He began to pick up the pace, shuffling backwards, swinging the halberd deftly. Horse-face advanced slowly, but then sprang, launching itself right at Bloch’s face. The beast was quick, far quicker than it looked. Bloch parried a blow from the cleaver, but the force of the impact knocked the blade from his hands.
“Damn.”
Weaponless and isolated, there wasn’t much to do. Bloch scrabbled up the slope as fast as he could. Hands from the upper terrace reached down to pull him to safety. His hand grasped one of them and he felt himself hauled upward. His legs kicked at the slavering mass below. He felt his iron-tipped boot connect with something. A jawbone, maybe.
But horse-face was still after him. Springing powerfully, the creature launched itself up the incline, clawing at his legs. The beast’s cleaver swung down, just missing Bloch’s thigh as he scrabbled to get out of the way. The next blow wouldn’t miss. Bloch screwed his eyes up, waiting for the agonising blow.
A shot rang out. Horse-face spun back into the horde beyond. Its fall knocked several beasts from their feet, and the assault up to the terrace faltered. In the brief hiatus, fresh hands grabbed Bloch and pulled him over the lip of the higher ridge.
For a moment, he sat stupidly on the stone, catching his breath. That hadn’t been a good experience. Verstohlen came up to him, his pistol smoking.
“I could’ve handled it myself,” Bloch muttered.
Verstohlen smiled briefly.
“This is a common theme with you, I observe.”
The respite was brief. New, larger gors were making their way to the front. There were no higher terraces left to withdraw to. The halberdiers took up their weapons again. Bloch clambered to his feet, seized a fresh blade and steadied himself. His shoulder was killing him, every inch of his body was bruised and the ice-cold rain was beginning to chill him to the core.
“Come on then!” he roared, baring his teeth and waving his halberd over his head like an ale-raddled savage. From either side of him, his men burst into foul-mouthed support, hurling defiant obscenities into the air. For a moment, they looked more bestial than the monsters that attacked them, a skill no doubt learned in the alehouses on a beer-soaked festival of Ranald.
Despite everything, Bloch felt a glow of pride. They were his lads. Rough as old leather, to be sure, but his lads all the same. Finest men in the Empire. The beasts would have to clamber over every last one of them to get where they wanted to go.
He lowered his blade, located his target and waited for it to come to him.
Schwarzhelm narrowed his eyes. A change had taken place. Out on the plain, something was moving towards the Bastion. Hidden, to be sure. His eyes couldn’t quite focus on it. It wasn’t a shadow as such, more a slippery patch of nothingness. Whenever his gaze fell on it, it seemed to slide to one side. And it was picking up speed.
“Ah,” he said. He knew enough of dark magic to recognise it. The shamans were old, wily and powerful. Only a fool believed the beasts had no art of their own. Their ways were those of the forest, the dark places where the nightmares of men were given shape.
The path of no-vision crept closer. There were gors all around it, huge creatures, bull-horned and carrying massive spears of iron. Whatever was at the centre of that sphere of disruptive magic, it was greater than they were.
Schwarzhelm drew the Rechtstahl. In the rain, the steel shimmered. No dark magic would ever stain its flawless surface. Only the runefangs themselves were purer. He had carried his blade beside him for all the years he’d been Emperor’s Champion. His predecessor had done the same, as had his. For generations, the sacred sword had been borne into battle at the side of Ghal Maraz, and the departed souls of those great warriors who had wielded it in ages past were still present. At times, Schwarzhelm could sense their power imprinted on the cold metal. The best of humanity, forged in war, tempered by righteous wrath, locked into the spirit of the blade for eternity. In such things did true power lie.
He let the rainwater run down the edge, watching the liquid sheer from the flat and on to the stone. Was he worthy to carry it? He knew the doubt would never leave him, no matter how many horrors he slew. Only in death, the final tally reckoned up, would he have his answer.
Schwarzhelm turned from his vantage point to see Gruppen climbing up to meet him again. He looked as haggard as before. His helmet had been knocked from his head and an ugly weal ran across his brow.
