Now it has begun, Stefan thought. And now he began to make sense of what the world had now become, the world where there existed only life, or death. He marked out his enemies amongst the surrounding throng, announcing his presence with his unforgiving blade. Most of the enemy force could have passed for mortal men, only the insignia of the curled serpent upon their armour betraying their allegiance. But, amongst them, Stefan saw the altered ones, those upon whom Chaos had clearly lain its hand. Men, or those that once been men, now become monsters. Grinning, slavering beasts with fanged jaws that dripped an acid bile. Creatures with the bodies of men and the heads of snakes or horned rats. There were beastmen too, amongst them; a few had prevailed to reach the field that would now become their grave. Stefan tore into them all, without care or discrimination. Whatever they had once been, wherever they had come from, he knew what they now were. And he could not rest until he had destroyed them all.
Ahead of him now was a group of Norscan warriors, lashing out with double-headed axes at anything carrying Castelguerre’s colours. The sight stirred bitter memories in Stefan; he pulled back on the reins, trying to force his horse through the fighting, towards them. As he did so, someone—or something—landed upon his back. Muscular arms encircled his torso, arms more akin to giant claws than human limbs, plated with a shell-like armour. Stefan tried to punch his way free but found his own arms pinioned by his side, unable to move. The crab-like pincers were closing, squeezing the air from his chest. Just when it seemed his lungs must burst he felt a sudden impact punching into his back. The pincer limbs flexed then flew apart like a broken spring. As Stefan turned around he had a brief glimpse of the disintegrating shape of something like a giant insect slithering to the ground, and Bruno close behind, his sword tarnished with a putrid yellow gore.
“Watch your back,” Bruno suggested, breathing hard.
“I’m glad you were there watching it for me,” Stefan shouted back. He drew air back into his lungs, and shook off the shattered fragments of dung-brown bone. “Glad, and thankful,” he added. “It’s good to have you back.”
Across the sea of combatants, on the other side of the battle, the warlord of Kyros sat astride his horse, impassive, watching the ebb and flow of strife. For now he was Nargrun no longer. He was Varik: Varik the schemer, Varik the manipulator; Varik the orchestrator of men. He watched the battle unfolding as he might watch the movement of pieces upon a gaming board, weighing the loss of life on one side against that of the other with a cool diffidence. The opposing forces were perhaps both greater in number and better organised than he had first anticipated.
He recognised their commander—Castelguerre—as an old enemy of his master. He, too, was a member of the secret Old World cabal that sought to oppose and defy Kyros. So be it; he could meet his mortal fate here on the fields of Erengrad. He, Varik, would dispose of the gin-sozzled Bretonnian bandit just as he had despatched the others: the priest in Middenheim, and the meddlesome Brandauer in Altdorf.
That the forces of Chaos would ultimately prevail over their adversaries he had no doubt. The implacable forces of attrition, transformation and decay would allow of no other outcome. But, more immediately, it was vital to his own interests that the battle for Erengrad did not slip from their grasp. He knew that Kyros would grant him no further reprieve if it did.
He straightened, rigid, upon his mount, his eyes closed. Inside of him, the separate factions of his dual being struggled for supremacy. Varik sensed the animal rage of his shadow-self boiling to a crescendo inside of him, baying for release. Nargrun the Vengeful, Nargrun the Merciless. The Norscan had no interest in strategy or the checks and balances of power. His was the way of blood, and the purging power of the sword alone. Varik savoured the pleasing sensation of that power held at bay, tethered and teased like a beast in a cage.
But now the time for release was at hand. It was time for Nargrun to join with the battle and seek out his prey. He threw back his head and uttered a long, howling cry, a cry to rouse the furies of all whose souls had been touched by darkness; a cry to strike fear and despair into the hearts of all those who still prayed for the triumph of the Light. He whipped his horse on and surged forward, ploughing into the sea of humanity that lay ahead.
