[Empire Army 04] - Grimblades

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  Rechts beat out the order on his drum.

  “Tight ranks, narrow frontage,” hollered Karlich. “We’ll punch through like a lance.”

  “Not wishing to speak out of turn,” muttered Rechts, “but this is suicidal, sergeant.”

  “Have some faith,” Karlich replied, deliberately bitter. “Prince Wilhelm will come. Succour isn’t only found at the bottom of a bottle, Torsten.”

  The drummer shut his mouth and waited for the order.

  Karlich gave it swiftly.

  “Forward, in the name of the Reik and Prince Wilhelm!”

  Unimpeded by the open terrain, the Grimblades marched quickly to the battle site. Karlich steered them on an oblique route that would see them hit the weakest flank of the greenskin line, using the river itself as a natural anchor to their own flank.

  A ragged band of goblins were the first enemies to oppose them. Karlich and his men fell upon the smaller greenskins with fury. The Grimblades cut the goblins down Ruthlessly, the greenskins’ bloodied-eye banner soon crushed underfoot by the rampant halberdiers. Karlich finished the goblins’ champion himself, severing the creature’s neck and head. It proved too much for the greenskins, who turned and fled into the packed ranks before they’d barely struck a blow in reply. The large mob of orcs behind them, swathed in metal scale and carrying broad wooden shields and spears, were a different foe altogether. They killed their cowardly goblin cousins as they ran into the unmoveable line of their shields. It only set off the orcs’ bloodlust. They whooped and hollered at the prospect of a real fight presented by the overrunning Grimblades.

  “Into them!” Karlich was hoarse from battle, but made his voice heard above the clash of steel and the grunt of beasts.

  Hitting the orcs was like driving at a stone wall; hard and unyielding. They had the greenskins in the flank, robbing them of much of their fighting strength and stopping their chieftain from bringing his axe to bear, but still they fought ferociously. So intent were the greenskins on getting to the bridge that their ranks were utterly rammed, like forcing an apple through the eye of a needle. The smaller beasts were crushed by the bigger ones. Karlich saw trolls, slime-skinned monsters with manes of lank seaweed-like hair and scales like fish, looming head and shoulders above the brawling mobs. Occasionally one would reach down and pluck a greenskin from the mob, biting off its head or swallowing it whole before it was brought to heel again by spears and whips. Patches of animosity broke out amidst the clamouring horde, so in the end it was hard to tell who was fighting who.

  Through the carnage, Karlich could see Von Rauken and his men fighting like heroes to hold the bridge. He saw too that the greatsworders noticed the allies in their midst and redoubled their efforts. The Carroburgers were not alone, either, and it sent a shiver of fear down Karlich’s spine when he recognised the mercenary rabble of the witch hunter. Whether to hold the bridge or simply to bring death to the enemies of Sigmar, or even for the templar’s promised coin, the sellswords, flagellants and seekers stuck doggedly to the task when everyone but the greatsworders had already fled.

  Madmen… thought Karlich, but perhaps the templar would be slain?

  He dared to hope, then felt a heavy blow against his shield. Karlich was battered back but stuck out his sword and was rewarded with a porcine squeal of pain. He then righted himself, parrying a cut that would have cleaved his own head, and jabbed again. Steel met flesh and the orc assailing him, seen only in flashes from behind Karlich’s shield, before it crumpled to the ground with its throat slashed open. After that, Karlich forgot about the witch hunter and put his mind wholly on staying alive.

  With their brutish kin around them, the orcs were not giving an inch. The Grimblades had killed several and, fighting the beasts to their unprepared flank, had taken few casualties in reply, but the orcs were digging in and more were coming.

  Rear rankers, impatient to get into battle, had now seen the flank attack by the Empire soldiers. Horns brayed and hooted and drums pounded out the order to reform and manoeuvre around the flank. Locked in combat, Karlich realised with rising horror that the Grimblades were exposed.

  “Push them back, break through!” he urged, but it was like telling the wind not to blow or the mountains to part ways—the orcs were implacable.

