‘Did you know?’ he asked when they were out of earshot.
Ledner pursed his lips.
‘Of course you did,’ said the prince, ‘you know everything concerning my business, even when I do not.’ The remonstration in his tone bordered on outright anger.
‘Had I acted sooner, the perpetrator would have escaped, slipped its noose,’ Ledner replied. Utterly calm, it was hard to tell he’d incurred the ire of an Imperial prince, one that could have him executed with but a command to his knights. ‘You’d be supping poison in your evening tonic or finding a viper in your bathwater, my lord. Perhaps a keg of blackpowder, fused and lit, rolled into your tent or a dagger in the back as you consulted your officers. Murder needn’t be subtle or clean. But this I know: if you have an assassin within your grasp, you let him come…’ Ledner made a fist, ‘…and crush him when he’s close enough to touch.’
‘You’ve made your point, Adolphus,’ Wilhelm conceded, ‘but if I find out you’ve used me as bait again, we will have words, you and I. Don’t think me one of your tools to be manipulated.’
Ledner nodded contritely. ‘Understood, my prince.’
‘Good.’ Wilhelm slowed his steed to allow the line of march to catch up. ‘Now, tell me what faces us at Nuln.’
Ledner looked westward, his gaze unwavering. ‘Blood, my prince. Rivers of blood are what await us there.’
Eber was saddened to learn of the death of his comrades. He rejoined the regiment outside Wurtbad, one of the many ‘walking wounded’ pressed back into service for what was being called the ‘Preservation of Reikland’. He had liked Rechts most of all, despite his bad temper, and Masbrecht had always struck him as a gentle soul. These men were more than his comrades; they were his family, in lieu of the one that had cast him out so cruelly when he was a boy.
He ached when he moved. His gait felt awkward and his breath came laboured after walking long distances. After the horrific knife attack, Eber was not the man he once was, the ox no longer. That saddened him too, but he vowed to stand and fight anyway, to ensure no more of his brothers in the Grimblades died if he could help it.
Something was going on. Two days of silence with Nuln growing closer all the while told him that. It was more than just grief affecting the other halberdiers. Eber had wondered if Ledner was the cause, that there was more to the deaths of his fellows than first appeared. Allegedly, the Middenlander Torveld had killed them. He’d also learned from Karlich that it was now a matter of military record that the soldier had done it out of revenge for what he saw as the Grimblades’ culpability in the destruction of his regiment. A head wound supposedly afflicted the poor man, ‘affected his humours’ so the scrivened words of the physician went.
‘Madness took him and it ended in blood,’ Karlich had said, though it was clear he did not believe this fully, and that to utter the half lie rankled with the sergeant. Later, when he was sure prying eyes weren’t watching, he’d spoken differently. ‘Torveld was a bastard,’ he’d said, whispering, ‘but not a murderer, not like that.’
Eber had then learned of some of Ledner’s role, at least that he was involved somehow, but nothing more. It was another reason for Karlich to hate the spymaster. Rumours abound that witnesses had been paid off or silenced in order to foster Ledner’s lie. The soldiers in the Grimblades’ regiment were painted as victims of circumstance, which they were, only not in the way the spymaster had portrayed.
Eber was not gifted with the quickest wit; he knew that and accepted his limitations. Some people regarded him as credulous and gullible, but even he knew the story was a falsehood before Karlich had confided in him. He didn’t dig for further answers, assuming they were best left unearthed, but it laid an uncomfortable pall over his brothers in arms that he didn’t like.
He decided to do something about it and broke into bellowing song.
‘The Burgher of Bögen had such girth, ’tis a wonder his mother did give birth…’
He’d learned the ditty years ago. Though his voice was not as strong as Rechts’s had been, Eber gave it his all.
‘…to a brute of a son without much grace, feet from the Moot and a round, red face!’
