Back at the summit of the Bastion, still breathing heavily from his exertions, Ludwig Schwarzhelm stood on a slender outcrop, watching the enemy massing. The light was still bad, but he could see the thousands of beast-man warriors clearly enough. Many more than he’d been told would be there. The reports had been inaccurate. The campaign was in danger of becoming a massacre.
Gruppen stood at his side, looking at the gathering horde through his eyeglass.
“Even with the Reiksguard, we’d be pressed.”
Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He let his heart rate return to normal. Helborg’s absence had left them dangerously exposed. His forces were half as strong as they should have been. What had kept the Marshal? For all he admired the man’s martial qualities, Kurt could be dangerously unpredictable.
Enough. He wasn’t coming. Even if he tried to, the road would be swarming with the enemy. He’d never get through.
“We recovered Grunwald?” asked Schwarzhelm, watching the beastmen working themselves into a frenzy on the plain.
“Yes,” replied Gruppen. “He’ll survive. Though half his command is gone.” Schwarzhelm nodded.
“And what of that halberdier captain?”
“He’s called Bloch. He’ll make it too.” Gruppen let a rare smile slip across his lips. “My men told me he wants to get back to the front.”
“Let him, if he can still hold a blade. And if he survives, I’ll want to see him.”
“Very well.”
Out in the mass of churning, chanting bodies, something was crystallising. The random movements were beginning to coalesce into something more regular.
“What are they doing?” asked Gruppen, a note of frustration entering his clipped voice. The man was eager to get back to work.
Something was emerging, a sound. The undisciplined howling was turning into a new chant.
Raaa-grmm.
“They wait for their champion,” said Schwarzhelm. His eyes stayed flinty, his expression calm. The exertion of the ride had been replaced by a grim equanimity. “Do you think a horde such as this creates itself? He will come soon.”
Across the Cauldron, the rolling of the drums grew even wilder. Fresh thunder growled across the northern rim and the lightning returned. Even the elements were preparing for the final onslaught. The rain poured in rivers from the rock, sluicing down into the ranks of the beasts below.
Raaa-grmm.
“Their standards are close enough to hit,” said Schwarzhelm. “Tell the archers to aim for the men strung up on them. We can give them a quick death at least. Then instruct the captains to ready the stakefields. It will not be long now.”
Gruppen saluted and left the outcrop. Alone, Schwarzhelm continued to observe, as still and silent as a statue in the halls of dead.
Raaa-grmm. The massed chant was getting louder, drowning out all else but the drums.
“You will come,” the Emperor’s Champion whispered. “You must face me. And then we will enter the test together.”
Verstohlen pulled aside the entrance flaps to the apothecary’s tent, careful not to snag them with the halberd he carried for Bloch, and ducked inside. The place was almost deserted. A dozen wooden pallets lay inside, arranged in two neat rows. Not nearly enough for the wounded of an entire army, but this one was for the officers only. Only if a man like Gruppen or Tierhof were injured would the precious jars of salve and holy water be broken into. The others could take their chances in the less well-appointed medical tents. “Morr damn you, let me go!”
Verstohlen smiled. Bloch had recovered his voice. And his temper. The man had been wounded by the gor, but Verstohlen had a feeling it wasn’t grave enough to keep him from the front.
He walked down to the far end of the tent where the halberdier captain was struggling with a state-employed apothecary and two sisters of Shallya.
“You can release this man,” said Verstohlen, showing the apothecary Schwarzhelm’s seal. They let him go immediately, and Bloch lurched to his feet unsteadily.
The apothecary, a wizened man with a balding pate and snub nose, shook his head.
“I was instructed to keep him here, counsellor. He’s been hit hard.”
“Not as hard as I’ll hit you,” growled Bloch. The sisters took a step back.
“Come,” said Verstohlen, handing Bloch the halberd. “Your place isn’t here.”
With Bloch still grumbling, the two men turned and left the tent.