Together with Bruno, Stefan fought his way steadily across the enemy line. The rage of the battle increased as the rain hammered down from the skies. The dead fell upon the dead, and the once barren plain became a graveyard of flesh and steel. And yet the fighting did not relent, but seemed to burn with an ever greater intensity. In the distance, through the haze of battle, Erengrad, too, was burning. The walls of the city stood intact, but there was no visible sign of any soldiers along their length. The defenders of Erengrad, if any remained, would make no contribution to the battle that raged beyond the walls. The city would be won or lost upon these blood-soaked fields.
Franz Schiller came into view, leading a group of men from the far edge of the field, trying to drive a wedge through the main phalanx of the Chaos army and sever the head of the beast from its body. As Stefan looked on, Castelguerre’s lieutenant was surrounded from behind by a larger force of Chaos knights, half-human creatures mounted on grotesque, mutated steeds; horses with flesh like the armoured hides of dragons. Stefan shouted a warning but his words were again drowned out in the deluge.
“Come on!” he urged Bruno, pushing his horse forward. Grey-furred infantrymen with faces narrowed into rodent-snouts thrust spears towards them as they advanced. Stefan decapitated three of the creatures with a single sweep of his sword, and ploughed another two into the mire under his horse. The rest of the skaven fled in panic, clearing a path amongst the carnage for the two riders to pass through.
Two of Schiller’s men were already down, and the odds against him were now at least three to one against. And these opponents were no cannon-fodder. Stefan watched in dismay as the black-armoured knights of Kyros pressed on, their heavy axes splitting flesh from bone in a relentless killing storm. They fought like grotesque mechanical marionettes, blind and unthinking, with no apparent regard for their own lives.
Franz Schiller was fighting back with a fierce desperation. His sword strokes were finding their mark, but still his adversary did not fall. Finally the black warrior found the room to swing his double-headed axe. Schiller’s reactions were fast enough to save his life; the axe aimed for his neck hammered into his breastplate instead. But the force of the blow was enough to unseat him. Schiller lurched back in the saddle and toppled from his horse onto the ground.
The Chaos knight regarded his fallen foe with indifference, positioning his axe to strike a second, fatal blow. Schiller rolled to one side and gripped with both hands upon the booted leg of his opponent, trying to pull him down. In the same split second, Stefan aimed his sword at the jointed armour-plate above the knight’s elbow and hacked the arm bearing the axe away.
Before he could draw back to strike at a second knight, he saw another rider coming up fast from the right. Tomas Murer’s sword flashed bright as he tore across the Chaos knight’s path at a gallop. His blade cut the knight across the neck, just below the rim of his visored helm. The knight clutched at his throat and crashed forward in the saddle, sending his brutish steed careering away out of control.
Looking round, Stefan saw that Franz had regained his feet and was riding up behind Bruno. The leader of the Chaos knights appeared to pause, staring directly at Stefan for a few seconds. Then he turned his mount around and was gone, his warriors following in his wake.
Whatever the reason, Stefan was glad of the respite. He had lost all track of how long the battle had been raging. It might have been minutes; it felt like hours. His whole body ached, and his face and hands were covered with cuts where enemy weapons had come close to finding their mark. The odds for survival were not long in such a world.
His comrades regrouped around him, Franz Schiller having found another horse to replace his fallen mount. “Are you all right?” Stefan asked him.
“What of Elena?” Stefan demanded. “I thought she was with you?”
“She’s safe,” Franz assured him. “She’s riding with Castelguerre’s personal guard. If any of us reach the city, then she surely will.”
Stefan looked around, taking stock of the battlefield. Up above, the storm had cleared. Winds dragged the clouds apart, and sun flooded the bloodied plains of Erengrad. Light flickered off the buckled metal of fallen shields, scattered like silver petals upon the earth. In each direction, for as far as the eye could see, a battle to the death was being fought. In the distance, Castelguerre’s standard could be clearly seen framed against the silhouette of the city, still pushing deep into the enemy lines. In response, a second wave of flaming arrows was launched skywards, falling like burning rain from the heavens.
