The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  And he did know. Vanhans had just used Karlich’s real name.

  He couldn’t have known. There was no way, despite the fact they had later fought together, that Karlich could have realised the crazed butcher who had burned down Rechts’s village and condemned its inhabitants to death would visit Karlich years later. The madman’s name was Grelle the Confessor, a self-proclaimed title, and he was the worst of the Order of Sigmar’s chaff. Death warrants were issued without cause, businesses and homes were put to the torch, innocents dangled from the noose. All of it served Grelle’s paranoid fixation with purity and what he believed was a Sigmar-given duty to rid the world of the wretched and the unclean.

  Grelle was the worst kind of charlatan: one who didn’t know it. Karlich, then Lothar, had turned a blind eye at first, hoping that the witch hunter and his retinue would soon leave. He resented him for the burnings and the deaths, but so long as it didn’t touch him or his family, he would keep his peace. Who knows, perhaps the victims of Grelle’s purgings were not victims at all? Perhaps they really were heretics? That was the mentality of fear talking, the desire to avoid persecution through acceptance, no matter how abhorrent. Lothar only realised this later and to his cost.

  It all changed when his wife, Helena… my beautiful Helena… cured an old man’s sickness with a herbal panacea. It was nothing more than alleviating the symptoms of a cough but Grelle saw only witchery in her selfless deeds. When Lothar was out gathering wood for the fire, the witch hunter and his cronies took his wife and daughter… oh, Sigmar, not Isobel… from their home and burned them both as witches.

  Lothar had seen smoke issuing from the village square and wondered why they’d lit a bonfire. A moment later he was running, the gathered firewood scattered in his wake. To that very day, Karlich couldn’t explain where the sense of urgency that filled him came from but he had never run harder in his life, nor since.

  Entering through the village gates, he inhaled the stench of burning meat. The fat sizzled and crackled in his ears like cruel laughter. It was too late for Helena, too late for his daughter. Battering his way through the jeering crowds, Lothar ripped at the fire-wreathed pyre, burning himself badly in the process. Rough hands seized him by the shoulders and he was hoisted off his knees where he wept and scrabbled at the smoking wood.

  Two of Grelle’s henchmen held him before their master.

  ‘Conspirator!’ Grelle denounced. ‘Warlock!’ he accused. The witch hunter’s face was partially hidden behind a cage-like helmet, his skin a patchwork of self-inflicted scars. He wore little more than leather and rags. His calloused feet and hands were bare. The stink of urine and stale sweat emanated off Grelle in a pall. His breath was redolent of dung. This was the wretched creature that had executed his beloved family. Lothar snapped. He cried out with such anguish and apoplexy it was as if his heart were breaking.

  Throwing off the minions, Lothar threw himself at the witch hunter. A charred log had rolled off the pyre and into the village square. He seized it and battered Grelle until his cage-helm was staved in and split his ugly visage. The henchmen, nothing more than bullies motivated by persecuting the weak and credulous, stood back in shock as Lothar brutalised their master. Even the rabid onlookers had lost their fervour. Stunned into abject silence, they could only watch.

  Grelle mewled in pain and self pity but Lothar pounded relentlessly through the man’s pleading. Red rimed his vision. When the log finally broke, he cast it aside and shoved Grelle’s face into the wet mud. It had been raining since dawn, though not enough to quench the fires that had so cruelly robbed Lothar of his family. The witch hunter suffocated in the mud. His thrashing protests didn’t last.

  Only when it was over did Lothar realise what he had done. His hands were bloody. His wife and child were nought but blackened corpses. Lothar fled, there and then, out into the forest. He’d killed a Templar of Sigmar. Others would come looking for him. Stay and he condemned everyone around him. More would die needlessly. That day Lothar Henniker died too. Feder Karlich was born in his stead.

  But now his old life had returned, like an exhumed corpse. The buzzing of its flies, the stink of putrefaction gave him away. He’d been careful, leaving only a shadow of his former existence, but even shadows can be caught if they spend too long near the light.

  The present rushed back to the sound of heavy guns. Meinstadt was firing the cannons held in reserve. The artillery was meant to pave the Empire army’s retreat, but it was more treacherous than being surrounded by orcs. A gout of earth exploded nearby, showering the struggling men with dirt. Karlich and Vanhans were in no-man’s-land, where the dead would soon linger.

