[Warhammer] - Magestorm

by Jonathan Green - (ebook by Undead)

  Having received word that within two days the Chaos horde would be in sight of the city, the number of men keeping watch from the curtain walls had been doubled. Day or night, the enemy would never be able to take Wolfenburg by surprise. From their vantage point the smoke from the outlying settlements fogged the horizon beyond the trees and served as a warning to them.

  Five days earlier, as Konrad and his engineers made their inspection of the battlement defences, the first warbands of the horde had emerged from the distant tree line. And if this was only the vanguard force, as they suspected, the elector count had been right to prepare the ancient city for a protracted siege. No matter how mighty the armies of the Empire might be, the horde that was approaching Wolfenburg was three times the size of the sentinel city’s standing force.

  “They’re planning something,” Udo Bleischrot said gruffly, the stout, soot-stained man approaching the younger, leaner Konrad. The master of the city’s guns was wiping his filthy hands on an even filthier piece of grimy oilcloth.

  “Surely not another ill-considered assault like last time?” Konrad said, recalling the first attack the Northmen had made against Wolfenburg.

  It had been the same day that the wall guards had seen the first flapping banners that had signalled the arrival of the Chaos horde. At dusk the first warbands, eager to spill blood, launched a hasty assault on the gatehouse, where Konrad and Udo now stood, and the southern wall.

  Before the Northmen could even raise ladders to scale the walls they had been repulsed with heavy losses, Udo’s vase guns had proved brutally effective whilst hails of arrows fired by the archers on the battlements had rained steel-tipped death on the attackers. Those howling barbarians who made it to the great gates, barred from the inside with a tree trunk, found themselves drenched and scalded by a torrent of oil.

  The few survivors of this first assault fled back to the protection of the forest, giving the folk of Wolfenburg time to renew their defences.

  Now the Northmen waited, the smoke of their campfires visible during the day, and the flames conspicuous in the darkness at night. But their numbers increased daily as the rest of the horde amassed around them. It was estimated that there were now at least as many as five times the number of barbarians circling the city: bare-chested foot soldiers, horn-helmed horsemen, capering antlered shaman, insane musicians, a cacophony of horn blowers and unrelenting drummers.

  That was one of the things that the defenders were finding hard to deal with. The drums beat continually, day and night, and the monotonous pounding was beginning to wear down some of the city’s soldiers. The incessant pounding stopped them from sleeping properly. Some of the soldiers watching from the walls now looked just about ready to break and they had barely engaged in any fighting as yet.

  It was also uncomfortably hot on the walls of Wolfenburg, but men were reluctant to remove pieces of armour in case of attack. Precious time could be lost if a man was buckling himself back into his cuirass. Instead, grime-faced urchins supplied steady streams of water buckets to the men on watch duty. Every man, woman and child would have their part to play in this siege.

  “Yes, they’re definitely planning something, the sick daemon-lovers,” Udo said, his eyes half-closed in thought.

  “So you think another attack is coming?” Konrad said.

  “Something’s coming. I can smell it on the wind. They can’t sit this one out. It’s not their way. If they want Wolfenburg they’re going to have to try and take it.”

  The main force of Surtha Lenk’s horde set up camp around the city. More wood was cut, but this time by the Kurgan, to feed their cooking fires and construct mobile shields. These same shields were then pushed forward ahead of the horde’s archers. This way they were able to get within range of the parapets of the city and repay the blood debt the besieged archers were owed.

  The Northmen had gained another addition to their host. They had been building leviathan constructions of wood, iron and tarred hemp. Ranged along the line of trees, the mighty siege weapons looked like monstrous beasts of legend. When they let fly with deadly payloads it was as if dragons and monsters of legend were spewing death down upon Wolfenburg’s towering walls.

  Sturdy old ballistae, towering trebuchets and taut-roped catapults were aimed at the walls of the city. Sweating teams of Northmen worked tirelessly to ensure that the lethal barrage did not cease.