At the end of the front rank, he glanced sideways at Karlich who joined him in the second verse that added further scorn on to the Burgher of Bögen’s ‘legend’. Pretty soon, all of the Grimblades were singing. Volker, who became drummer in Rechts’s absence, beat out the marching rhythm. It spread down the column. The Averlanders and Stirlanders in the army took up the song, too. They didn’t know the words but it was unimportant. The halflings brought out pipes and spoons by way of instrumental accompaniment. Even the dwarfs hrummed and hroomed to the tune. It was a strange, discordant sound, likened to the filling and exhaling of bellows or the slow movement of earth. No man could repeat it.
Eber came to the end of the song, a rousing crescendo supplied by the enthusiastic Mootlanders and the mood lightened.
Volker laughed loudly, there was relief in the gesture, and slapped Eber on the back. It drew a wince from the burly Reiklander that he hid well behind a broad smile.
‘It’s been many years since I heard that marching song.’ It was Vogen, touring the line on his steed, seeing to the courage and morale of the men. His task was almost done for him and he smiled, twisting his large moustaches upwards. He trotted over to Karlich, maintaining pace with that part of the column.
‘Captain,’ said the sergeant, and the others in the front ranks followed suit.
‘Your voice would benefit from some melody, though,’ Vogen said to Eber with a subtle wink at Karlich.
Eber nodded then flushed a little.
‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ the portly captain from Kemperbad told them, whilst adjusting the belt at his waist. ‘I am not Stahler, but he told me much of the men in his command,’ he added, smoothing his beard with a gauntleted hand. Vogen was so bulky and broad he had more in common with the dwarf exiles than his own kith and kin.
‘Then he would’ve said the Grimblades respect their officers,’ answered Karlich. It was the first time he’d really spoken to Captain Vogen. With Nuln looming like a black cloud on the horizon, he wondered if it would be the last.
Further down the line another marching song began.
‘We’ll need our spirits up for what’s to come,’ said Vogen. It was like he’d reached in and grasped at Karlich’s thoughts. He found he liked the man at once. The captain looked down at the sergeant’s hip.
‘That was his sword, wasn’t it?’ There was sorrow in his voice.
Karlich nodded humbly.
‘It’s good that you keep it,’ Vogen told him. ‘Stahler would’ve wanted that, to fight with us at the end.’
‘And is it “the end”?’ asked Karlich, the old scars on his face starting to itch.
Vogen looked to the west, as if trying to scry their destinies. ‘Of the campaign? Yes, I believe it will end in the Reik. We’ll give our blood for that land, more than any other. No son of Reikland will abandon it. Our bodies would litter the fields before that ever happened.’ The grim mood returned for a spell. Sensing it, Vogen changed the subject.
‘We’ll be joining up with reinforcements from inside the province,’ he said. ‘Garrisons from Blood Keep and Grünburg are assembling to the north of the city. It’s mainly a citizen militia force but these are Reikland men with Reikland blood – I’d take that over hirelings any day of Mitterfruhl. The barrack houses will arm them and we must be ready to meet them near the border. Together, we’ll turn back the green tide.
‘We need only bloody their nose. Survival of the Reik, and by extension the Empire, is all that matters now.’
‘Sir…’ Volker interrupted.
Karlich shot him a stern glance before following the scout’s pointing finger towards the horizon. They’d just crested a rise and the lay of the Reikland had unfolded
before them in the distance. It was not all they saw.
A thin haze of smoke drifted languidly above another range of hills.
The spate of singing stopped as the other regiments saw it too.
Lenkmann narrowed his eyes. ‘What is that?’
A solitary horn rang out. Captain Vogen was needed at the head of the column. He rode off without a word.
‘It’s Nuln,’ said Brand, voicing aloud what everyone was thinking.
The capital of the Empire was already burning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Burning in black
Outside Nuln, capital of the Empire,
289 miles from Altdorf
A day later they reached Nuln. There was little of the city left. A flickering shell of a city danced with shadows created by the fires within. Nuln’s once proud walls were ransacked and gaping, like a festering wound. A killing field littered the land outside it. Men in the black tunics of the capital lay dead in their droves, broken remains of war machines were scattered around like chaff and fat flies droned about the carcasses of steeds in noisome clouds.