  ‘You’ll kill us both,’ Karlich snarled, finding it difficult to speak with the witch hunter’s iron-hard palm pressing against his chin.

  Either Vanhans wasn’t listening or he didn’t care.

  ‘Lothar Henniker,’ he declared, ‘I accuse you of heretical murder and consorting with witches most foul.’ He reached for something with his free hand and pushed it against Karlich’s cheek.

  The sergeant screamed as red-hot iron seared his face.

  ‘See how the non-believer burns!’

  Vanhans was drunk with his ravings. He’d heated his talisman in one of the many fires around the battlefield, using it to convince himself of his own deluded mania.

  The thunderous retort of great cannon was getting louder.

  Vanhans tore the icon away, wrenching melted skin from Karlich’s face with it.

  ‘I name you daemon, skulking in the guise of man. The order will have vengeance, Sigmar demand–’

  Something hot and wet rained on Karlich’s face. At the same time he smelled warm iron and felt the passage of a large object soar overhead. The pressure at his chin lessened abruptly, enabling him to look down.

  Vanhans was dead. He’d been beheaded by a stray cannon ball. The bounce had taken off his skull at the chin. Lolling macabrely for a few seconds, his corpse collapsed, the Sigmarite icon still clenched in his fist. Rigor mortis would make it hard to reclaim later.

  Overcoming the shock, acutely aware that Meinstadt’s cannonade went on unabated, Karlich shoved off the witch hunter’s body and staggered to his feet. A cannon ball whined past him nearby and he cowered for a moment before ploughing towards the flash of harquebuses again.

  Shadows loomed in the smog, the orcs he had noticed earlier. Now they noticed him too, drawn by Vanhans’s ravings. They had his scent and grunted in anticipation of the kill.

  There were only two of them.

  Unarmed, it was one more than needed to kill Karlich. He’d lost his dirk in the scuffle.

  Fleeing was suicide. The greenskins were behind him and now they were in front of him, too. Something glinted nearby in the smog, catching what little light penetrated the gloom. Karlich reached for it, even as the pair of orcs closed, and his fingers gripped the hilt of a sword. It was Stahler’s. He recognised the rune on the blade. Without time to wonder what had happened to his captain, Karlich took up a fighting stance.

  A fight it was then.

  He’d need to make it quick. Despite the smog, the rest of the greenskin army couldn’t be far behind. Even deterred by the cannonade, some would still get through.

  The first lunged through the grey gloom, its silhouette resolving into an ugly visage of tusks and raw aggression. Karlich let it come, ducking its clumsy swipe and slicing it along the belly. Armour and flesh parted easily and the beast was disembowelled in a single cut. The second went to cleave off Karlich’s head but stopped mid-swing when it found a blade transfixed through its beady, red eye. Drooling blood, the orc collapsed a moment later.

  Karlich marvelled briefly at whatever craft had wrought the runeblade. Truly, there was power in the world of which he had no comprehension.

  Another explosion tinged the grey smog a fiery orange, spitting hot earth and shrapnel in a dea
dly cloud. Marvel or not, the runeblade wouldn’t stop him from being slain by a cannon ball. Karlich needed to get out of no-man’s-land, but he was like a ship without a compass. His bearings, despite the muffled din and flare of harquebus, were off. Salvation came from an unlikely quarter.

  ‘Sergeant Karlich! Sergeant Karlich!’

  He heard Lenkmann’s voice before he saw him and the Grimblades’ banner. It fluttered like a beacon in the smog. Hazy and indistinct, yes, but imposing enough to be visible from a longer distance. Karlich made for it at once.

  Lenkmann wasn’t alone. He had Volker with him.

  ‘Though you were dead,’ the Reikland huntsman hugged his sergeant warmly, who looked awkward at the gesture. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he added afterwards.

  Karlich smiled. ‘Forgotten,’ he replied. ‘Where’s the battleline?’

  Lenkmann looked to Volker, who frowned and looked around in the smog.

  ‘Volker?’ asked the banner bearer.

  ‘We’re close,’ he said. ‘Hard to get a strong trail in all this smoke.’