  Glory was not something that had ever concerned Karlich. He was a soldier, content with a soldier’s lot. But throwing away the lives of his men because of a rash decision did not sit well with him. Suddenly, he wished they had stayed on the hill and the bridge be damned.

  Blaselocker, you bastard, he thought. You’ve doomed us all with your cowardice.

  Eber anchored the end of the line with Brand behind him, then Leffe and Gans in the rear ranks. His halberd was slick with greenskin blood and his muscles burned from the killing. Corpses littered the ground at his feet but for a moment there was respite as the orc back ranks had been despatched and others were still struggling over the dead to fill the gaps. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed another mob approaching. They were the biggest greenskins he had ever seen, as broad as oak trees with skin twice as thick as bark but just as gnarled. Huge black metal plates covered their bodies, dripping with swathes of chainmail. Horned helmets rose up in exultation to their heinous gods, a challenge and an invocation in one. Gauntleted fists, as large as a horse’s head and studded with spikes, wrapped around thick-hafted glaives that glinted dully in the half-light. Graven totems, tiny skulls and rings of brass and copper, jangled against the metal like cruel laughter.

  “Monsters…” Eber breathed, and for the first time in his life found something that frightened him more than his father. “Brand!” he cried.

  “I see them,” said Brand, levelling his halberd at the onrushing greenskins. They were like charging bulls, and lowered their horned helms as they closed.

  “Do you believe in the power of Sigmar, Brand?” asked Eber. The other two Grimblades, Leffe and Gans, had swung around too but kept quiet.

  The bull-like orcs were just twenty feet away.

  “I believe a man must save himself if he wants to live. Sigmar protects the strong.”

  Eber muttered, “I wish Masbrecht were here beside me…”

  The Empire men roared, prepared to meet their enemy defiantly, when a blinding flash lit up the gloom. Thunder, loud and percussive as cannon fire, erupted a split-second afterwards. Eber blinked back the after flare of lightning, the reek of ozone heavy in his nostrils, and saw a row of charred corpses where the monstrous orcs had been.

  Brand noticed the hairs on his hands were standing up. His teeth ached.

  “Maybe I was wro—”

  Another flash… this time they saw it come from the heavens, splitting the darkness like sun pierces cloud.

  Brand managed to keep his eyes open long enough to see the orcs struck, to see the lightning arc race through all that metal, burning and shocking as it went.

  The storm came again, several bolts coursing from above like spears of righteous anger. They weaved and raked, splitting and coruscating through the greenskin mobs like hot, angry fingers. Wherever they touched, death followed. The stink of smouldering orc flesh was soon heavy on the breeze.

  Eber was laughing, loud and booming in concert with the thunder.

  Brand laughed too. It was a wicked sound, full of malice and sadistic joy. “Burn you bastards, burn!”

  Some of the greenskins were running. Karlich felt the rout before he saw it, a sudden shifting of weight to their embattled front. He’d lost sight of the flank by then, so buried was he in blood and bodies. Something lit up the battle, too stark and short-lived to be sunlight.

  Did I just hear laughter?

  The tide had swung again and he didn’t need to see the banner of Altdorf snapping on the breeze to know the self-same saviour had delivered them again.

  Thunder came from the east. It wracked the heavens above and shook the earth below. Hooves pounded the dirt, clarions announced a glorious charge. A sudden rush of movemen
t came upon the greenskins as if an unseen wind was propelling them west, away from the storm of steeds and lances. They panicked as one, some flailing into the Aver to be drowned in its unforgiving depths. Others were crushed in the relentless press from the Brigund Bridge now that Blaselocker, with victory in sight, had recommitted the troops. Despite the fact they’d been fighting longer than any other regiment, the Carroburg Few led the rampant pursuers.

  For his part, Karlich ordered his Grimblades to hold. The bridge was won and they would keep it that way. He contented himself with watching the enemy flee, safe in the knowledge that no more of his men would die, for the moment at least. A blur of silver, gold and red sped past them, so long that he had time to strike up his pipe and stand in awe of it.