Before coming to the capital, Wilhelm had almost emptied Kemperbad on the way. There was just a skeleton garrison left behind. The reinforcements were mainly citizen levies again, the prince’s legend having spread to all men of the Reik, who pledged to his cause as their worthy and noble saviour. The army’s stay was brief but as Wilhelm and his warriors rode through the square, children placed garlands around their necks, women gave prayers and men their strength of arms. Young and old, strong and infirm, all swore to fight for Wilhelm and the Reikland.
At Nuln, they barely reached the city’s outer milestone. At Kemperbad, Wilhelm not only gained troops and goodwill, he also discovered that Nuln’s army had been defeated, the city sacked. The forces due to meet them from Grünburg and Blood Keep had apparently joined up with the defenders. How many now survived was unknown. It might be none.
Grom had moved on but some of his warbands remained. They’d come to a nervous halt and the Empire column broke ranks as the men, unable to comprehend the horror of their glorious capital as a blackened ruin, wandered loose and suddenly bereft of hope.
A ragged-looking scout approached Prince Wilhelm, who rode a little way out to meet him with three of his Griffonkorps in close attendance. The boy was almost battered to the ground by a knight’s armoured steed before the prince ordered them to stand back and let the poor wretch through.
‘Nothing left, my liege,’ he said, breathlessly. A runner from the baggage train brought him water and he drank deeply before continuing. ‘The army was defeated. All except Lord Grundel, who holds the west quarter of the city…’ At that the distant echo of cannon fire rang out.
‘Albrecht Grundel,’ muttered Ledner, close by. ‘He was… vocal in court at the lassitude of the Nuln army. Likely, he kept his household troops well drilled, unlike the city-state forces.’ He looked down at the messenger from atop his steed and gestured to the fallen soldiers in the distance. Wilhelm had ordered the column be brought up short of the city after hearing the news out of Kemperbad. ‘Where are the rest, boy? This can’t be it.’
‘Altdorf, my lord. The rest fled to Altdorf.’ The scout ferreted around inside his jerkin, pulling out a scrap of parchment. ‘I was given this by Captain Dedricht.’
‘Do we know him?’ Wilhelm asked Ledner in a low voice.
‘Commander of the Grünburg force,’ he said, as one of the Griffonkorps dismounted and stalked up to the boy. Snatching the parchment, the knight delivered it to the prince a moment later before getting back on his steed.
Wilhelm frowned as he read.
Retreated across the hills. Nuln is defeated. Blood Keep and Grünburg are still at fighting strength. More regiments are arriving from Helmgart and Ubersreik. Will meet on the Axe Bite Road between Bögenhafen and Altdorf. Faith in Sigmar.
Capn. Elias Dedricht
‘Faith in Sigmar,’ Wilhelm muttered and clenched the parchment in his fist. The prince’s face was grim. He lifted the spyglass to his eye. Nuln’s gatehouse was badly breached and offered an unobstructed view into the heart of the city. His expression hardened further.
‘Ranald’s teeth, the Paunch will pay in blood! I see chariots roaming Nuln’s streets and orcs run amok.’ He put down the spyglass before he broke it in a fit of rage. The scout balked beneath the prince’s glare.
‘What’s become of the Golden Palace?’
‘S-stripped b-bare, my liege. It’s nothing but a pen for the greenskins’ beasts.’
The poor lad was on the verge of collapse. They’d get nothing further from him. Ledner was about to press for more when Wilhelm raised a hand to stop him.
‘Enough. Go to the baggage train,’ he said to the scout. The lad blinked back tears from inside a soot-blackened face. Dried blood caked his dirty hair. ‘Tell them to give you food and water. You’re to ride in one of the carts until we reach Altdorf. Tell them it’s the prince’s order. Now go.’
The lad bowed profusely and scurried off towards the distant baggage trains.
‘What now?’ asked Ledner. ‘What of the capital?’
‘Men grew fat and rested on the laurels of old glories, Ledner,’ he said, ‘sure in the knowledge that no foe would ever venture as far west as Nuln. Now look at it.’
