[Warhammer] - Magestorm

by Jonathan Green - (ebook by Undead)

  Valmir turned an inquiring look on Gerhart. This fire mage intrigued him. He was obviously in earnest and something about him suggested that the tales he told were more than just words, they were a window on the truth.

  “And what would you suggest, wizard? You are eager to hear what others would have your say, what would you advise we do?”

  “I would take the fight to the enemy.” the bright wizard said without a moment’s hesitation. “I would rally the forces within your city walls and go out to meet the advancing horde, cutting them off before they have the chance to get dug in.”

  “And where did you come by your tactical knowledge?” Valmir asked calmly, yet pointedly.

  “I have seen battle in a multitude of arenas, safeguarding our noble Empire from its enemies. I stood with the host of Eberhardt Eisling at the defence of Gastmaar Gate. I fought alongside the Averland Harnhelms at the battle of Morrfenn Field,” the wizard said proudly, straightening his back and pushing out his chest. “I rode with Count Verschalle against the bone-shard greenskins in the victorious charge of his Reiksguard Knights. Shall I go on?”

  “Yet you would have us act like impatient, impetuous fools and rush headlong to our deaths against the Chaos horde?” Franz Fuhrung said bluntly.

  “Despite your claims it would seem that you are somewhat deluded concerning matters of war, sir. Matters which cannot be so easily resolved,” Baldo said, derision clear in his tone. “If only they could.”

  “What is so difficult about sending trained soldiers out to fight to save your city?” Gerhart challenged.

  “We are down in strength,” Franz said. “One of our knightly orders is already on a quest to help bring reinforcements to our walls. But a reduction in numbers will not matter if we fight from the battlements of Wolfenburg’s mighty walls.”

  “Our siege defences will hold the enemy off,” Konrad Kurtz stated confidently.

  “And our own guns will make light work of any siege engines the enemy might have to threaten us with,” Udo Bleischrot added gruffly.

  “The walls of Wolfenburg will hold.”

  “It is as I have already said,” the aging grand master interposed. “We should take the fight to the enemy. My knights are ready to ride at a moment’s notice. You need only give the word, Lord Raukov.”

  “This matter is far from resolved,” the elector count said at last. “As a soldier, part of me feels that we should take the fight to the enemy, and yet as lord and guardian-protector of this ancient city I feel we should stay and face the enemy from a position of strength.”

  “My lord—” the bright wizard interjected, but was cut short by gesture from Valmir.

  “We have already heard what you have to say, sorcerer. And I must say that your words of warning intrigue me. As a result, you may remain at this council, but there is still much to debate.”

  “With respect, my lord,” Auswald Strauch fumed, his face now the same colour as the pyromancer’s robes, “why are we allowing a total stranger a place at this meeting? He should have been expelled as soon as he tricked his way in here!”

  “Watch your tongue!” the elector prince snapped with chilling vehemence. “You would do well to remember your place as well.”

  There was a crash and the door to the council chamber burst open. Everyone turned to see who it was that now disturbed them.

  “This is preposterous,” Siegfried Herrlich began.

  “My lords!” the desperate, sweating messenger gasped as he stumbled to a halt and then remembered to throw the gathered council a bow.

  “What in Sigmar’s name is it, boy?” Valmir demanded, his chair grating on the flagstones as he pushed it back to stand.

  “My lord, one of the knights has returned!” the messenger spluttered.

  “One of the knights? The knights of Sigmar’s Blood?”

  “Yes, my lord. Please come quickly.”

  Without further hesitation, Valmir strode from the council chamber.

  * * *

  The observers standing on the battlements of Wolfenburg castle, and on the city’s gatehouse, could see the figure galloping towards them in the bright light of the sun. The horse that carried the armoured figure was running hell-for-leather, like a thing possessed. Foamy saliva was flapping from its drawn back lips. It was clear the rider did not have full control of his steed.

