by C. L. Werner
Stefan kicked his steed forwards, galloping the final five hundred yards towards the brow of the hill. Before reaching the top, he dismounted and dropped to his stomach, crawling forwards the last yards and looking down. He surveyed the scene for some time, before remounting his horse and galloping back to his army.
He rode along the front of the marching columns, and rained in beside the reiksmarshal.
'The enemy are some eight hundred yards distant once we pass the summit, reiksmarshal.'
'Good,' his commander said. 'We will unlimber the cannon once we move over the ridge, and ready them to fire. The enemy will close on our position quickly. Ensure your troops are ready. When we defeat this first attack, leave two full regiments to protect the cannon, and drive your foot soldiers towards the castle. Be wary, and do not let yourself become surrounded. I will lead my knights towards the north after the first attack, and strike from there. We must clear the beaches.' Stefan nodded. 'And captain,' said the reiksmarshal, 'Sigmar guide your sword.'
'He will.' said von Kessel with certainty, and he turned to his sergeants to relay his orders. He stepped from the saddle and gave the reins to a waiting boy, who took the horse away from the battlefield. He pulled his sallet helmet onto his head, and strode in front of his army to join his regiment of greatswords. The battle-hardened warriors occupied the centre of the Empire line, their massive two-handed swords held over their right shoulders.
Albrecht, marching with a regiment of halberdiers, crested the brow of the hill, and his eyes widened.
'Sigmar save us!' exclaimed one of the halberdiers. Other soldiers swore as they too saw the battlefield arrayed before them.
The crumbling castle was about a thousand yards off, and completely surrounded by the besiegers. The clash of weapons could easily be heard, together with the roars of charging men and the screams of the dying. A living sea of Chaos surrounded the besieged castle, hundreds upon hundreds of savage Norsemen struggling to breach the defences of the defenders. Furred beastmen fought alongside the Norse, each taller than a man, with curling horns growing from their bestial heads.
Arrows descended from the walls in great clouds, cutting down swathes of the attackers with each volley. Those that fell were trampled underfoot by the press of the Norsemen, but there were dozens left to fill the gaps where their kinsmen had fallen.
Hundreds of Norscans were gathered on the beachhead, waving their axes and swords at the elf ships that skimmed across the water just outside the small bay. Massive cliffs towered up on either side of the bay, and rocks jutted from the water at their base, sharp and treacherous.
Figures could be seen on the crumbling castle walls, wearing tall gleaming helmets and spotless white robes. Their weapons flashed as they struggled to repel the waves of attackers that surged up the steep hills surrounding the castle. Ladders were hoisted up against the walls, and ropes thrown over its walls. Many were cast down, sending those warriors climbing them tumbling into their comrades, but the walls were too low, and the defenders too few, for the siege to last much longer.
The southeast wall was little more than a crumbled pile of stone, and here the battle was at its most fierce. The Norse were scrambling over the piles of rocks, and being cut down in their scores by the archers on the intact sections of the wall on either side of the gap. Those few warriors who did manage to survive the hail of death were met by elf warriors artfully wielding massive blades that they swung around them with deadly efficiency, and were cut down mercilessly.
As he watched, Albrecht saw a massive bull-headed creature, standing easily twelve feet tall, leap into the breach, clambering swiftly over the boulders, desperate to kill those before it. Arrows streaked down into the beast, and soon dozens of shafts protruded from its thick, furred hide. Uncaring, it carried on, intent on slaughter.
A slight figure stepped into the breach alongside the warriors, wearing a long flowing robe and cloak of pale blue. The figure held a tall staff in its hand, which it pointed towards the charging bull-headed minotaur. Flames, bright and searing, burst from the tip of the staff and hurtled towards the creature, which exploded into flames. Bellowing in fear and pain, the creature stumbled blindly for a few steps, before falling to the ground, a blackened, smoking corpse. Several of the halberdiers around Albrecht made signs of protection.
'Was that a woman?' asked one man.
