01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  His men were now using whatever weapons they could find. Some still had their halberds, others swords, others hunting knives. The defences held, but they were being run ragged. Bloch had ordered a withdrawal further up the slope just to avoid fighting knee-deep in their own dead. As the beating sun rose higher up into the sky, the pungent smell of the corpses began to strengthen.

  That only seemed to spur the greenskins on. Their attacks were coordinated, but they were also feral. They’d lost none of their energy for the fight, despite the casualties they’d taken. As the balance of numbers had shifted they’d started picking off men in gangs. Bloch had seen single troopers born down by three or more greenskins, their bodies trampled into the mud until they were little more than slicks of blood.

  He focussed on the charging orc lines. That wouldn’t be his fate. He lowered his halberd, gritted his teeth and braced for impact.

  The orcs thundered into the human ranks again. There were too many gaps in the line of steel, and some broke through. Swordsmen immediately raced to engage them. The combat was close, murderous and heavy. There was barely room to swing a blade, let alone wield a halberd properly. This kind of intense melee suited the greenskins better. The defenders were being butchered.

  Bloch traded vicious blows with his target, a brutal-looking warrior orc with three tusks protruding from its maw. It was far heavier than he was and carried a crude warhammer in both hands. As the hammer came down, Bloch’s broken halberd shaft shivered. The warrior advanced, swinging his weapon wildly. If it connected just once, the game was over. Bloch swayed out of reach, thrusting back with his halberd when he could. He was driven back. The men at his shoulder were pushed up the hill alongside him. They couldn’t hold the charge.

  He heard the spearman beside him go down rather than saw it. A spray of hot blood splattered down his cheek. For a moment, the man’s scream drowned out the rest of the battle clamour. Then he was gone, and another defender took his place in the line. They were being thinned out.

  The prospect of defeat maddened him. Bloch charged forward, no longer worried about becoming exposed. Something needed to be done to break the momentum.

  His blade moved with speed, flashing in the sun. The warhammer-wielder was too slow. Bloch sliced through his defences, carving the green chest open and throwing up gouts of blood.

  He could sense men following his lead. He wasn’t alone. In every direction, humans pushed back against the orc assault. The cries of pain told him they were being cut down. The defenders didn’t have the numbers to back an assault up. The orcs were stronger, fresher and better-armed. A strange, guttural sound rose up into the air. They were laughing.

  “Sigmar!” yelled Bloch, trying to conjure something, anything up. He whirled his blade around, cutting down any orcs who strayed into its path. With hopelessness came savagery.

  Then, from the summit of the hill, a lone trumpet rang out. Grunwald had ordered the retreat. At last.

  Bloch stood his ground. He could hear the clatter of arms as men on the far side of the ridge broke through the thinnest point in the orc ranks and attempted to break the ring of iron around them. They should have done it hours ago. Even now, they risked being cut down as they fled.

  “Hold your positions, you swine!” roared Bloch, wielding his halberd with renewed vigour. “Give them time to get away. We leave last!”

  His words were wasted on some, those who had already turned tail. His was a diminished company that fought its way steadily back up the hill. They gave ground a yard at a time, never breaking, never losing shape. Bloch fought with a steady, controlled anger. He was damned if he could see a way out of this, but wasn’t going to run yet.

  Then, all around him, fresh troops arrived. Grunwald’s personal guard, thrown into the melee to shield the retreating men behind. The commander was at the forefront, slicing through the orc ranks with his broadsword.

  The strokes were expert. Deadly. Bloch had never witnessed that side of him. The man knew how to wield a blade.

  Bloch fought his way to Grunwald’s side.

  “How many can we get away?” he shouted, felling an orc warrior with a savage stab from the halberd even as he came alongside the commander.

  “What’re you still doing here?” grunted Grunwald, grappling with a huge red-eyed monster. It took three of them to drop the orc. Behind its toppled corpse, more greenskin warriors rushed forward.

  “Flee!” Grunwald snapped at Bloch, his eyes wild with desperation. “The men need leading!”