  That the rider was a knight, that much was clear. He appeared to be riding with his arms outstretched and his head thrown back. As the knight and his terrified steed approached the walls of Wolfenburg along the dusty road the observers could see that the paladin had lost his helmet, and the tabard he wore over his armour was drenched with blood. The stain was so copious that it almost completely obscured the embroidered motif.

  It was not until the horse was almost at the gates that the observers saw the crude wooden cross that had been fastened to the horse’s saddle, behind the knight. They saw the nails piercing his hands and the blood-soaked ropes around his wrists and neck.

  The man had been crucified and was dead.

  And so in the days that followed, the ancient city of Wolfenburg prepared for a siege. The people were shaken by the return of the crucified knight. Many on the council of war had felt justified in throwing their support behind the court-appointed sorcerer Auswald Strauch. As, in the end, did the elector count.

  Under the direction of Konrad Kurtz, foresters began clearing great tracts of trees that bordered the ancient city, much to the jade wizard’s chagrin. But, as it was explained to the incensed sorcerer—who feared such clearing would prevent him from channelling his magic—the trees had to be cut down to remove cover for an attacking force. The cut timber was also needed to fill Wolfenburg’s stockpiles of firewood. The boiling of oil, the heating up of the forges, and the like, would also require additional fuel. Nothing would go to waste.

  The call also went out to the surrounding towns for reinforcements to aid in the defence of the sentinel city. Messengers were even sent out to the other provinces, as Valmir von Raukov asked his brother elector counts to send troops to bolster the city garrison.

  Whilst the council waited for news of help, Udo Bleischrot oversaw the preparation of the city’s wall cannons and vase guns. With Konrad Kurtz’s support, they prepared other, less technical siege defences such as boiling oil, sling-secured dropping boulders and wall-mounted mangonels.

  Meanwhile the forest was being cleared from the front of the city walls.

  But despite all the assurances he had been given, the loss of acres of woodland, with its propensity for drawing the wind of Ghyran, filled Auswald with foreboding. Within a week, the jade wizard was sure that he could feel his own power beginning to weaken.

  Captain Karl Reimann looked up at the imposing walls of the sentinel city through his one remaining good eye. His troop of soldiers crunched to a halt behind him on the stony road. Banners and pennants fluttered from the battlements.

  The way to the great gates was choked by masses of peasants who sought shelter. They had abandoned their homes in outlying villages, but whether it was through fear or because they were following the advice of messengers was unclear, but they would be available to fight if need be.

  Behind the veteran soldier the road was filling up with more peasant folk and animals. There were also a number of covered wagons, one of which bore the device of the church of Sigmar on its awning. Lone riders gathered amongst the throng.

  The Reikland free company, Wallache’s Champions, had been among the first to hear of the city’s plea for help. Karl’s unit had been selected by General Wallache to make its way north, whilst the rest of the company made for Bechafen in the east to fend off attacks by prowling greenskins.

  Karl guessed that his soldiers were among the first reinforcements to arrive at Wolfenburg. Certainly their presence in the line had provoked some amount of excitement and discussion amongst the waiting, slow moving throng.

  Karl was a figure of imposing Imperial might—his armour was
polished until it shone. He had a roaring lion head on his cuirass with the scrolled inscription “Sigmar” beneath it. His close-cropped white-grey hair, fine moustaches and scarred face lent him a grand air. And the white orb of his blind eye seemed to bore into every man he faced.

  If he had not been a humble man, Karl Reimann might have gone as far as to say that the arrival of his unit had filled these desperate, care worn people with hope.

  A mere fifty yards further down the road, behind Captain Reimann and his men, a tall figure moved awkwardly among the crowd of jostling peasant folk. He was swathed in a heavy black cloak, despite the warmth of the day. His awkward, shuffling gait suggested that he had been injured in some way. The man travelled alone and made no effort to make himself known.

  Instead, as he advanced with the shuffling crowd towards the great gates, and the security they promised, he patted something secured safely beneath his cloak and smiled to himself.