“That’s madness,” Bruno said. “They’ll be killing their own as well as us.”
“They won’t care about that,” Schiller told him. “They can afford to lose two for every one of our men that falls.”
“Then someone needs to deal with that,” Stefan said.
“Agreed,” Franz Schiller said. “Will you join us?”
Bruno and Tomas nodded. “Count us all in,” Stefan replied. He marked the direction of the arrows. “They’re coming from somewhere over there,” he said, pointing north-west of the city walls. “Let’s waste no more time.”
The riders set off at a gallop, towards the heart of the enemy command. Many of the foes that dared to stand against them were either trampled underfoot or dispatched by scything blows delivered from horseback. But, by sheer weight of numbers, the soldiers of Kyros still took a heavy toll of Schiller’s men. At least half a dozen were pulled, dead or dying, from the saddle, and still more were struck down by the fiery brands launched by the bowmen. Through it all, Stefan and his comrades rode on. There could be no turning back.
Ahead of them now they could see the archers’ emplacement. A low trench had been dug into the clay, a pit filled with a score of bowmen arranged around a vat filled with a bubbling, steaming liquid. The bowmen were loading and firing a constant barrage of arrows aloft, pausing only to dip their darts into the vat. Each arrow pulled out crackled with an evil yellow-green fire.
As Stefan and the others bore down the alarm was raised. Half of the archers trained their bows directly at the approaching riders. A flame-tipped shaft screamed past Stefan’s face, close enough for him to feel its heat. He looked round to see a second arrow strike one of Schiller’s men square in the face. The knight fell from his horse, followed by others battling to extinguish the flames spreading across their bodies.
“Morr only knows what infernal substance that is,” Stefan shouted. “It seems to burn through armour as though it were straw!”
“Aye,” Schiller agreed, breathlessly. “And Morr help us if we don’t overrun that position soon!”
An arrow struck Stefan in the chest, piercing the light armour of his breastplate. The ring-mail of his corset had saved him from further harm, but flame was already rippling out from the punctured armour, eating through the metal. Stefan pulled a hand away from the reins and tugged the arrow free before damping the flames with his gauntlet. The enemy position was all but in range now. He wrung one last burst of speed from his mount, launching it above and into the archery pit. Too late the archers scrambled to regroup. Too late; for Stefan and his comrades were amongst them now.
Stefan leapt from his horse and set about the soldiers in the pit in a fury. Most of the defenders had side-arms, but none were a match for the swordsmen now in their midst. He slew one archer as the man prepared to fire, his sword slicing through the longbow in the same arcing stroke. A second defender wielding a dagger fell upon him, but Stefan wrestled the man to the ground then plunged his sword down upon his opponent.
The battle within a battle was swiftly won. No more fire would rain from enemy lines. Franz Schiller wiped the blood from his face and marched purposefully towards the steaming cauldron. “Let’s be rid of this diabolic brew,” he declared.
“Wait a minute.” Bruno tugged at Stefan’s sleeve. “What’s going on over there?”
He directed Stefan’s gaze towards the far side of the archery pit, where a train of covered vehicles were being hastily driven back towards the enemy line, away from Schiller’s men and the fighting.
“I don’t know,” said Stefan, quietly. “But our arrival seems to have worried our friends with the wagons.”
“Something they’re anxious to protect?” Schiller suggested.
“Maybe,” Stefan concurred. He pulled a longbow free of a fallen adversary. “Let’s see how they like a taste of their own, anyway.” He dipped an arrow into the smouldering vat and waited for the eerie fire to flare at its point before notching it into the bow. Bruno did the same with a second bow, and others followed their lead.
Franz Schiller grinned as he launched his arrow. “With the compliments of Gastez Castelguerre,” he yelled. Within moments at least a dozen flaming darts were arcing through the clearing skies towards the retreating wagons. Many fell upon the advancing foot-soldiers of Kyros’ army. The infantry were left where they lay to burn, but every arrow that found its mark upon the wagons produced a storm of activity as men rushed to extinguish the spreading flames.