'Dunno,' said Albrecht. 'Can't always tell with those elves.' He shouted for a halt, the call echoed by the other sergeants up and down the line. The army of Ostermark came to a stop, looking down upon the chaotic battlefield before them. Men below were turning to face this new threat, and shouts and horns could be heard, the sounds carried up to them on the wind. A group of about fifty lightly armoured horsemen, armed with bows and spears, peeled off from the rest of the force in a wide arc, and began to ride to the south.
'They're trying to get around our flank,' muttered Albrecht.
With a braying roar, three hundred beastmen, led by a giant bestial creature with three arms, began to run up the hill towards the Empire force. Their cloven hooves pounded the ground, making it tremble. Huge, slavering hounds ran at their sides, massive creatures the size of small ponies. Behind them, several hundred Norse warriors turned and began to trudge up the hill. Many carried round shields with flayed skin pulled taut across them. Cursed symbols were painted onto this flesh, and Stefan gripped the twin-tailed comet talisman hanging around his neck tightly, muttering a prayer. Others of the Norse had no shields at all, and loped up the hill carrying massive axes, requiring two hands to wield them.
A second group peeled off from the mass below, and began to march up the hill just behind the others. There were around a hundred warriors, and they wore fully enclosed plate armour over long chainmail. Like the other Norse warriors, they wore heavy helmets topped with rising horns and heavy cloaks thrown over their shoulders.
'Fire!' screamed one of the Ostermark sergeants, and the air was filled with the cracking fire of handguns. Dozens of the charging beastmen fell to the first volley, to be trampled by those behind. Another shout sounded, and black bolts from hundreds of crossbowmen hissed through the air, driving into the enemy with sickening force, punching them from their feet and sending them sprawling to the ground.
A booming sound echoed across the battlefield, quickly followed by another, as the Empire cannon, now readied, fired their first shots. The sounds reverberated in Albrecht's ears, and smoke rolled from the massive barrels. The cannonballs streaked through the air, ploughing into the enemy with deadly force. Albrecht saw a massive, bestial warrior's head taken clean off by a cannonball, before it continued on into the press, killing dozens. Each cannonball ploughed through the enemy, kicking up clods of earth, and driving great furrows through the ground where they bounced and skidded. Legs were ripped from hips as cannonballs screamed through the foe. Warriors raised their shields helplessly, and arms and shields alike were shattered. A second volley of handgun fire tore through the enemy. Dozens more dropped at this close range.
'Right lads, here they come!' shouted Albrecht.
Captain Stefan von Kessel stood calmly facing the approaching enemy. Another volley of black crossbow bolts hissed through the air, cutting down great swathes of the beastmen. Still others came at them, although their numbers were less than half of what had started the charge up the hill.
Captain von Kessel cocked one of his pistols with his right hand, his left hand holding the comforting weight of his shield. A litany of Sigmar was written on the inside of the shield, painted on with intricate calligraphy. He knew the words off by heart, but having them before him was still a comfort. His faith would protect him against the evil of Chaos.
The slavering hounds that ran alongside the beastmen were loosed, and they launched themselves at the lines of Ostermark state troops, growling and roaring. They were hateful creatures of Chaos, mutated and deadly. Although their sheer size was enough to indicate their twisted Chaotic breed, many of them bore
mutations. Massive tusks curled from the maws of many of the beasts, while others had long bony spines that erupted from their backs. One had hands instead of front paws, and Stefan wondered in disgust if it had once been a man.
Raising his pistol, he aimed it at the head of a charging beast, a massive wolf-like creature with a tail that curved over its back and ended in a huge poisoned tip. Pulling the trigger, he saw the creature's wide head explode in a satisfying spray of bone and blood. Holstering the ornate pistol, he drew his sword. More hounds raced over the ground, and launched themselves at the greatswords. Dozens of other hounds reached the line of the Ostermark army at the same time, intent on the kill.
With a shout, Stefan von Kessel raised his sword and shield in front of him, and leapt forwards to meet the beasts. His greatswords moved with him, shouting as they heaved their massive blades.
Stefan plunged his sword into the throat of the first creature, and it fell, blood gurgling from the wound. He smashed his shield into the face of another, before its head was cleaved from its body by the sweep of a greatsword. The warriors wielded their massive weapons with brute strength, cleaving and slaying with every powerful swing.