  SEVEN

  The Siege of Wolfenburg

  “And you shall know the Changer of the Ways by many names, the Great Schemer, Tchar, the Master of Fortune, the Great Conspirator, Tzeen, the Architect of Fate, Chen, Shunch, the Great Sorcerer, the Great Mutator. For change is all around us and His schemes and conspiracies are innumerable but all would bring us to an eternity in damnation.”

  —From the Liber Maleficium

  The high zar’s horde surged over the land in a ragged tide of death. Scar-marked marauder warriors, wearing trophy arm-rings that attested to previously won battles, advanced both on foot and on horseback. Armed with bow, pallasz and spear, the wild-haired tribesmen made up the bulk of the army. Leading the marauders were spike armoured giants, the champions of this monstrous force. The great army was comprised of many smaller warbands, each vying for the favour of the high zar and the Dark Gods themselves. Carynx horns blared amidst the wild, animal shouts of the barbarians and the barking of savage, barely trained warhounds. Their blood was hot and their bloodlust scorched.

  Aachden was behind them, gutted like a cadaver on a surgeon’s slab, the perimeter to the broken town surrounded by skull stacks and smouldering pyres. The Army of the Reik the high zar’s army had faced at Aachden had not merely been beaten—it had been obliterated. A notable victory indeed. Many prisoners had been taken and passed to the slave lord Skarkeetah. All of the zar’s warbands had shared in a great, debauched victory feast and the spoils of war divided between them.

  But the marauder horde did not luxuriate in the glory of the battle they had won for Lord Tchar. Their blood was up. They felt strong and unstoppable after Aachden, and the ancient city of Wolfenburg was only a few days away. Now that would be an even more worthy conquest for the high zar and the dread lord Archaon! To take the ancient sentinel city would be to take the guts out of the Empire. Their petty rulers and fief-lords would know what true temporal power was when they were begging for their lives on their knees before the Tzeen-blessed form of Surtha Lenk.

  “So, this is Wolfenburg,” Surtha Lenk bubbled, gazing out where a forest had once stood to the great grey walls of the closed city.

  “It is, lord,” Vendhal Skullwarper confirmed.

  “Hmm. I had expected something greater,” the high zar said in his high-pitched voice. “It is not so different to Aachden.”

  “No, lord seh,” the Chaos sorcerer answered, looking out across the cleared slopes. He did so to keep his eyes averted from the high zar.

  “It does not look like the men of the Empire want to fight today. No matter, we will take the fight to them, will we not?”

  “Of course, lord seh.”

  “As we speak my Northmen are preparing the engines that will lay siege to this place. There is still wood enough to do that,” Surtha Lenk said. He was not telling the sorcerer anything he did not already know. He just liked the sound of his own distorted voice. “We will break this city in a matter of weeks.”

  “Perhaps,” Vendhal said cautiously.

  At these words, the crimson armoured giant turned to look at the Chaos sorcerer. Vendhal was half aware of the twisted thing squirming in the giant’s chest harness.

  “Look at me, sorcerer,” Lenk said, all trace of levity gone.

  Vendhal turned. Now there was no hiding from the full terror of his lord.

  The high zar was a towering giant, a full three spans tall plated in brass and iron with a huge horned, visor-less helm on his head. Strapped across his breastplate was a deformed parody of a human child, all bloated face, warty and blistered, with twitching vestigial limbs.

  Even to one as well accustomed to the ways of change as Vendhal Skullwarper, the high zar’s appearance was still sickening. It was just such warping mutation that he hoped to avoid through mastery of the warping powers of Chaos.

  Surtha Lenk fixed him with a very human brown eye and another bulging, glazed milky-blue orb that spun and twisted in its misplaced watery socket. He was studying the Chaos sorcerer.

  Vendhal Skullwarper was clad in his crimson cloak and brass armour, not unlike the high zar’s. The hood of the cloak kept the sorcerer’s pale face in shadow, so that the tattooed starburst over his right eye could hardly be seen. Gold ornaments glittered in his ears and jewelled amulets hung from his neck.