“My lord,” he said, breathlessly. “We can withdraw no further. We are penned in on all sides. What are your orders?”
Schwarzhelm’s expression was wintry.
“He is here,” he said, watching the meagre light glint from the surface of the Rechtstahl. “His pride draws him on. Too early. By such misjudgements are battles lost.”
Gruppen looked perplexed.
“I do not—”
“Enough. Rally your knights. The doombull is approaching. I will contest him. Follow me.”
Grunwald fought on, though his strength was nearly spent. It felt like they’d been retreating from the very beginning of the engagement, step by bitter step. The Bastion was now entirely encircled. All ways down had long since been blocked by the horde. The lower terraces were gone, covered in swarming crowds of jubilant monsters and heaps of bodies. Amid them, the larger gors strode, lost in a fog of blood-drunkenness. The bodies of men lay trampled under their hooves. That sent them into still higher levels of fury. The stench of the creatures was as overpowering as their noise. Even above the blood, the aroma of death, the powerful musk of the wild forest rose in his nostrils.
He could no longer feel afraid. Nothing but a blank fatigue had taken over. His arms worked automatically, swinging the blade as heavily as he was able. By his side, his men were the same. Pale-faced, listless, driven into the ground by the remorseless advance. The beasts seemed to know no weariness. On they came, hammering at the lines of steel, desperate to sink their teeth into flesh and crush the hated trappings of the Empire into the mud.
Grunwald grasped his halberd and made ready for yet another charge. For all he knew, it would be his last. He didn’t know how many men had died. The army had been horribly diminished by the assault. Perhaps a third of those who had marched to the Bastion had made it their grave. Half of those left were barely able to wield a weapon. They remained, like Grunwald, trapped in the narrow terraces, fighting for their lives. The proud campaign to purge the forest was in tatters. He crouched low, trying to still the shaking in his hands. He was cold to the marrow, and his clothes hung from his exhausted frame in heavy, sodden bunches. This was it. The final assault.
But it never came. Against all hope, the gors withdrew. Grunting and shuffling, they pulled back down the slope. It was the same all along the front. Grunwald looked down the lines on either side of him. Men, all as weary as he, looked out across the seething mass of beastmen. None cheered. None rushed out to press home the advantage. They all knew that the movement presaged only some fresh horror. So they stayed where they were, hunched in the rain, leaning against their weapons.
Then the reason became apparent. The chanting started out again.
Raaa-grmm. There was no fervour in it this time, just a low, mournful dirge. Grunwald listened carefully. A name? Raghram? That sounded as close to a name as a beastman ever got. He peered into the gloom. Something was approaching.
Far down the dark slopes of the Bastion, a shifting cloud of shadow drew near. It hurt the eyes to look at it. It wasn’t dark exactly, just an absence of anything. To stare into such a thing was to look into one of the aspects of Chaos. It had no place in the world of matter. It was an aberration, a cloak of madness. All along the crowded terraces, men drew back slowly. There were muffled cries of dismay from further up, quickly stifled.
On either side of the approaching terror, ranks of bull-horned gors strode in silence. They made no noise. No bellows of rage, no earth-shaking growls of menace. In silence they swung their iron spears. In silence they stared up at the fragile rows of huma
n defenders. In silence they marched in unison, their knotted muscles evident under thick coats of twisted hair.
Behind them, the beasts fell into a trance-like state, chanting their endless mantra. The stone beneath Grunwald’s feet began to reverberate from the dull, repetitious sound. Even the rain seemed to lessen in the face of the grinding aural assault. When the water impacted against the swirling no-vision, it bounced off in steaming gouts. The very elements were horrified by the approaching outrage.
With a terrible certainty, Grunwald knew he was staring at defeat. No human could stand against such a creature. He felt his skin begin to crawl with sweat. His men were succumbing to panic. So this was the end. The battle had all been about this. With the defences strung out, weary, ready to crumble, Raghram had come. As the unholy vision drew nearer, he grasped his halberd with unsteady fingers. Though he knew it was hopeless, he prepared to leave the terrace and charge the monster. At least he would atone for his failure at the ridge.