  For a moment, Bloch didn’t understand.

  “Are you not—”

  Grunwald turned to face him for a brief instant. His face was grim. The man had been in heavy fighting, and his leg had been hastily bandaged. He wouldn’t get far.

  “I’ll hold them here as long as I can. Rally the men. Head for Heideck. That’s an order, Herr Bloch.”

  Then the orcs charged again. Grunwald raised his sword.

  “Sigmar!” he roared, and his men echoed the battle cry. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

  Bloch looked around, struck by indecision. All those who could were running, sprinting down the far side of the rise. They were strung out, no formation at all. They’d be picked off like flies.

  He looked back over to Grunwald. Every fibre of his being wanted to stay. He’d never walked away from a fight in his life, not when he could look his opponent in the eye. He was caught in an agony of indecision. That was dangerous. He was still in the middle of the fighting.

  A greenskin lumbered up to him, maybe seeing the torment in his eyes. Snapping back into focus, Bloch ran at it, swinging his halberd into the warrior’s flank with all the strength he could muster. The blade bit, lodging in the green flesh. He ducked under the counter-stroke and punched the orc square between the eyes. Once, twice, three times, each with an armoured gauntlet, quick and brutal. The orc slumped to the earth, its face a mess of broken bones. Bloch pulled a knife from his belt and finished the job.

  He looked up. There were orcs everywhere. The shape of the battle had dissolved. Whole companies of men were streaming down the far side of the hill. A few yards away, the last knot of resistance on the ridge still held out. Grunwald’s men were tough, but it couldn’t last forever. An orc warrior got through, but Grunwald met the charging creature, parried two blows, but his back was unprotected. A fresh warrior leapt up to take advantage.

  “Commander!” shouted Bloch, powerless to prevent it. The orc blade plunged deep. Somehow, Grunwald managed to finish off his opponent, but the blood was already beginning to gush. He fell to the ground, still grappling with the second warrior. Then his body passed from view, hidden by the press of men and orcs around. He was gone.

  For the moment, the orcs were still consumed with the need to bring down Grunwald’s defensive formation. They were drawn to it like wasps to a honeypot. Bloch hesitated, aware of the danger, unwilling to leave.

  It was hopeless. The field was lost. His duty was to the men that remained.

  “Sigmar forgive me,” he spat, as he turned tail and headed down the hill, tearing after the fleeing column of men ahead. There were orcs swarming everywhere, and their attention was rapidly turning to the retreating human forces.

  Bloch felt sick. He’d left behind the chance of an honourable death, but he might still meet a dishonourable one. The only thing that would make up for that was if he could rally the fragments of Grunwald’s command and get them away. He gripped the broken halberd tightly, looking for fresh targets. There’d be plenty more killing before the day was done.

  Schwarzhelm lowered the gavel, and the noise echoed around the chamber. Immediately the crowd ceased their chatter. Those still standing took their seats. The first session of the Estates Tribunal was convened. At last, the process was underway.

  The chamber was in the largest audience room in the Averburg citadel. It was one of the oldest parts of the ancient castle still in use, as indicated by the worn stone of the walls and the archaic na
rrow windows. The space was barely big enough for all those who were entitled to attend. The appointment of an elector was a major event in the province, and the hall was stuffed with every notable who believed they had a right to be there. Schwarzhelm suspected that Dagobert had been weak in his admissions policy, and many who sat on the long wooden pews were simply rich enough to be able to buy a seat. That irritated him. This was a serious procedure, not a bear-baiting spectacle.

  Aside from the noble onlookers, there were dozens of loremasters, scholars and other legal experts in attendance. This was the kind of debate they lived for. Some of them were in the pay of Leitdorf, or Grosslich, or—if they were very clever—both. Others were simply there for the joy of witnessing a long and turgid academic debate on the finer points of law.