  The sorcerer’s upper body was protected by Chaos-forged armour. He wore brass bands emblazoned with the eight points of the rune of Chaos and other blasphemous sigils: all potent devices for drawing the raw power of change to the sorcerer. Spiked iron skull-faces harnessed his cloak to his breastplate and from his belt hung more death-heads and leering daemon mouths fashioned from gold. In one claw-taloned hand Vendhal held his staff of power and in the other an eagled-clawed wand gripped an orb of opaque blue-white crystal.

  “What do you mean?” the high zar repeated, his voice dripping with danger.

  “The flow of magic is… unpredictable here, lord,” Vendhal replied, choosing his words very carefully.

  “But how can we fail? Wolfenburg will be ours. You assured me that your art would make it so.” The horned giant shifted the position of its hands resting on the dreadful blade. “The touch of Tzeen is upon you, is it not?”

  “I have been blessed so,” Vendhal replied, “but we are far from the Shadow now and the heat of high summer drives its influence back.”

  “Our host will drive back the hosts of men and the Shadow will cast its dark magnificence over our endeavours.”

  Lenk leaned closer, the shrivelled baby-thing’s breath caressing the sorcerer’s face. Vendhal gripped his staff more tightly.

  “Are not the warping storms of Chaos yours to command?”

  “They are.”

  “Then the Eye of Tzeen will continue to look upon our enterprise with favour. My battle-shamans will enact the blood-rites that will awaken his power in this place.”

  “Of course, lord seh. It will be so.”

  “Good, then let us commence. Wolfenburg awaits.”

  Konrad Kurtz was standing on the battlements of Wolfenburg’s city gates looking out across the cleared expanse of woodland to the distant line of trees on the horizon. There was the enemy.

  There were hundreds of them: barbarians, marauders, Northmen, Kurgan and more. These were the foot soldiers of the armies of Chaos, the primitive savages who paid the Dark Gods fealty and who raped, pillaged and murdered in their unspeakable names. They had already put the chill lands of Kislev to the sword and now they were building a road through the northern marches of the Empire cobbled with the skulls of those they had slain.

  Konrad could see that the wild-haired, half-naked warriors were gathered together under a multitude of different banners. The brave soldiers preparing to defend the ancient sentinel city stood proud and ready under their own battle standards. Their dazzling coloured cloths became vibrant and alive in the blazing sunlight of high summer. A stiff breeze flapped the flags against their banner poles making the heraldic beasts dance on the fields of cloth, and gold and silver thread-work glitter and sparkle
.

  Those banners of the barbarians were as barbaric and debased as they were. Their war standards rippled in the wind like ragged shrouds, bloody and corrupted creations of mildewed cloth, flea-ridden animal hides and filth-smeared canvases of human skin.

  The sight of them repulsed Konrad. He felt a deep loathing for the Northmen. They wanted to see the ancient guardian city looted and civilisation overturned in favour of their backward culture. Konrad would stand firm against the enemy and play his part in the battle to come, for such a thing must never be allowed to come to pass.

  There was unease in Konrad’s heart, for there were so many warbands that it appalled the engineer to think that there was one warlord powerful and terrible enough to unite them under a single banner.

  It would take a force of terrible strength to conquer this legendary city. Wolfenburg was a fortress town of ancient construction. It occupied a raised hillside above a river bend and it was well fortified. High, solid curtain walls, punctuated at regular intervals by strong towers, were its first line of defence. Beyond these stood further towered walls of great thickness. The city had shut itself up knowing that the Chaos horde was marching this way and it would take the most determined and relentlessly powerful foe to break it open again. This fact alone should have filled the defenders with hope but the memory of Aachden was still fresh in their minds.

  A hush had descended over the archers, pikemen and halberdiers lining the walls to Konrad’s left and right. Archers and gun crews were at their stations ready to face a siege. Captain Fuhrung’s men, clad in their quartered white and black uniforms, were also ready, as he had said they would be. They looked impressive and Konrad knew that the smartness of their uniforms was nothing compared to how they would fight.