  Cannon balls and the dense impacts of mortar shells resonated around them with growing regularity.

  ‘Can’t we just go back?’ asked Karlich. ‘How did you find me?’

  Lenkmann shrugged. ‘Blind luck. I heard someone speaking through the mist and then I heard what sounded like your voice, too, sir. I followed it. Volker came with me.’ He glared at the huntsman who stayed close but was becoming indistinct in the mist with every foot that he trailed a route back. ‘The idea was for him to guide us back.’

  ‘Stop moaning, Lenkmann,’ Volker replied. ‘Must’ve got turned around. If Dog was alive…’ he muttered the last part.

  Nearby, they could hear more greenskins closing.

  ‘Whisper!’ Karlich hissed. ‘We don’t want that filth finding us in all this bloody smog. If only there were–’ the sergeant stopped abruptly when he saw another shadow heading for them in the gloom.

  ‘Captain Stahler?’

  It was hard to see for sure, but the figure wore Imperial trappings synonymous with Karlich’s captain and nodded. Keeping his distance, he beckoned them to follow him.

  ‘This way,’ Karlich said to the others. He made off after Stahler. ‘Captain,’ he added, brandishing the runeblade before him. ‘I found your sword.’

  Stahler’s response was to plough on through the fog and smoke, always a few feet again, just barely discernible.

  It wasn’t long before the grey veil receded and the rugged shape of the embankment began to form. Sporadic explosions illuminated it in grainy white light, banishing the darkness briefly before it reigned again.

  The heavy report of the volley gun was intense and devastating. Karlich had never seen one used in battle before. It fired with a crank-choom, crank-choom cadence, spitting out tongues of flame with every shot.

  As they were emerging from the smog, Karlich realised he’d lost sight of Captain Stahler. His attention had lapsed for only a few seconds, drawn by the spectacle of the guns.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Where’s who?’ asked Volker.

  Karlich fixed him with an angry glare. ‘Now isn’t the time. Stahler, where is the captain? I just saw him a moment ago. He led us out of the killing field.’

  Lenkmann was shaking his head. ‘It was just the three of us. I thought you had found a route through the smog…’ The banner bearer paled a little and looked as if he were about to vomit.

  The sight of Masbrecht, Brand and Greiss running towards them prevented Karlich’s immediate reply.

  ‘Sigmar’s blood, it’s good to see you, sergeant.’ Masbrecht clapped Karlich on the shoulder and nodded to the others.

  ‘We very nearly didn’t make it back at all,’ said Volker.

  They walked and talked. The rest of the Grimblades were just beyond the embankment with the rest of the Empire army. They were pulling back the entire force.

  ‘Wilhelm’s retreating,’ said Brand flatly. ‘The greenskins have won. So how did you get back?’

  Lenkmann’s eyes were hooded and he looked down.

  ‘The sergeant found a way,’ said Volker.

  ‘And I thought you were the scout,’ offered Greiss with a grin.

  Volker gave him a stern look but in mild jest.

  Much of the urgency surrounding the withdrawal had subsided. The spiked palisades were lowered over the abatis-filled trench, spanning them for the retreating regiments to cross. At least Wilhelm’s escape plan was proving successful. The cannonade combined with the confusion of the smog had dissuaded all but the dumbest or most bloodthirsty greenskins from pursuit. The few that did make it through were soon cut down and those numbers dwindled by the minute.

  Over the hill, past the slowly reforming lines of handgunners and crossbowmen, there was a scene of mass upheaval. Captains and sergeants bellowed for order, shifting banners hither and thither in an effort to achieve some kind of cohesion in the ranks. Many soldiers had been separated in the rout, those who lived were only just returning to their regiments. Horns and drums were beating in a cacophony. Runners ferried messages back and forth with frantic gusto. Waggoneers and drovers laid carts with remaining supplies. Some of the baggage train carried the dead and wounded. Hundreds would have to be left in the smog for the greenskins to eat and butcher. No one spoke of it.

  Slowly, laboriously, a line of march began to form. Wilhelm was seen near the front, at a distance, marshalling his officers. The cadre had thinned distinctly since the battle. Ledner was alive, much to Karlich’s disappointment. He was exchanging words with Captain Vogen, about halfway up the line. Instructions from the prince, no doubt.