Cannon boomed again, along with the sporadic crackling fire of handguns as they were reloaded and fired. The last of the hounds were cut down by the greatswords, and Stefan saw that the beastmen were all but broken, countless bodies littering the hill. The last of them charged recklessly against the halberdiers to his right, running straight onto the sharpened points of the tall weapons. Those that were not slain instantly were impaled by more of the weapons as those behind drove their halberds forwards into the bodies of the beastmen.
The Norsemen advancing behind the beastmen were trudging over the bodies of those beastmen who had fallen, and they readied themselves for the charge, shouting out incoherent challenges and threats. They raised their weapons to the heavens, as if imploring their gods for strength, their voices harsh and ugly-sounding to Stefan. Horns blasted out across the battlefield, and drums pounded. Dozens of the warriors fell, black crossbow bolts in their throats or chests pierced by handgun shot.
'For Sigmar!' shouted Stefan. 'For Sigmar!' roared his army in response, and the two battle lines charged towards each other.
Stefan roared wordlessly as he ran, sword held high over his head. He blocked a descending axe with his shield and swung his sword down into the warrior's neck. Blood spurted and the blond-haired Norseman fell. The greatswords swung their massive weapons into the foe, using the momentum of the charge to make their blows even more powerful. One warrior raised a shield to deflect a strike, but his shield was hacked in two by the force of the blow and he went down, clutching the stump of his arm.
Stefan used his shield to batter another warrior off balance before plunging his sword into the warrior's gut. He deftly turned aside the thrust of another attacker, and his return blow cut a bloody trail across the warrior's face, smashing his helmet loose. A blow from a greatsword took him in the chest, cutting apart his chainmail and carving into bone and flesh. The weapon was embedded deep in the warrior, and as the greatsword struggled to pull it free an axe smashed into his face.
The screams of the dying cut across the clash of weapons and war cries. A tall warrior, his blond beard braided and decorated with black iron skulls and beads, bellowed as he struck at Stefan with a two-handed axe. He turned aside the blow with his shield, his arm jarring with the impact. He hacked his sword into the warrior's leg and he fell with a curse. Von Kessel kicked the downed warrior in the jaw, sending him sprawling backwards, and struck out at another Norseman.
Reiksmarshal Wolfgange Trenkenhoff surveyed the battlefield with a seasoned eye. The Ostermark infantry were engrossed in the melee, their ranks blurring with those of the Norse as they battled furiously.
With a shout, he ordered the handgunners and crossbowmen further out onto the flanks, as the bustling melee threatened to enfold them. Von Kessel's aides nodded, and the sharp notes of bugles rang out over the field. The sergeants of the regiments heard the sounds, and swung their troops away from the expanding battle line. The cannon fired again, aiming over the top of the fighting and into the ranks of the fully armoured Chaos warriors who were drawing near to the battle.
Out on the right-hand side of the battle line, von Kessel saw the disorganised rabble of flagellants hurl themselves into the fray, screaming and chanting. On the extreme right-hand flank he could see a small group of handgunners, smoke rising in front of them as they fired upon the horsemen who were drawing near. Many of the horse warriors were punched from their saddles, but they continued on. The reiksmarshal was not concerned. The engineer with his beloved volley gun,Wrath of Sigmar, was out on that flank. He had seen the devastation that could be wreaked on the enemy by those powerful weapons countless times, although he doubted that the Chaos horsemen knew the danger that they approached.
The fully armoured Chaos warriors were just entering the fray, and he could see the halberdiers lined against them begin to falter under their assault, their line beginning to buckle. That was where the danger was, he knew, and he shouted to his Reiklandguard. With another shout, he kicked his powerful destrier forwards. As one, the knights galloped down the hill, angled so that they could pass through the gap formed by the handgunners pulling back. The earth rumbled beneath them.