  Schwarzhelm had in front of him a list of names Verstohlen had prepared. They indicated what each of them was likely to say and why. Not for the first time, he was glad to have the services of such an able man. There had been a time when the Temple of Sigmar might have taken him away. Verstohlen would have made a formidable witch hunter. Operating as the personal agent of the Emperor’s Champion seemed to suit his temperament better, which was something to be thankful for. He knew why that was, of course. He’d never forget why that was.

  Schwarzhelm sat behind a heavy wooden desk on a raised dais. Below him, scribes were poised to record the events of the day. On the front row of pews before him, Leitdorf sat with Natassja. He looked bored. He wore a turban-like headdress and was draped in an ostentatious purple robe. It did nothing but display his rotund stomach. Clearly, the man had never lifted a sword in his life. If he hadn’t been so wealthy, and potentially so powerful, surely a capable woman like Natassja wouldn’t have had anything to do with him.

  On the other side of the room, Grosslich’s delegation had gathered. Heinz-Mark sat apart from the others, dressed in ceremonial armour. Unlike his rival, he looked like a future elector. His supporters, including the weasel-faced Ferenc, were set some distance behind.

  “My lords,” said Schwarzhelm, his rolling voice echoing around the room. The scribes below him immediately started scraping. “This Estates Tribunal is now in session.”

  At a hidden signal from Tochfel, a priest of Sigmar stood up and delivered a lengthy benediction. After him, an Ulrican did the same. Schwarzhelm felt his spirits begin to sag. There was no prospect of this being either quick or easy. As far as he could tell from the legal papers, both candidates had equally flawed cases. Rufus was rumoured to be illegitimate and came from a family in which madness had been proven. Many powerful families had threatened to leave Averland if he were crowned. Grosslich, on the other hand, had dubious claims to being a member of the ruling elite at all. He’d bought his support amongst the Alptraums. If it were not for his extreme popularity with the lower classes, his candidacy would have foundered long ago. His was an intriguing story.

  When the prayers had taken their long and dreary course, Schwarzhelm returned to the business of the day.

  “According to the articles of the court, I will now hear the opening statements of the candidate’s advocates. As the son of the late Count Marius, I now give the floor to—”

  “My lord!” came a cry from the floor. A lawyer stood up. Schwarzhelm thought he recognised the man from Leitdorf’s delegation. “I wish to lodge an objection. The business of determining an elector is for the authorities in Averland. The Emperor can have no say in the matter. According to the learned Jeroboam of Gruningwold, since the year 1345 the Procurators Legal have ruled that…”

  The man droned on for some time, outlining the case for provincial self-determination. Schwarzhelm looked down at Leitdorf. The odious little man was smiling to himself as his lackey reeled out the arguments. There would be more such interruptions as the day went on. Too many people wanted the tribunal to fail. Too many had the money to sponsor interruptions.

  Eventually, the lawyer finished his argument.

  “Your objection is noted and overruled,” said Schwarzhelm. He worked hard to keep his voice level. He was already getting a headache. The objection had been anticipated, and he had the counter-arguments ready to hand. “My learned friend will be aware of the Drusus Precedent, dating to the time of Mandred. The summary of the principal is contained in the Volksfram Chronicles. Under the articles contained therein, I invoke the extraordinary right of the supreme governor of the Imperial executive. I am his representative, and the tribunal will continue.”

  The lawyer sat down, looking pleased with himself. No doubt he’d earn himself a few crowns for the intervention.

  “If we may continue?” said Schwarzhelm, sweeping his gaze across the packed chamber. It was early morning, but the room was already getting hot.

  “My lord!” came a cry from further back. Another lawyer rose. You will of course be familiar with the prescriptions contained in the Averland Charter of Freedoms of 1266, under which the jurisdiction of the Imperial representative may be limited in the following cases.

  Schwarzhelm sighed. There’d be a number of these to get through before the tribunal could get underway. Leitdorf had sat back in his pew, legs outstretched, and looked like he might be planning a snooze. Grosslich appeared frustrated and had turned to his own advisers. They’d no doubt start chipping in with points of their own.