“No further!” came a voice. It was as clear as a great bronze bell. Grunwald spun round.
Further up the slope of the Bastion, men still stood their ground. The Knights Panther, dismounted, naked broadswords in hand, barred the way. Their numbers had been thinned by the fighting, but Leonidas Gruppen was still among them, his uncovered face savage in the failing light. The preceptor was surrounded by his brothers in arms, all still encased in their dark, battle-ravaged armour.
At their head was Schwarzhelm. The wind whipped his cloak about him as he stood, feet planted heavily, sword resting on the stone.
“You have come too soon, beast of Chaos,” he said. His deep voice seemed to come from the heart of the Bastion itself. Even the gors halted, gazing at the human with a sudden doubt. “This blade has drunk deep of your kin’s blood before. It will do so again. You know its power. Look on it, horror of the void, and know despair.”
A sudden thrill ran through Grunwald’s body. On every side, halberds were raised into the air. Schwarzhelm was with them! Despair was replaced by a wild, desperate hope.
But then Raghram unveiled himself. The shroud of nothingness slipped from his shoulders, dissolving against the stone like smoke. He rose to his full height, towering over even Schwarzhelm’s mighty frame. He was vast and old, reeking of death and corruption. His eyes blazed blood-red and his leathery fingers clasped an axe the size of a man. Cruel horns, four of them, rose like a crown over his heavy brow and tusks hung from his ruined face. He wore twisted iron armour over his shoulders and breast, crudely hammered into place and daubed with the foul devices of the Dark Gods.
In that face there was malice, ancient malice, the long, slow bitterness of the deep wood. To gaze into that expression was to see the tortured, endless hatred of the primal world for all the doings of man. Nothing existed there but loathing. Nothing would quench its fury but death.
With a thunderous roar, Raghram cast off the last of his unnatural cloak and charged. The gors fell in beside him. Under the lowering sky, desperate and valiant, the knights stood to counter the assault. Schwarzhelm threw his cloak back and his blade flashed silver. Then all was lost in shadow.
Chapter Three
Crouched in his terrace, Bloch saw the change coming, felt it in the stone beneath his feet.
“Why have they stopped?” he hissed.
All down the line, the gors had ceased their attack. They pulled back from the terrace, leaving several yards of cold stone between them and the defenders. The narrow gap was dark with blood. Once withdrawn, they hung back, lowing ominously. Flickers of bone and steel glinted amongst the dull hides. It was getting dark. At the summit of the Bastion, braziers had been lit, but the flames did little to lift the gathering gloom. The stench remained powerful.
“They’re watching something,” said Apfel, a young Ostlander in his company. The boy looked pale under his sodden hair. Bloch peered into the shadow. The lad was right. The gors were holding back, craning their bull-necks over to the right. The low, grinding call started up again. Raaa-grmm. What in the underworld was that?
Verstohlen crouched beside him, cleaning his pistol absently while looking into the face of the horde.
“I’m needed elsewhere,” he said.
“Again?” said Bloch. “Where do you need to be now?”
“You can see the change. The architect of all this is here. They defer to him. The honour of the first kill will be his.”
The counsellor smiled softly. “How ironic. We do the same thing on our hunts. To the victor, the prestige of the mercy stroke. An interesting parallel.”
Bloch shook his head irritably. He had no idea what the man was going on about.
“Their commander’s here?” he snapped. “Is that why they wait?”
Verstohlen nodded, finished cleaning his weapon and stood up again.
“He thinks we’re broken. So now he shows himself. But Schwarzhelm still stands. And I must stand beside him.”
Bloch looked Verstohlen up and down, failing to suppress a sneer of disbelief. The counsellor was slim, urbane, civilised. More importantly, he wore no plate armour. He looked like he’d snap in a light breeze.
“You think he’ll want you with him?”
“Always.”
Verstohlen made to stride off towards the source of the most intense chanting. Bloch felt a sudden qualm.