“I could’ve handled those leeches,” he muttered. “You didn’t need to fetch me like a child.”
“They would have given you sleepwort, and you’d have missed the whole thing,” said Verstohlen. “Besides, I feel responsible for you. I asked you to look out for Grunwald, and you’ve suffered for it.”
Bloch grunted. He still looked groggy and his face was pale.
“How’re things looking?”
The apothecary’s tent was near the summit of the Bastion, shielded by high rock walls and far from the front. As they rounded a column of basalt, shining in the rain, the scene below them unfolded in all its full drama and horror.
The Cauldron was full with rank upon rank of beasts. There were at least thousands of them out there. Perhaps tens of thousands. The drums beat in unison, hammering out a steady, baleful rhythm. It wasn’t the mindless thumping of hides that it had been. Some sense of purpose had gripped the entire horde, and Verstohlen could see them swaying in time with the booming rolls. They were surrounded. Besieged.
Then there was the chant, endlessly repeated, throbbing through the rock beneath their feet, filling the air.
Raaa-grmm. Raaa-grmm.
Despite the man’s gruff exterior, Verstohlen could see that Bloch was shaken. There was no let up, no respite. The Cauldron had been turned into a seamless fabric of rage.
“What d’you think that means?” Bloch asked.
“The name of their champion,” replied Verstohlen, looking over the scene calmly. “We can’t see them, but there will be shamans in the forest. They’re working on something. All will become clear soon enough.”
Bloch shook his head.
“Well, that’s good then.”
Then, down below, there was sudden movement. The front ranks of beasts, which had been milling around the base of the Bastion without advancing, began to swarm up the lower slopes. Their stamping, bellowing and chanting was replaced by a massed roar of aggression. The tide, which had been lapping at the defences, surged and broke its bonds.
“I need to be with my men,” said Bloch, grasping the halberd with both hands. At the prospect of fresh fighting, his vision seemed to clear. “Where do you have to be?”
Verstohlen reloaded his pistol coolly.
“I thought I might tag along with you, if that’s acceptable.”
Bloch thought for a moment, clearly in doubt. The sounds of combat rose from the terraces below. Verstohlen couldn’t blame him for his hesitation. Bloch didn’t know who he was, nor why Schwarzhelm gave him the licence to do the things he did. None of the soldiers did, though some guessed. To most of them, he must have seemed like a strange hanger-on, dragged into the serious business of war on a whim.
“Do as you please,” Bloch said, striding off to where his company were positioned. “Just don’t get in the way.”
Verstohlen followed him silently, his long coat streaming with rain. His blood was still pumping from the ride out on to the Cauldron floor, and he made a conscious effort to calm his emotions. He’d need a steady hand, and an unwavering eye. The beastmen were hunting, and they were the prey.
Grunwald limped along the terrace, still feeling the effects of his flight from the ridge. He hadn’t seen Schwarzhelm since his return. All the other commanders were busy with their own units. He felt curiously bereft, cast adrift. Now that the assault had begun, there was no time to seek new orders or plan some new tactics. He’d rounded up all of his men who could still walk and carry a weapon, and taken them back to the defensive front. They may have failed to
hold the ridge, but there was still service they could render.
The Bastion looked like it had been designed for war. Above the smooth lower slopes, the rock rose up in a series of steps. Schwarzhelm had arranged his forces in long ranks along these natural terraces. An invading force would have to come at them from below, suffering all the disadvantages of having to clamber upwards while under attack. Between the twisting rock ledges, paths had been worn. Some were natural, others the product of centuries of human footfalls. These were the weak points. If the invaders managed to force their way up the paths, then they could get on to the level of the terraces and cause havoc.