“Forget about the soldiers,” Stefan shouted. “Concentrate your fire on the wagons themselves.” He reloaded his bow and aimed it skywards. He closed his eyes and said a prayer. It was a prayer to the memory of his father; a prayer that his soul might this day be avenged.
Stefan opened his eyes and let fly the arrow in concert with the others. The flaming darts climbed towards the heavens, then seemed to hang, momentarily suspended, upon the air before falling like avenging angels upon their enemies. Two or three at least fell into the very heart of the cluster of wagons. A cry went up among the men trying to marshal their retreat, and many turned and fled.
Stefan was on the point of reloading his weapon when the sky turned a blinding gold and he was thrown back upon the ground. As he fell, a roar like the breaking of a thousand storms split the air, and the earth trembled as though the world itself was being shaken apart. Thinking he was under some new attack, he scrambled to his feet, ready to defend himself. He was greeted by the sight of a great cloud of black and orange fire rising into the sky where the wagon train had previously been. Nothing surrounding it was left standing.
He stood with the others staring in silent awe at the sight. It was an elemental monster; the all-consuming ball of flame had destroyed everything within their immediate view. It was a while before any of them spoke, and then Franz Schiller said quietly and simply: “That will alter the balance of the day.”
As the fireball evaporated into the heavens and the shaking in the earth subsided, a new rain began to fall. A black rain of ash, charred flakes that were now the only remains of the force of men and mutants that had been standing before them. As the ash settled, a cloud of choking smoke like fog drifted in towards them across the battlefield.
Stefan shook his head, still in awe of the display of power that might otherwise have been unleashed upon the defenders of Erengrad. Finally he turned away, and joined the others recovering those horses that had not already fled in panic. “Now,” he said at last, “we have to finish this.”
A group of riders emerged out of the smoke on their flank. Stefan tensed, ready for any new twist in the battle, but the tension turned to relief as he recognised Elena in their midst.
Stefan reined in and turned his horse back towards hers. Her face was smeared with the dark soot that had fallen from the air, and there was a small cut beneath one eye that would almost certainly leave a scar. For all that, it seemed to Stefan that she had never looked more beautiful. It was a realisation that lay surprisingly heavy upon his heart.
Stefan rode to her and took her hand between his own. “I’m very
glad to see you,” he said.
Elena smiled back at him with an easy warmth. “And I you,” she replied.
She gazed around, acknowledging Bruno, Franz and Tomas. Stefan could see she was exhausted, driven to the point of collapse. She was keeping herself going by sheer determination alone.
“No Alexei?” she asked, forcing her words out. “He’s not—”
Stefan shook his head. “Not as far as I know. He was last seen riding to the front, in Castelguerre’s wake. If any man has survived this day, then surely Alexei has.”
Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though trying to suck strength back into her body. “The ball of fire was some display,” she said at last. “I’ve never seen the like of it, not even in my dreams.”
“Nor I,” Stefan concurred. “My guess is it was some incendiary substance. Let’s be thankful the end was not as Kyros had intended.”
“Thankful indeed,” Elena agreed. She gazed up above her head. The charred flakes were still floating down all around them, dark, fragile wraiths against the slowly clearing sky. “Like leaves falling,” she commented. “The black leaves of war.”
“In that case,” Stefan said “Let us hope this is the autumn that portends unending winter for the forces of darkness.”
Whatever Elena’s reply, Stefan never heard it. He heard another voice—Bruno, or Tomas maybe—shout a desperate warning. And, as the pounding of hooves filled his ears, he caught a glimpse of the figure in black armour, a giant on horseback bearing down upon him.
Stefan turned to face the attack, but not fast enough. His saw the shield, a huge expanse of convex steel, the crest of the coiled serpent embossed upon it. Then something—the shield itself, or the flat of a broadsword—struck him diagonally across the chest, and he was thrown from his horse onto the ground.
[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad Page 30