The engineer, Markus, chortled in triumph as he knocked another two horsemen from the saddle with a pair of quick shots. He lowered his repeating handgun, marvelling at its accuracy and distance. Only on the practice fields of Nuln had he used this weapon, and he had longed for the day when he could test it in earnest. He was not displeased. The clockwork cogs smoothly rotated the barrels of the gun into the firing position, and he was pleased that the sight of the handgun was perfectly adjusted. The horsemen were close now, however, and he gave the Wrath of Sigmar a final look over with his trained eye.
The horsemen, galloping hard and guiding their steeds skilfully with their knees, unleashed a volley of fire from their short, powerful bows. Markus heard the groans of pain as arrows struck the handgunners. He tutted in irritation as an arrow clanged off one of the barrels of theWrath of Sigmar.
'Heathen barbarians.' he snarled, and ordered the crew of the war machine to rotate the weapon to face the horsemen. He grinned as the horsemen drew even nearer. An arrow pierced his flamboyant, feathered hat, knocking it to the ground.
'Fire!' he screeched, and all hell was unleashed. The three firing mallets struck, and three gouts of flame burst from the ends of the uppermost barrels. They boomed loudly, smoke spewing from the chambers. Working smoothly, one crew member rotated the crank wheel, and the next three barrels swung into position.
Again, the three mallets struck, and three more gouts of flame accompanied the booming as they fired. The other crewmembers were hastily reloading the weapon even as the last shots were fired. Markus was grinning like a maniac.
The smoke began to clear, exposing the devastation that the weapon had wreaked. The field was strewn with horses and men, and their screams filled the air. Severed limbs and bloody torsos were scattered across the ground.
The handgunners drew long daggers and ran towards the fallen horsemen, stepping over the gory remains, and seeking out any survivors. They dispatched the living with cuts to the throat. Soon, the screams were silenced. Markus rubbed his hands with glee.
The ground pounded beneath the hooves of the heavy warhorses as they charged across the field and into the fight from the flank. The knights lowered their lances as one as they closed on the foe. Many of the fully armoured Chaos warriors turned to face the charge, holding their shields up defensively. Picking out his target, Reiksmarshal Trenkenhoff aimed his lance tip at the warrior's chest. As the warrior raised his shield he altered his aim slightly, and the lance punched into his throat, driving through the plate gorget there. Impaled, the warrior was lifted from his feet and driven backwards, the lance tip bursting from the back of his neck. The reiksmarshal's w
ell-trained and battle-hardened steed lashed out with flailing hooves, crushing another, and he continued the charge deep into the enemy formation.
The Reiklandguard ploughed through the enemy, smashing them aside with their sheer bulk and momentum, lances embedded in the foe. They discarded their lances and drew their sabres, hacking down at the foe milling around them.
The reiksmarshal drew his own blade, a beautifully crafted and potent weapon. Runes ran up its perfect blade, and he could feel the power contained within those runes as he held it. It was one of the twelve Runefangs forged by the dwarfs for the leaders of the Empire, the weapon of Emperor Magnus himself. The Emperor had presented it to the reiksmarshal just before he had left Nuln and ridden north.
Striking down with the Runefang, he cut through a helmet as if it was paper, splitting the warrior's head from crown to jaw. The standard-bearer of the Reiklandguard was at his side, holding the embroidered flag high, even as he drove his sword down, cutting the arm from a warrior that reached for his reins. The knights drove deep into the enemy formation, hacking and slaying.
Stefan could see the banner of the Reiklandguard, and could feel the desperation of the Norscans building. With renewed vigour, he smashed the pommel of his sword into the face of an enemy, and then slashed his sword across his throat.
'For Sigmar!' he shouted again, and drove forwards into the enemy. The greatswords pushed forwards with him, hefting their deadly weapons, although they were already tiring. Still, the greatswords were the toughest and bravest of Stefan's troops, and they took strength from the sight of their captain fighting by their side, cleaving into the enemy fearlessly.
A Norse warrior at the back of the press of men, seeing the knights driving through the flank of the warriors in front of him, turned and fled. The warriors on either side of him saw him run, and thinking that they had not heard the order to pull back, turned to run with him. Soon the Norsemen were streaming from the battle in an unstoppable rout.