All across the lower reaches of the Bastion, commanders had deployed their forces to prevent this. The terraces were crammed with troops capable of dealing death from afar: handgunners, archers and pikemen. At the crucial intersections where the rock offered less protection, the heavy infantry had been stationed, halberdiers mostly, drawn from the Reikland regiments. In the places of most danger, squadrons of Knights Panther were deployed, grim and immoveable in their heavy plate armour. Clusters of greatswords were there too, grizzled warriors bearing the huge, two-handed blades of their forefathers in gnarled fists. Across the most accessible routes up the rock, wooden stakes had been driven into cracks in the stone. Behind these fragile-looking barriers, the troops stood ready, watching impassively as the beasts tore up the slope towards them.
“Stand your ground,” roared Grunwald. He knew his men were in a bad way. They’d already been driven from one battle. Some had been fighting for hours with no respite, and they all looked drained. “This is where we make amends! Give no quarter!”
The beasts surged towards the lines, hollering and whooping in their bloodlust. Grunwald felt the sweat start on his palms. On either side of him, rows of steel blades glinted in the low light. The beasts had followed his men all the way from the ridge, thirsting for their blood still.
The feeling was mutual. Grunwald watched as his first target, a shaggy behemoth with a tusked face, lumbered up the incline towards him. Its flanks were streaked with entrails and its maw dripped with gore. So, it had recently feasted.
“Your last victim,” hissed Grunwald, lowering his blade, fixing the beast with a look of unwavering hate and standing his ground.
Schwarzhelm looked down from his vantage point. He held an ancient-looking spyglass to one eye, sweeping across the grim vista below. His expression was unreadable. As he had done countless times before, he studied the enemy onslaught, watching for weakness, scouring for opportunities. As the battle intensified, functionaries hovered on the edge of his vision. Every so often, men would come running up with reports from the front. He responded with terse instructions.
“Redeploy the Third Halberdiers.”
“Instruct Herr Morgan to withdraw to the upper terrace.”
“The Helblasters are angled too high. And Jerroff’s rate of fire is poor.”
The officials would then scurry away into the rain, shepherded by Ferren, his aide de camp. A few moments later, Schwarzhelm would observe the adjustment in the response of the army. From his position, he could see across the entire rock. The army was like an extension of his will. When he uttered an order, the shape of the defence shifted. Somewhere, he knew that his adversary was doing the same. The beastmen may have appeared crude and barbaric, but they had their own ways of directing their horde. There was an intelligence out there, guiding the assault, apportioning its resources at the points of greatest weakness.
“Show yourself,” breathed Schwarzhelm, fingering the pommel of the Rechtstahl impatiently. “My lord?”
Gruppen was back, hovering at his shoulder. His blade was notched and his heavy breastplate had been scored with three great scratches. If their claws could do that to plate armour, then…
“Report,” said Schwarzhelm.
“Two terraces have been lost,” replied Gruppen. He was a military man and spoke dispassionately. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his voice, just realism. “We need more knights. The state troopers don’t have the armour for this fight.”
“Damn Helborg,” spat Schwarzhelm, giving away his exasperation.
He turned around slowly, letting his eyes take in the sweeping panorama of war. On every front, the beastmen were assaulting hard, scrabbling up the slope and throwing themselves at the defenders on the terraces. Despite the advantage of higher ground, the lines were being beaten back. Slowly, it was true, but his forces were being driven ever higher up the slopes. The beasts could afford to lose twice the number of fighters he could in every engagement, and still outnumber them for the final assault. All around the base of the Bastion, the landscape was lost in a seething maelstrom of monsters.
Tell the artillery captains to throw the last of the shot at them. “I don’t care if they run out. We need to blunt this thing now.”
Gruppen hesitated.
“Will you not descend, my lord? The men—” Schwarzhelm fixed the preceptor with a dark look.
Gruppen, who faced monstrous gors without a second thought, swallowed. “Do not question my judgement, master knight.”
warned Schwarzhelm. “I will descend when the time is right.”
As if to reinforce his words, a fresh chorus of Raaa-grmm echoed up from the battle below. The beasts could sense their master’s presence. Schwarzhelm could sense his presence. But, for the time being, he didn’t show himself.