  The ballistae, which were in effect huge siege-proportioned crossbows, hurled heavy bolts of hardwood, two spans long, tipped with cruel iron spearheads at Wolfenburg’s solid walls. While the trebuchets and catapults launched boulders, blazing missiles of weighted straw bales, and great flasks of oil boiled on their own fires.

  But most horrifying of all to the defenders on the city walls were the rotting human heads. The Northmen savages must have collected them after the fall of Aachden and were now using them to demoralise the Empire troops. Nothing put the message across more clearly than having a severed human head thump down on the battlements in the midst of a line of archers. The fleshy skull would roll to a stop at some poor wretch’s feet, and its decomposing dead eyes would stare up at him as if to say, “My fate will be yours.”

  Now the siege began in earnest. As the horde’s war machines hurled their dread missiles at the walls of Wolfenburg, the city’s guns, slings and cannon fired back in retaliation. The resolute defenders even took to launching their attackers’ own projectiles back at them. For days the creaking, thumping and squealing of the siege machines could be heard as they launched their deadly cargoes. The thump and crash of the projectiles echoed shortly after.

  In reply, the drums of the enemy beat on remorselessly.

  The siege ground on day after day, week after week through the sweltering days of the most harrowing summer the people of Wolfenburg had ever suffered.

  The expected artillery reinforcements and the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood that had ridden out to meet them, had still not arrived.

  Some weeks into the siege, Siegfried Herrlich, grand master of the Order of the Silver Mountain, led the full might of his order out of the great gates of Wolfenburg in a sortie against the Chaos warbands. Accompanied by greatswords drawn from Captain Fuhrung’s garrison, the two sides clashed on the churned ground beneath the city walls.

  The knights and men-at-arms surged out under the banners of the Silver Mountain which depicted a snow-capped peak.

  The battle was not without its losses on both sides and as Siegfried Herrlich was heard to declare later that day, when he returned to the sanctuary of the city, “It felt good to take the fight to the enemy!”

  Sorties continued, from time to time, at great cost to both sides. But at least something was being done and it raised the morale of those within the city to see the noble knights-at-arms and the men of the garrison returning to the fold with battle-scars and heroic tales of how they came by them.

  * * *

  It was not only the brave Imperial defenders who became frustrated by the lack of a concise conflict. The Kurgan horde also sought satisfaction in battle, so they too ran out against their enemy.

  The warriors of many warbands took part in foot assaults against the solid walls of Wolfenburg, which rose from the bedrock of the hill. They attacked at dusk or dawn, when the treacherous half-light allowed them to get close enough to harry the city walls without being spotted.

  When they were within range, the Kurgan archers kept the wall guards busy with sheets of hissing, black-fletched arrows that fell on the battlements in a deadly, stinging hail. As they did so, other marauders charged the walls, protected by the covering fire of the archers’ recursive bows. Once at the foot of the battlements, the Northmen hefted their ladders into position, then they would bring up the ram.

  The battering ram was a crudely simple yet potentially monstrously powerful weapon. It took teams of straining Northmen to roll it into position, the heavy-wheeled carriage rumbling as it crushed the stones of the road beneath it. Once it was in place, pr
otected by the carriage’s portico of stretched animal hide, the Northmen would set the massive timber ram to swing.

  These assaults proved costly to the besiegers, however. On several occasions the awning of the ram was set alight by fire arrows or smouldering brands streaking down from the battlements, before it could even reach the gates. Then it had to be withdrawn and the fires doused. To construct another such engine would cost the attackers dear in terms of time, men and resources. If they lost the battering ram their attack would falter and the Northmen would have to withdraw.

  When the ram did reach the gates unmolested, it failed to make so much as a dent in the panels of the colossal doors. The rains of arrows, rocks and pitch dropped on them by Wolfenburg’s protectors decimated the Northmen scaling the walls. Others died from bone fractures and broken backs, as the ladders they had been climbing were pushed free of the walls.

