[Empire Army 04] - Grimblades

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

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 Bogenhafen 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 Bogenhafen 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.

  Far from holding the line and giving up their blood for the Empire, Wilhelm and his army fled.

  They had seen the sheer strength of Waaagh! Grom and quailed.

  It only goaded the Paunch all the more. His prize was running up the valley ridge, directly away from his horde. Urging his mobs to greater e
fforts, he was determined to catch the “humies” before they reached the summit.

  Wilhelm, cantering in order to keep pace with the foot troops, did not get to the valley peak, nor did he intend to. Instead, he came up about twenty feet short. Another banner went up, more clarion calls echoed on the dead air. The Empire line reformed, became much tighter, much denser than before, its ranks packed and deep. Shield walls were raised and locked, spears levelled. A ragged band of defenders became a tough and determined rectangle of soldiers. The second part of Wilhelm’s plan happened a moment later.

  Imperial war cries spilled down over the east and west ridges, thousands of men followed them, two flanking forces comprised of state regiments and citizen militia. The western force contained the Hornhelms, the flower of Stirland’s cavalry. Several stern-faced state regiments accompanied them. The slowly-dipping lances of the knights sent a shiver of fear through the greenskins they barrelled towards. The eastern force was on foot, led by Captain Vogen. Stolid dwarfs joined the Empire ranks of swords, pikes and militia. Mootlanders ranged their flanks.

  Behind the prince, who had resumed his position in the centre of the battleline, a fourth force appeared. The remnants of Meinstadt’s war machines and all of the harquebuses were suddenly levelled at the onrushing green horde. The goblin frontrunners faltered in places and there was a collision of bodies. The larger orcs remained uncowed and hacked through their more timid brethren if they held them up.

  Like a piece of meat, Wilhelm had dangled the prospect of a quick and bloody win before the Paunch. He was greedy, this Grom, and he had taken the bait readily. Though still outnumbered, the Empire had trapped the greenskins in the narrow defile and could attack on three aspects at once. Victory was far from assured, but at least now they had a fighting chance.

  Karlich’s shoulders ached from heaving the carriage of the great cannon up to the ridgeline. Several regiments were positioned with the war engines, partly to defend them, partly to get them where they needed to be. The first task was done—blackpowder smoke already laced the air from the opening salvoes, and set ears ringing with thudding reports—the second, keeping the machines from harm, would not be as easy.

  The Grimblades made ranks quickly, stationed just below one of the two great cannon. Meinstadt still had the volley gun and one of the mortars left too. The latter was aimed at the rear of the greenskin lines, where its explosive shells would cause maximum damage but pose minimum risk to friendly troops. A deadly barrage landed deep in the valley, throwing greenskins and dirt plumes into the air with brutal ease.

  Lenkmann pumped his fist, thrilled at the ingenuity of the Empire taking such a toll on the beasts, but the hole in the mobs was quickly filled and his optimism disappeared with it.

  “It’s as if it never happened, just like at Averheim,” he said, holding onto his banner with both hands as if it supported him. “They’re endless.”

  “You expected any different,” grumbled Volker, sticks held fast against his pigskin drum. The instrument still felt awkward, as if he were wearing a dead man’s coat that didn’t fit. Rechts had been the Grimblades’ beating heart. To carry his drum felt like a transgression, not an honour. Volker wondered if it was time to leave the army.

  Karlich intruded on his thoughts. “We don’t need to beat them,” he said, rotating his shoulder blade where it was still sore, “just bloody them enough to force the greenskins out of Reikland.”

  “I thought orcs liked to fight?” queried Eber. The big man was a welcome presence in the ranks, though the bindings around his chest suggested he might not have much fight left in him. “Won’t that just make them want to fight more?”

  “Anything that lives doesn’t want to die,” Brand told him. “Greenskins are no different.”

  “There’ll be much dying this day, before it’s out,” said Volker.

  Karlich adjusted his shield straps, looking down at the throng below. “Be thankful you’re up here and not amongst that.”

  Farther down the valley from the Grimblades’ position, Wilhelm’s baiting force made a slow advance. With higher ground and Imperial discipline to gird them, the ragged soldiery could effectively “bung” the valley. They were so closely packed, they’d be hard to rout. Wilhelm’s presence, shining in his gilded armour plate, would galvanise them further. Even still, it was a meat grinder.

  Hope, what there was of it, seemed very far away.

  “Should we make our farewells now?” asked Lenkmann with genuine regret.

  Volker went to reply, when Karlich stopped him.

  “Leave it unsaid. It’s a bad omen to honour the dead before they’re in the ground,” he added. “Tends to end up putting them there.”

  Another blast of powder smoke obscured the footsloggers before they met with the first of Grom’s orcs. Karlich was still wiping soot from his eyes when the clash of arms resolved itself on the low breeze.