  Schwarzhelm fingered the pommel of the Rechtstahl as the lawyer droned on. It hung at his side, useless and decorative. He’d have given anything for an excuse to draw it. But for now he was a captive of the arcane mysteries of Imperial succession law.

  He let the blade alone and tried to concentrate on what the man was saying. It was going to be a very, very long day.

  Bloch felt as if his heart would burst. If not that, then his lungs would. He’d been running for longer than he’d ever done in his life. Just as at Turgitz, all those years of ale and offal-pies now felt like a very bad idea. He could feel the sweat running down the inside of his jerkin in rivulets. He’d long since cast off his helmet and the heavier items of plate armour, but he still felt bogged down.

  “Enough!” he gasped, and came to a stop. All around him, men fell to their feet, panting like dogs. They were at the end of their strength, both from the retreat and from the hours of fighting that had taken place before it. Though they’d escaped the pursuing orcs for now, there wasn’t a triumphant expression among them. They knew the greenskins would be hard on their heels. It was only a matter of time before they’d have to turn and fight again.

  Bloch could feel his vision begin to cloud at the edges. Fatigue was beginning to weigh him down. Not yet. He needed to keep going just a little longer.

  He looked around. Somehow, against all likelihood, some of them had outrun the orcs and made it into the cover of woodland. They were barely a mile west of the site of the massacre. Under the scant cover of the trees, they at least had some chance of remaining undetected for a while. It wouldn’t last for long. Though Grunwald’s last stand had taken the brunt of the greenskin assault, the respite had only been brief. The pursuit would already be underway. They’d have to start running again soon.

  More men arrived, crashing heavily through the undergrowth. Some carried their halberds, while others had discarded everything in their panic. The remnants of Grunwald’s army he’d managed to gather together from the rout were pitiful. Three hundred or so had made it to the woods. Perhaps others had found other ways to escape. If they still were out on the open country, they’d be easy pickings for the orcs.

  For a moment, Bloch was utterly at a loss. He was exhausted, his men were exhausted, and there was nowhere to go. Heideck was miles away. They’d be lucky to get halfway there before being overtaken. There were no obvious choices.

  “Sir?” came a voice. Bloch turned round. A young spearman was looking straight at him. He seemed in better physical shape than many of the rest and his cheeks weren’t hollow with fatigue. “The benefits of youth. What do we do now?”

  Bloch stared back. He’
d always prided himself on his ready answers, his quick tongue, his self-command. During his years as a company captain, he’d never been placed in a position where his best course of action seemed uncertain. There had always been the strategic picture handed down from above. He’d just had to look after tactics. After Grunwald’s death, things were different. There was no one left to give the orders but him. He remembered his disdain for Grunwald. It was the same casual contempt he’d always had for senior officers. If he’d known then what he knew now, maybe that quick tongue would have been sheathed more often.

  He took a deep breath. Something needed to be done. If he didn’t act now, then they were all dead without so much as a fight being offered.

  “Any officers make it out?” he said, addressing all the men around him. More soldiers were arriving every moment, staggering through the bracken. For the time being, there was no sign of the pursuing orcs. That was one small mercy.

  “Schlosser was first away,” said one. “He drew a lot of orcs. I reckon they’ll have got him.”

  “Rasmussen’s dead,” said another.

  Not very encouraging. The men around him were state troopers. Some experienced hands, but none who could share the burden of command.

  “So be it,” Bloch said, trying to sound more authoritative than he felt. “We can’t stay here. Anyone still with heavy armour, get rid of it. Take one weapon only, the lightest you have. We’ve still got a long way to go before we get out of this, and those monsters don’t tire quickly.”

  All around him, men hurried to obey his orders. Bloch felt a degree of confidence return. He’d commanded soldiers for years. He knew what he was doing. If they stuck together, kept their discipline, there’d be a way out. Somehow.

  “Any Averlanders among you?” Several men came forward. “I want guides who know the woodland. We’ll head for Heideck, but not by the straightest route. Between you, come up with a trail we can follow that keeps us under cover.”