  Such failures did not sit well with the besieging force. They had carved a bloody path across the steppes of Kislev and into the northern reaches of the Empire. Towns and villages had been razed by them, and their march was being halted by this ancient sentinel city. Dissenters began to look for someone to blame. Not enough was being done to end the siege.

  There was discord amongst Surtha Lenk’s horde.

  The duration of the siege had stretched from weeks into months when Valmir von Raukov, Elector Count of Ostland, called his council of war to meet again. There had been regular meetings between his commanders on a daily basis, of course, but this summons was something special.

  Night had fallen and with the watch on the walls and gates doubled once again, they remained undisturbed. A few smouldering torches adorned the walls and candles had been lit in the great cast-iron chandeliers. A waxy smell pervaded the musty air of the council chamber.

  There were more men seated at the table than there had been the night Gerhart Brennend’s arrival had interrupted proceedings. The fire wizard recognised many of the faces. He was not surprised to find himself excluded from the table; at least he had been admitted to the council meeting.

  The fire wizard was not the only observer that evening. Standing around the edge of the hall were men from among the various groups of reinforcements that had heard Wolfenburg’s plea and answered it. On this occasion clerics of the religious houses within the city walls had been invited as well: black-robed priests of Morr stood alongside the fur-clad Ulric-worshippers.

  Once all were gathered and Elector Count Valmir had addressed the gathering, the current situation threatening Wolfenburg was discussed. Before long a heated debate ensued and the individual frustrations of certain members of the council turned to personal criticisms.

  And it was Gerhart Brennend himself who was soon the subject of a number of accusations made by the councillors.

  “How goes the defence of the walls?” the elector count asked his captains.

  It was Captain Volkgang of the palace guard who answered, and who appeared to have an axe to grind. “It could have been better. Master Kurtz and Master Bleischrot’s siege defences have worked well, but certain people present have been slow to join the battle for our city even though they claim that is why they have come here.”

  Gerhart snorted loudly. He had come across Volkgang on several occasions over the last few weeks and already knew what the captain thought of him. He hadn’t thought Volkgang would tell tales like a prattling schoolboy with a gripe, however.

  “To whom are you referring?” Valmir asked sternly. “This is a council of war. It cannot operate effectively if we hide behind anonymity and hearsay.”

  The blond-haired Volkgang looked across at Gerhart. “The bright wizard, Gerhart Brennend,” he said. Mutters of agreement rose from various other commanders seated at the table.

  “Gerhart Brennend, step forward,” Valmir commanded.

  The wizard did so, with a look of reluctance.

  “I too was labouring under the misapprehension that you had come to Wolfenburg to help us save our city,” the elector said. “Is this not the case?”

  There were many things the bright wizard wanted to say in response about the city’s commanders but instead he said, “Not at all, my lord. I have taken my place on the battlements during the assaults. But as I have already explained to Captain Volkgang and his fellow commanders,” Gerhart threw his critic a poisonous look, “the flow of the winds of magic has not been favourable for me.”

  “But it is high summer,” Baldo Weise pointed out. “I would have thought your magic would be at its strongest at this time.”

  “And so would I,” Gerhart agreed, “but the disturbance I spoke of on my arrival, has increased and, if anything, the epicentre of its draining effects have drawn closer to Wolfenburg. It is making the use of magic difficult. There is a danger that any spells cast may be somewhat… erratic, and have an unfortunate effect on our own side.”

  “Excuses!” Franz Fuhrung coughed.

  “I would not expect a mere soldier to understand the ways of the Artes Magicae,” Gerhart scoffed, his temper rising.

  “We have seen little demonstration of this great power you supposedly wield,” Volkgang piped up again, “and you have had the gall to criticise our choice of tactics, and condemn the course of action decided upon by this council. In fact, you should be battling with us to make it work!”

  “Gentlemen, enough!” the elector count said, stepping in before the meeting became a shouting match.