“Wait!” He put his burly hand on the man’s shoulder. “If this thing’s to be settled, I should be there too.”
Verstohlen cast a glance at the ranks of beasts below, just a few yards distant.
“This respite is only temporary, Herr Bloch. They will come at you again soon. Stay with your men. Your place is here.”
Bloch felt his blood rising. Something in Verstohlen’s simple, clipped tone of command made him furious. He could cope with orders from a military man, but not from, well, whatever Verstohlen was. He raised his fist, searching for an appropriate insult.
He never found it. The beasts started to advance again. The chanting continued, ominous and in unison. Without saying another word, Bloch turned back to the defence. Behind him, unnoticed, Verstohlen slipped away. His leather coat flicked in the gloom and was then gone.
Bloch hefted his halberd. The staff was slick with rain. It suddenly felt heavy and hateful to him. The rush of battle-joy had long departed.
“One more time, lads,” he exhorted, trying to raise the spirits of his men. But in his heart, he knew they were running out of time. From below, snarling and growling, the scions of the forest came for them again.
Schwarzhelm readied himself as Raghram came at him. The doombull was massive. The musk around him was thick and cloying. Beneath his hooves, spoor clung to the rock, stinking. The wide bull-mouth bellowed. The axe swung, spraying rain. On either side of him, the Knights Panther took up their positions against the doombull’s entourage of gors. The elite troops of the two armies came together on the slopes of the Bastion, and the fury of the storm above was but an echo of the savagery of their encounter.
Schwarzhelm met the onslaught full on, blunting the full force of the charge. Coarse iron clashed with pure steel, sending sparks spinning into the shadows. The blow was heavy, far heavier than that of a man. Schwarzhelm judged it carefully, dousing the momentum without aiming to stop it. When the moment was right, he withdrew the blade, sprang aside and plunged a stabbing blow at the monster’s flank. It connected, and black blood pumped down the beast’s twisted legs.
On either side of him, Schwarzhelm could sense the presence of the knights. They were locked in combat with the gors. Dimly, right at the edge of his vision, he could see the ebb and flow of battle. A knight would fall, pierced with a cruel horn-tip. Or a beast would stumble, its chest opened by an Imperial blade. It was finely balanced.
But these were just the ghosts of images, flitting at the periphery. Ahead of him, roaring its rage, the doombull came again. Again the axe fell, again it was parried.
Schwarzhelm wielded the sword expertly, makin
g play of its speed and keenness. As it worked, the failing light flashed from the steel.
Schwarzhelm let the Rechtstahl guide his hand. He was a master swordsman, second only to one other in the entire Empire, but you could not wield a holy blade as if you owned it. The sword was its own master, and he was but the most recent of its stewards. Only after half a lifetime of wielding it did he understand some of its secrets. Most would never be uncovered.
Raghram maintained the charge and the axe swung like a blacksmith’s hammer. In the massive, bunched arms of the doombull, it looked like a child’s toy. Schwarzhelm saw the feint coming and angled the sword to parry. At the last moment, he shifted his weight. The blades clashed once more. Feeling the camber of the slope beneath his feet, adjusting for the force of the attack, he pushed back.
His arms took the full momentum of the doombull’s weight. For an instant, Schwarzhelm was right up against the monster. The ruined face was above his. The eyes, kindled with a deep-delved fire, blazed at him. Strings of saliva drooled down from the tooth-filled jaw. Raghram wanted to feast. He was drunk on bloodlust.
Then Schwarzhelm’s foot slipped. The rock was icy with surface water and he felt his armoured sabaton slide on the stone. The axe weighed down, the blade-edge hovering over his torso.
Schwarzhelm gritted his teeth, pushing against the weight. The power of the doombull was crashing, suffocating. But Schwarzhelm was no ordinary man. Tempered by a lifetime of war, his sinews had been hardened against the full range of horrors in the Old World. He’d stared into the rage-addled faces of greenskin warlords, the horror-drenched gaze of Chaos champions, the cruel and inscrutable eyes of the elves. All had met the same fate. This would be no different.
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