The city was a wraith, looming across a sea of dead. It was a charnel house and although Wilhelm railed at leaving Albrecht Grundel unreinforced, he had no choice but to press on and try and save the city that was still intact – his city.
‘Nuln is lost,’ was the prince’s dire proclamation. ‘We go to Altdorf. The dead here are barely cold. There might be time enough to overtake the goblin warlord before he reaches the city.’ Wilhelm considered it before he continued. ‘There are passes through the hills that the greenskins won’t know about. It’s rugged land but fit enough for marching. We’ll use one to get ahead of the horde.’
‘We’ll join with Dedricht’s force?’
‘Even our combined army can’t match the greenskins,’ said Wilhelm. ‘I have another idea. Get three of our fastest messengers and meet me at the front. Do it quickly.’
Wilhelm reined his steed around and rode back to the head of the army. The column was reforming as Ledner went the opposite way to gather the messengers the prince requested.
As they marched on with despair in their hearts, the desolate boom of cannons raked the blood-scented breeze.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The valley of death
Reikland hills, on the Bögenhafen road,
34 miles from Altdorf
Grom’s green horde swept down the Reikland hills like a contagion, defiling everything it touched. To the naked eye it appeared as if the land undulated with an obscene tempo. Orc and goblin heads bobbed in the tide, jeering and bellowing. It was hard to define tribes – the beasts massed in a stinking ruck, the larger battering the lesser and so on to the smallest creature. Like their enemies, the earth was beaten and brutalised beneath the greenskins’ chariots and hobnailed boots. Their dung choked the very life from it, the once verdant Imperial fields reduced to a cesspit of filthy mud. Such was the price of open war.
A paltry force of defenders defied the orcs at the bottom of a small valley. It rose sharply behind them and would make any retreat difficult. Beyond that rise was the road to Altdorf. Grom had marched the most direct route. There would be no further delays. The Empire was within his meaty goblin fist. Altdorf represented its last defiant bastion. Every man amongst the defenders knew it couldn’t get that far. They might have no choice. They were ragged and despairing in their serried ranks, so bedraggled that they looked incapable of flight even if they had to. This would be a last stand.
The valley sides were just as sheer as its mouth and the orcs funnelled into it in a screaming flood. Grom wanted Altdorf. He wanted to sack this
proud city of men, the ancestral capital of Sigmar, as he had already sacked Nuln. And he didn’t want to wait.
Prince Wilhelm’s jaw was set as hard as stone as the greenskins came for them. He waited in the centre of a long battleline of roughly a thousand men, mounted on his warhorse. Captain Dedricht was to the east side of the valley, grim-faced and on foot, gripping his halberd like it was life itself. Aside from the Griffonkorps bodyguards, the rest of the force was also on foot. They looked worn and tired. They were – the passage across the hills had been hard. Their uniforms were ripped and scuffed, and they stank of sweaty fear. Banners dipped as the thin breeze wafting down through the valley ebbed to nothing. Even dug in behind makeshift barricades and several upturned carts, the Empire army couldn’t hope to hold for long.
The noise of charging greenskin feet and rumbling chariots built to a crescendo. It was deafening, made louder by the dense, hard rock of the enclosed valley walls.
For a moment, the chariots pulled ahead but then foundered when they hit a patch of rough stones strung out in a line that extended the full width of the valley. Here was the first of Wilhelm’s deterrents. The greenskin mobs behind the previously faster machineries overtook them. Picking their way through the rubble, some of the larger orcs upturned several of the lighter chariots, so eager were they to bloody their blades.
The natural funnel of the valley pressed the orcs and goblins tighter. Grom was somewhere amongst them, snarling commands and keeping order. It was hard, even for the Paunch. The greenskins recognised the Empire army in front of them was bloodied, like a wounded animal. They wanted to put it down. No greenskin could resist bullying the weak and these men were laid low. Even the goblin king could not deny his own nature. He too bayed for manflesh, held so tantalisingly before his tongue.
Deep into the valley bottom, well below the ridges on either side and with the greenskins barely a hundred feet away, a banner rose up in the Empire ranks. A chorus of muted trumpets rang out, signalling to all.
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