  Karlich could only glance at Wilhelm riding at the head of the Griffonkorps, the horses were moving too swiftly for a longer look. The gold-armoured Order of the Fiery Comet drove alongside them, their flanged maces spitting arcs of greenskin blood when they rose and fell. The prince was majestic, his runefang like a streak of captured fire in his hand. On his left, Preceptor Kogswald, his own blade etched in enchanted sigils; on his right, the wizard Karlich had seen in the command tent, no longer wearing a dowdy cloak and cowl. Stars and comets decorated his robes of deep, cerulean blue. Silver edged the cuffs and trims. Constellations stitched into the fabric appeared to shimmer and shift. Lightning bolts and other heavenly symbols hung from chains on his belt and around his neck. Even the skullcap the wizard wore carried the image of celestial phenomena.

  Hope sparked within the sergeant, kindled by the lightning that had raged from above and so decimated the greenskins. Perhaps victory at Averheim was possible after all.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Von Rauken’s voice brought Karlich around.

  The greatsworder champion was walking towards him with some of his men. The lacquered black plate of his cuirass was dented and smeared with blood. He’d removed his helmet, revealing a few strands of hair covering an otherwise bald head.

  “Comes from living in Carroburg,” he said. Von Rauken grinned, showing a missing tooth. Evidently, the greatsworders had hung back after all and had merely moved aside to allow the fresher regiments to pass.

  “Aye, I hear you’re a serious people. A little levity and you might have some hair to warm that pate of yours.”

  Von Rauken smiled and held out a gauntleted hand. It looked massive and the leather palm was well worn from sword wielding.

  “Your service to Carroburg, and to the Few, will not be forgotten, Sergeant Karlich.”

  Karlich gripped the greatsworder’s hand firmly and nodded.

  “Call me Feder.”

  Von Rauken clapped him on the shoulder. “Very well, Feder. I am still Von Rauken.”

  At that the two men laughed loudly. There was palpable relief in it, of a battle over and won, of having survived to tell of it and endure the nightmares later. It passed to the men around them and soon Grimblade and Carroburg Few were exchanging names and stories in the way that Lenkmann had expected of the Steel Swords.

  For their part, the Middenlanders were livid. Glory had been denied them, supplanted by ignominy at being part of Blaselocker’s retreating force. They strode across the bridge wearing scowls like masks, not meeting any other soldier in the eye. Sturnbled looked ashamed, but used his pride to conceal it. Torveld was looking for someone to blame for this smear on their honour. His gaze fell upon the Grimblades and was then lost again to the middle distance.

  The battle was done, the greenskin army in full rout. Most of the Empire regiments had given up pursuit and were consolidating at the bridge. Even as they spoke, Karlich and Von Rauken were being joined by troops from the north side of the river. The wagons, too, were now starting to move across. Priests of Morr went with them, leather-bound “death-books” clutched in their bony fingers, ledgers for the prince’s quartermasters when they had to reorganise the army in the face of casualties.

  Blaselocker trotted over last of all, his bodyguards surrounding him, glad their faces were obscured by battle-helms. The baron would have to answer to Prince Wilhelm now.

  “A pity he did not die in the battle,” spat Von Rauken, his mood souring at the sight of the pompous Averland noble.

  Karlich was a little taken aback by the blatant outburst, even though he felt the same. He supped on his pipe to cover his surprise, but found himself liking the outspoken greatsworder more and more.

  “He’ll wish he did if Ledner is allowed at him,” he replied.

  Von Rauken smiled again, but this time humourlessly. “Then let us hope for that.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  LICKING WOUNDS

  The town of Mannsgard, Averland,

  383 miles from Altdorf

  Ledner closed the tavern door and turned to face an almost empty room. An iron tub sat in the middle of it where Prince Wilhelm was taking a hot bath.

  “How is it?” asked the prince, whilst a local priestess of Shallya rubbed healing salts into his heavily-bruised shoulder. The charge by the prince and his knights might have been glorious, but the battle to fend off Grom’s shaman and his “flying lizard” was not. The beast had raked Wilhelm’s pauldron before he’d nicked its snout with his runefang and sent it fleeing for the sky.