Gruppen bowed and descended from the vantage point back to the fighting. Schwarzhelm listened to the clink of his armour against the stone. He wasn’t worried about being thought a coward. No one in the Empire would dare to make such a claim, and he had long stopped caring about what other men thought of him.
No. His place was here, marshalling his forces, squeezing out the last ounce of defence from his beleaguered men. They would stand their ground, grinding out every foot of surrendered stone with blood and steel. Not until the rock lay heavy with the corpses of beasts would his adversary be drawn out. And then the clash would come, the battle that would decide the fate of all of them.
“Show yourself,” hissed Schwarzhelm again, scouring the battlefield for the movement he yearned to see. “Face me.”
But the rain snatched his words away and the skirling wind mocked them. Across the plain, the beasts tore at the defences, their lust for human flesh unquenched.
Bloch arced his halberd downwards with a cry of exertion. The blade lodged deep in the neck of the gor scrabbling at his knees. The creature howled, shaking its head, spraying blood into the air. Bloch felt his grip come loose. The beast was powerful.
“Die, damn you!” he growled and twisted the halberd deeper. The struggles ebbed, and the gor tried to withdraw. From Bloch’s side, a second blade plunged into its flank. The growls were silenced and the beast slid back down the slope. Others leapt up to take its place immediately. Even with the advantage of the stone ridge, it was hard going keeping them out.
Bloch kept hacking, ignoring the protests from his gore-splattered arms. His round helmet was dented, his heavy leather jerkin ripped by claws and teeth. Dimly, he was aware that his wounded shoulder was throbbing again. The hot sensation of blood was creeping down his midriff. Something had come unstuck. Had that damned apothecary stitched him up cock-eyed?
A bull-headed gor, only slightly smaller than the one which had nearly killed him in the Cauldron, tried to leap on to the terrace. It took two arrows in the throat before its hooves touched the stone, and it was pushed back into the heaving press of bodies below. The halberdiers were holding their ground. Their fear had been replaced by a resigned, workmanlike determination. Every thrust was met with a counter-thrust, every strike with a determined parry.
“Herr Bloch,” came a familiar voice. Bloch felt his spirits sink. Not now.
He swiped the halberd back and forth, a difficult manoeuvre in the tight space. For the moment, the beasts before him withdrew. The foremost of them limped back down the slope. But already larger creatures were
massing.
“What is it?” snapped Bloch, made angry by fatigue and the pain in his shoulder.
“The companies on the terraces either side of us have withdrawn,” said Verstohlen. “We are exposed. I thought you should know.”
Bloch looked hurriedly either side of him. It was true. The beasts were forcing men back up the slopes of the Bastion, step by step. Two terraces had been abandoned and the defenders were digging in higher up. Soon his own flanks would be left open.
“Is that what you do with yourself all day, Verstohlen?” he asked. “Spot isolated command groups?”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
Bloch scowled. Who was this man? Why did he never get angry?
“Fall back, men,” he cried, pushing the counsellor out of the way. “Up to the next terrace!”
It was difficult work, made harder by the rain-washed stone. The halberdiers knew enough not to turn their backs to the enemy. Warily, they filed along the terrace, making for the paths at the end of the ridge, backing up carefully.
The beasts were slow to spot the movement, but when they did, the roars of attack started up again. The gors powered up the slope, heads low, cleavers swinging.
“Keep together!” roared Bloch, raising his halberd. He’d be the last to leave. Only when every man was up on the next level would he join them. They were almost there.
The beasts clambered up on the vacated terrace-end, howling with victory. One of them came straight at Bloch. He ducked under the wild cleaver swipe, and planted the tip of the halberd into the monster’s leg. A twist and the bone was broken. The beast staggered, but there was another behind it, horse-faced and crowned with stubby antlers. Bloch withdrew, swinging his blade defensively. Too many. He began to back up. From behind him, he could hear his men safely occupying the terrace above. That was good, disciplined work. He was proud of them. Now he needed a little support.
01 - Sword of Justice Page 4