  He turned to Baldo Weise, who was seated, as before, at his lord’s right hand.

  “Lord chamberlain,” Valmir said, his voice having regained its calm tone, “has there been any more news of the other reinforcements we are expecting?”

  “I fear not, my lord,” Baldo said, his countenance as severe as ever. “It would appear that Baron Gruber’s Avengers were the last outsiders to make it through before the enemy cut off any further help from reaching us.”

  “There’s still no word from Kislev?”

  “No, my lord. It appears that they have battles of their own to fight.”

  “But what of the cannon train from Schmiedorf?” Valmir persisted. “I had hoped that some of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood might have survived whatever it was that befell the company. There was a wizard travelling with the cannon-crews, was there not?”

  “Yes, my lord,” his chamberlain confirmed, consulting a scroll of vellum on the table in front of him, “of the Golden order: a metallurgist-alchemist by the name of Eisen Zauber.”

  “If the Schmiedorf cavalcade could make it as far as the enemy’s rear lines, they could break their way through from behind, taking the barbarians by surprise and weakening them at the same time,” Udo Bleischrot suggested, as if thinking aloud. “Such an action might even lift the siege.”

  “Then surely it is imperative that we send a search party to hunt down the awaited reinforcements,” Valmir said, the slightest hint of excitement in his voice. “A small insertion force, that could evade the enemy outside our gates and travel surreptitiously to its objective.”

  “If I might speak freely, my lord?”

  “But of course. Captain Fuhrung, go ahead. Speak as freely as you wish.”

  “The idea is sound in principle but I cannot spare any of the men from the garrison. Their numbers have been severely depleted by the enemy’s attacks and many lie in the infirmary recovering from their injuries and fighting infection.”

  “I see,” Valmir said, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers in front of his face. “Captain Fuhrung, what of the palace guard?”

  “It is the same, my lord.”

  “My knights are needed here, my lord Valmir,” Siegfried Herrlich said, brusquely, before he was even asked.

  “Then it would appear that we need to ask our friends, for their help once again,” the elector count said, addressing the men standing at the edges of the room, who listened attentively.

  A man who looked every inch the Imperial veteran took a step forward from the thro
ng lining the walls of the council chamber. His hair was grey-white, although to judge by his physique there were still a good few years fighting left in him. The chiselled features of his face bore the scars of battle proudly. The image of a roaring lion head flashed in the light of candles and torches surrounding the walls as he moved out of the shadows where he had stood.

  “I volunteer my men for the task,” he said confidently, bowing respectfully to the elector count. Here was a man who was used to the politics of war and court etiquette, as well as its practicalities. “My men number twenty-two and a more effective regiment of halberdiers you won’t find in all the provinces of the Empire, my lord.”

  “Thank you… er…”

  “Reimann, sir. Captain Karl Reimann of the Reikland free company, Wallache’s Champions, sir.”

  “Thank you, Captain Reimann, and I gladly accept your noble offer.”

  “My men will not fail you, my lord,” the soldier said, saluting.

  Another spoke who had remained unnaturally quiet during the proceedings. It was Valmir’s court sorcerer, Auswald Strauch.

  “My lord Valmir, might I suggest an addition to Captain Reimann’s search party?” the jade wizard said.

  “Please do,” the elector count replied.

  “Considering that Captain Reimann and his men will be running the gauntlet of fell forces who are granted unnatural strength by their unnameable patrons—” At this a number of the priests made the various warding gestures and blessings of their orders. “It might be wise to send one versed in the magical arts to protect them from the vile warping powers of the daemon lovers.”

  Gerhart felt an icy chill crawl down his spine and settle as a knot in his stomach. He knew what was coming before the elector even asked who Auswald Strauch had in mind.

  “Why, our honoured guest, Gerhart Brennend who so passionately desires to see our city saved from destruction at the hands of the horde waiting at our gates.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Valmir declared, smacking a hand down on the table. A hint of a smile creased his lips. “What say you, sorcerer?”