  “Quiet,” said Ledner. His gaze went to the armour and clothing slumped on a chair near the tub. Wilhelm’s runefang rested on top of it, inside its scabbard. The captain noticed his liege kept the blade within reach. A sensible move. Perhaps the young prince was learning to be cautious after all. “Mannsgard might as well be a tomb,” he went on. “The townsfolk that haven’t fled or been killed cower behind locked doors carrying picks and cudgels. The few people we have encountered offer limited services and don’t indulge in much talk.”

  Wilhelm frowned at the annoyance in Ledner’s voice.

  “And this bothers you?” he asked.

  “Yes, it bothers me. Where are the peddlers and the whores, the illicit traders and profiteers? War brings death, my liege, but it also brings opportunity for those who have a will and a way to make coin.”

  Wincing with the pain in his back and shoulder, Wilhelm sat up in the bath.

  “They’re mostly dead, Ledner. That or they’ve run westward with the refugees,” he explained needlessly. “We are less than ten miles from Averheim. I can almost hear the greenskin chanting on the breeze and smell their spore tainting it. Is it really any wonder that the land, this town, is abandoned, even by its human carrion?”

  Ledner’s face darkened. “No, my liege.”

  “So, how do we fare?” asked the prince, glancing at the death-books piled in one corner of the room.

  They were in the tavern’s taproom. The floors were timber, the wood stained but worn. A simple bar sat to the left at the back. Most of the alcohol was gone. A stairway curled up to an upper floor. The iron tub had been moved from one of the upper rooms—“guest quarters” a placard read—and brought down to the prince. It looked almost ludicrous in the expansive room, the many tables and chairs that might once have stood there having been either looted or used as barricades.

  Though the day’s march from the Brigund Bridge to the town had proven uneventful, Mannsgard had suffered many attacks since the invasion. The town’s walls were thick, hewn from rough stone taken from the mountains, and overlooked by watchtowers. Its militia regiments had been many, several bands of soldiers seeking refuge had also added to its garrison, but still they had suffered. The cemeteries and mortuaries were full. Even the temples of Shallya, Sigmar and Verena could hold no more bodies. So much corpse traffic had been foisted upon the gardens of Morr that the old prefect had died himself, of a heart attack. Ledner heard talk of a town watchmen finding the poor old bastard, his withering body food for the crows.

  Morr giveth, Morr taketh away…

  A black mood pervaded here, the final rest before the march on Averheim. It was like a funeral veil, only no one had said when they could stop
mourning. At least, the presence of the army meant that greenskin raiders would think twice before attacking again. Not that there’d been any sign for several days, not according to Mannsgard’s gate sentries anyway. Ledner supposed the orcs and goblins had been drawn to the Brigund Bridge instead and the army of “humies”, as they called men in their crude speech, gathering there. A black stain was upon this place. It was no different to Blosstadt, only unlike the village they’d been forced to put to the torch, Mannsgard didn’t realise it was already dead. Old men and withered women mainly populated the town now, its youth having been cut down in its prime, an end to its legacy and future.

  “Adolphus?” Wilhelm pressed.

  Ledner blinked, recognising his first name, and realising he hadn’t answered the prince’s question.

  Sometimes the dark moods came when he least expected it. Usually he could master them, the baggage of too many years of war and blood. Occasionally they got the better of him.

  “We lost a lot of men at Brigund Bridge. More than we could comfortably spare.”

  “Any loss like that is uncomfortable to me, Ledner,” chided the prince, standing and accepting a towel from the Shallyan priestess.

  “I meant no offence, but it’s simple numbers my lord. We can’t hope to prevail at Averheim with the forces we have left. At best our chances are slim and bloody.”

  Stepping from the tub, Wilhelm’s brow furrowed. He looked heavy, as if he still wore his armour. Ledner continued.

  “Of course, our dear ally the baron was somewhat instrumental in that debacle.”

  “I heard Karlich’s men helped hold the bridge with the Carroburgers.”

  “Stubborn bastards,” muttered Ledner, before a stern look from Wilhelm forced an apology. “They are certainly resourceful, and brave, these halberdiers. True sons of the Reik,” he added, cracking his knuckles, just another of his idiosyncratic traits. “Vanhans and his rabble earned their keep, too.”