  At the valley sides, on the east and west slopes, similar struggles played out. The high ridge and the backline afforded a strong vantage point from which to see the entire battle. Maybe that’s why Wilhelm appointed Ledner to marshal the rearguard force. Karlich had seen the spymaster only once after deployment. Even as he surveyed the carnage below, as the Hornhelms split off from combat and reformed for another charge, as pike and sword met with cleaver and club, as skulls were split and bodies sundered, Karlich knew Ledner was close by. It felt like a blade against his back, poised to thrust.

  Smoke rolled down into the valley like fog. It was not so different to Averheim, but here it gathered in the valley’s low trough. Wilhelm’s horse fought the reins a little as the grey-white mist engulfed them. With the weak breeze unable to shift it, the smoke lingered at the valley bottom in a thick pall. It smothered the greenskins, making them appear numberless as they emerged from it in droves.

  The element of surprise was spent. The fighting was fast and dirty now. Wilhelm’s runefang was well bloodied as the giant black orc loomed into view. It appeared as a shadow at first, like a beast of the deep oceans slowly surfacing. He felt the Griffonkorps close protectively around him. The axe, too large and heavy for a man to wield, cut through the mist first. One of the Griffonkorps fell away with hardly a sound but minus his head. The carpet of fog swallowed him like he was just a memory.

  A second knight managed to angle a sword thrust before the black orc’s claw snapped out and seized him by the helmet. The Griffonkorps elicited a sort of squeak as his skull was crushed.

  In the intervening seconds, Wilhelm pushed forward ahead of his protectors. The black orc emerged fully from the pooling smoke. It was huge. Eye-to-eye with the prince, despite the fact he was mounted, it snarled and bit off the horse’s head. Part of the poor creature’s skull remained as it collapsed to the ground, gushing blood, taking Wilhelm with it. The horse’s demise was slow enough for the prince to leap free and still keep his feet, after a fashion. All around him, the desperate fighting went on. Parts of the shield wall nearby crumpled against the enemy’s savagery. Spears were snapped like twigs but the Empire line held.

  The shadow of the axe swept over Wilhelm, hard to discern in the press of bodies and the tumult of battle. Another Griffonkorps gave his life so the prince might live, horse and knight cleaved almost in two. Wilhelm used these seconds to get a solid footing. The black orc beast was not alone. Its slightly smaller, but no less brutal, brethren crowded out the other Empire soldiers near the prince’s side. He would face the beast alone. Somewhere, probably during the fall, he’d lost his shield, so he held Dragontooth two-handed. Wilhelm knew he’d only get one chance at the monstrous black orc and he’d need all of his strength to kill it, even with the magical dwarf blade.

  Obviously a warlord and one of Grom’s chieftains, the orc’s skin was like dark leather only more rugged. Thick mail armour swathed a heavily-muscled body that heaved with barely fettered rage. The axe was the size of a cart wheel, notched with use and stained crimson. Spiked boots added unnecessary height, w
hile the black orc’s skull was stitched with scars. Around its neck it wore a ring of desiccated halfling corpses as a man might wear a charm of wolf’s teeth. The beast bellowed, showering the prince with foul spittle. Its rancid breath stank of rotten meat.

  The clash of arms surrounded Wilhelm. He was in the eye of a massive storm but the war had narrowed into this one fight, this moment of kill or be killed. The prince tried to step back, telling himself it was for a better fighting stance and not because he balked at the ferocious creature, but found there was no room. It didn’t matter anyway. The black orc had issued its challenge. Now it advanced, axe swinging like a deadly pendulum.

  “Strength of Sigmar,” Wilhelm muttered, kissing his blade in the manner of the old ways, and went to meet the beast.

  Staring into nothing was getting maddening. For the last few minutes Karlich had watched the belt of thickening smoke, alert for the first sign of a greenskin breakthrough. He blinked away several imagined horrors in the mist, before realising all was well. Sweat sheened his forehead, though he wasn’t hot. With the pale cloud wreathing the field, tendrils of it reaching up to them on the ridge, a nervous tension gripped the valley. There was little to see now, even from on high, just half-shadows moving in the false fog and the sounds of battle.

  It was eldritch, unsettling. Lenkmann clamped a hand over his mouth to still his chattering teeth. The grey-white smoke played on his fears, reminding the banner bearer of something unnatural. Lenkmann saw ghosts in that growing cloud. In some respects, it wasn’t so far from the truth. Some of the shadows were soon just echoes where once they’d been lives. The smoke deadened, evoking a sense of the strange and disquieting. It was made worse by the presence of the great cannon so nearby.

  The fate of Blaselocker was put into Karlich’s mind as the war machine boomed only feet above them. The baron’s shredded remains had to be portioned away in separate sacks when the cannon had exploded alongside him. The raven-keepers were still removing iron shards from his flesh when poor Blaselocker was half assembled on a slab in the temple of Morr.