be his own stupid fault.
He rode down the edge of the ridge, where the path was clear of Osterna’s men, and held his sword out before him as though it were a lance. He picked his target, an ogre holding the severed arm of a knight dead at its feet, and aimed for above its armoured gut-plate, straight for the heart. Siebrecht’s sword struck true, the impact near knocking him out of his saddle, and he plunged the blade deep into the ogre’s heart.
The ogre looked down in surprise at the blade embedded in his chest. And then he started to snigger.
“Morr have mercy,” Siebrecht whispered to himself, as he reached in his saddle for his pistol. The ogre seized him with both hands and lifted him bodily from his terrified mount. The ogre’s mouth opened wide, intending to bite Siebrecht’s head off. Siebrecht’s pistol was in his hand, but the ogre had his arm pinned by his side.
Siebrecht twisted his hand until the muzzle pointed straight up. As the ogre’s mouth came down from above him, he pulled the trigger with his thumb and prayed the powder had kept dry. The ignition burnt his wrist, the bullet whipped past his face and shot through the roof of the ogre’s mouth.
Siebrecht tried to break free from the ogre’s grip, but even as it died, its brain shot through, it was too strong. The ogre toppled backwards, off the ridge, out into the blackness, taking Siebrecht with him.
Delmar saw the body in the grey light of the next morning.
He had ridden as hard as he could with the Reiksmarshal’s message, but night had closed in before he had made half the distance back and he had to find his way back in the rain and the pitch darkness. Eventually, he had reached the camp and found Sub-Marshal Zollner. Zollner, though, much as the decision pained him, could not send his men out into the night, and so they had had to wait. At the first hint of light his banner had set out with Delmar riding ahead of them.
Following the route back, Delmar had spied a herd of horses in the distance, a strange sight amongst these mountains. He had ridden to them and seen the Reiksguard markings upon them. Their riders were nowhere to be seen. It was an ill omen. The Reiksguard would only loose their horses in the direst straits, where escape was no longer possible.
He had reached the site of the battle to see his worst fears confirmed. Though it was clear from the blood and broken weapons that men and goblins had fought and died in that place, there were no bodies. They had all been dragged away as food, and that meant the goblins had won.
It was then that he had looked down over the ridge’s edge and seen the corpse below. It was an ogre, half-sunken into a mire. It had obviously fallen during the fight to the bottom of the slope and had then been overlooked by the goblin scavengers.
Then it moved.
Delmar looked closer in the half-light. It was definitely moving. Only a fraction, but it was enough. It was still alive. Delmar climbed down to it. His mission of rescue had been a failure. He had not been here to defend his brothers, but dispatching this one beast might bring the dead some small satisfaction.
He drew close, stepping carefully around the swampy ground, and unsheathed his sword. The ogre spasmed again, except that here, closer, Delmar could see that it was not the ogre. It was something beneath it.
“Siebrecht!” Delmar called. “Siebrecht, can you hear me?”
Siebrecht, unconscious beneath the ogre’s corpse, shifted a little. At his motion, the thick mud sucked him down further.
“Sigmar preserve us.” Delmar waded into the mud and tried to heave the ogre’s body off. “Siebrecht, wake up!”
Siebrecht did so, felt the suffocating mud all around him, felt the pressure pushing him down, and panicked. He tried to take great gulping breaths and swallowed mud instead, which made him choke and panic all the more.
“Take hold, brother.” Delmar strained as he lifted the ogre’s body a fraction.
&nbs
p; “Siebrecht!” he shouted again to get his attention. “Take hold of me and pull yourself out.”
Siebrecht did so, grabbing Delmar and dragging himself onto firmer ground, coughing up the mud. When he was clear, Delmar collapsed and let the ogre sink.
“Siebrecht, can you talk? Did any others survive?”
Siebrecht shook his head. “I don’t know,” he gasped. “I fell with this…” He waved a hand at the submerged ogre. “Is it over?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Delmar sighed, and looked back up the slope.
“Did we win?”
“I do not think so.”
But Delmar was mistaken. Another of Zollner’s scouts had seen a section of the ridge suddenly cave in upon itself. Fearing another goblin attack, Zollner led a squadron of knights ahead to investigate, only to discover the Reiksmarshal and the dwarfen king stepping calmly out into the dawn. Zollner’s joy at seeing Helborg alive was tempered, though, when he saw the number of his brothers laid out behind. Fully half of Osterna’s men were dead, or injured so that they would never ride again. Of Osterna himself, they had only his body. His head was not recovered.
It had only been by the Reiksmarshal’s own heroism that the dead had not been taken by the goblins and the ogres. Siebrecht’s lone charge had bought Osterna’s knights the chance to escape, but it had been the Reiksmarshal who had then ridden up and rallied them. And rather than fleeing with the dwarfs, he had led the charge back against the ogres, slaying several of them, and knocking them back long enough for his knights to gather their fallen brothers. When Gramrik saw his aim, the dwarfen king could not help but return as well and help the Reiksguard, both the living and the dead, to the safety of the tunnel.
Gramrik’s miners had then collapsed the tunnel entrance behind them, and the goblins picked the battlefield clean, before they too trudged back to their warrens. The dwarfs though, had not returned to Karak Angazhar. Instead they had waited out the night with the knights beneath the ground. And when morning came, the miners dug a new tunnel to return them to the surface.
[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard Page 21