  Journeymen in teams of five and six hurried past Karlich and the others, bound for the war machines. The last of the army was packing up and readying to move to Sigmar only knew where. Defeat at Averheim was not fully countenanced, it seemed to the sergeant. What happened next was anyone’s guess.

  Karlich surveyed the milling crowds as Lenkmann led them back to the rest of the Grimblades.

  ‘Where is Captain Stahler?’ asked the sergeant. ‘I want to return his sword.’

  Brand looked over his shoulder. His face was cold like an iron mask.

  ‘It’s yours now, sir,’ he said in all seriousness.

  Karlich frowned.

  As they neared the regiment he noticed a sullen-looking wagon with a bodyguard of six silent Griffonkorps, last survivors of the goblin fanatics. Three bodies were lying on it, partially covered by red blankets with gilded trim. They looked like the dead warriors’ cloaks. One face was visible, the other two were shrouded.

  It was Masbrecht who spoke. His tone was sombre and sepulchral. ‘Captain Stahler is dead. Someone found him on his horse. His body had no fresh injuries. It was like he’d just died.’

  Karlich tore his eyes off the corpse as a priest of Morr driving the wagon covered its face.

  Somewhere behind the sergeant, Lenkmann threw up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The long retreat

  Beyond the Stirland border, Stirland,

  433 miles from Altdorf

  Averland was no longer deemed safe. Harried all the way by warbands from Grom’s army, Wilhelm led his troops north across the border and into Stirland. Here in peasant country, the lay of the land was no better. As in Averland, villages and towns were burning. Some of the smaller hamlets were little more than ashen husks; Grom had made bonfires out of them. Doomsayers and refugees littered the province like disconsolate sheep.

  Whereas Averland was largely flat and wealthy, Stirland was rugged and poor. To the east was Sylvania, a shadow of a land that lingered like a dirty secret everyone already knew. The von Carsteins had once ruled over it, a house of aristocratic fiends whose last scion had fallen to Count Martin’s runefang. Strangely, in the vampires’ absence, it was e
ven more a haunted place of which few Stirlanders spoke and fewer still ventured. As for Stirland itself, it was hilly and the last tranches of the Great Forest crept over its northernmost reaches as if to colonise it with its forbidding arbours. Rural, down to earth, Stirland’s people were slow to change and quick to cast suspicion, especially on outsiders. It made for a bleak and unwelcoming vista as the army crossed the border, most of its watchtowers already smoking ruins.

  On the third day of the march, armed outriders approached the column. They rode black mares that matched the colour of their hair, and carried harquebus and bows. Most of the riders wore dark caps of Stirland green. Their leather hauberks, hose and tassets were grimy. A quick parley with the leader of the fifty-strong group, a dirty-faced sergeant with an eye-patch and a dark beard, went down the line in short order. Wurtbad was the nearest, possibly the only, safe city in the province.

  Despite the obvious provincial differences, Wilhelm was still a prince of the Empire and as such the Stirland outriders insisted on escorting him to their capital. Faster riders, without armour and carrying dirks, were sent ahead to bring advance word to Lord Protector Krieglitz.

  All being well, the Reiklanders and their guides would reach Wurtbad in two days.

  Wurtbad was not like Altdorf. Nor did it resemble Averheim. To the rest of the Empire, these were magnificent cities, shining testimonies to the achievements of man. Wurtbad, despite its bustling trade, its markets and its white walls, was a grim place. The mood was hardly helped by the greenskin hordes rampaging not so far from its border. They’d sent flocks of refugees before them, like cattle chased by the drover’s whip. Rustic, backward and generally unwashed, they lent an air of bigotry and superstition that the count would rather leave in his hinterlands, not confront on his doorstep.

  Karlich scowled back at a native Stirlander who was passing by in the near-deserted street. Though Lord Protector Krieglitz had allowed the Reiklanders entry to his capital, the army was to be billeted outside in tents. Only Wilhelm and his entourage were permitted to lodge within its walls. Forays into town by small bands of the soldiery were allowed, however, in order to drink and forget their troubles, if only for a short time. Such ‘excursions’ went by rote, a few regiments at a time. Karlich and the Grimblades were currently enjoying their rotation in what was regarded ‘the wine capital of the Empire’.