Mark of Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  'I see. That is... good, my friend. I wish you well.' said Stefan, and made to leave the madman with his sorrow.

  'When the plagued one shows himself, we will fight.' the man called out suddenly. 'When the daemons of the Lord of Flies cavort.' he shouted, clawing at Stefan's legs. 'I will fight then! Sigmar will come back to me then!' The captain pushed the man back from him. 'He will shine his light upon me once more if I smite the pestilent ones! See! See him! He comes!' the man screamed in sudden rapture, pointing and abasing himself on the ground, smearing mud on his face. 'He comes. Sigmar himself!' In the man's eyes he saw a warrior bathed in glowing white light walking towards him, holding a blazing warhammer.

  Stefan looked up to see what the crazed man saw, expecting nothing, but he saw the massive warrior priest Gunthar walking towards him, his face haggard and drawn. Indeed, it looked as if the priest had aged a decade - his eyes were rimmed with darkness, and his face was heavily lined. A fresh pair of ugly scars cut across his face, starting above his hairline, passing down through his eyebrow and continuing onto his cheekbone. The man on the ground continued to prostrate himself in the earth, and Gunthar knelt beside him, placing a hand on the man's head. The man froze for a moment, and then sat up, his eyes clear of the madness. 'I am not our Lord Sigmar, man, but his light shines through me. It shines in you, as well.' said the warrior priest. The man, looking at Gunthar in awe, stood for a moment speechless, before he ran off into the crowd.

  'Gunthar, you look terrible.' said Stefan.

  'Well you ain't exactly the pick of the crop yourself.' bellowed the massive priest before grabbing the captain in a crushing bear hug. 'At least my scars don't cover upall of my pretty face.' Stefan stood rigid, uncomfortable with any physical contact. At last the priest pushed the captain back, holding him at arm's length.

  'I have it.' he whispered hoarsely. 'By Sigmar, I have it!' A fierce light was shining in the priest's eyes, making him look more than a little deranged. Then the shine seemed to fade, and the priest sagged visibly, his massive shoulders slumping.

  'We were nearly lost. I'm sorry that I return with so few of your men, captain. The walking dead claimed them. Evil guarded this blade, but that darkness has been slain, and the dead have been laid to rest, thank Sigmar.' Gunthar raised himself up, and thrust the sword towards Stefan.

  'Kill the fiend, captain. It is only right that he dies at your hand.'

  'What do you mean, the guns are clean?' Engineer Markus asked in exasperation, running his finger along inside the barrel of one of the great cannon. He lifted up his blackened finger and held it out to the crewmen for inspection. 'For Shallya's sake, do it properly, would you? The enemy has more guns than us - these weapons must be in top condition. This cannon,' he said, slapping the barrel of the gun, 'is worth more than your lives - treat her with the respect you'd give your mothers.'

  'I'd treat her with the respect I'd giveyour mother,' muttered one of the men. His companions sniggered.

  'What did you say?' snapped the engineer, staring down the bigger man, not intimidated. It was a vaguely comical scene, the small and immaculately dressed though wild-haired engineer standing indignant before the hulking, soot covered men towering above him, who resolutely stared at their toes. 'Well, what was it? Some besmirching of my mother's honour, hmm? I'll have you know that the Lady Isabella von Kempt is a lady of high esteem, and is classed as a dear friend to the counts of several Imperial states.'

  'I'll bet she is,' muttered another man at the back of the group, causing more muffled guffaws.

  'Right! That's it, you vulgar men! I will not stand here and hear my dear mother's name smeared with your ribald foolery! I want these guns cleaned, properly cleaned mind, and hitched up to the horseswithin the half hour. That's right, groan all you like,' shouted the small engineer. 'What's the matter with you? Get moving!'

  The crewmen set to their work, grumbling and swearing, while the engineer picked up his newly purchased Hochland longrifle and began to dismantle it, peering at its mechanisms and down the long barrel with intense concentration. It was back-breaking labour for the cannon crew, readying the guns for war, and they worked in silence, their faces grim - each man lost in his own thoughts.

  For all their hassling of the engineer, they had merely been trying to find some humour in what looked to be a grim day. Each man was dreading the coming battle, for they knew the destructive power of their weapons, and what man would wish to light the fuse that would send explosive shells ploughing into fellow men of Ostermark? They did their duty with practiced efficiency, hitching up the cannon and mortars, and ensuring that each wagon was fully stocked with powder, cannonballs and mortar shells, and seeing to it that the helblasterWrath of Sigmar was well oiled, allowing the mechanisms that spun one bank of smallcalibre cannon to the next to move smoothly without sticking.

  Their tasks completed, they wrapped themselves tightly in their coats, stamping their feet to keep them warm now that they had stopped working and they smoked pipes. The engineer, Markus, would have berated them furiously if he had seen them - smoking pipes was not the cleverest thing in the world to do when standing next to bucket loads of black powder - but he had wandered off with his longrifle, so they enjoyed this vice, showing a complete disregard for the potential and very real danger. In silence, they contemplated the battle to come, feeling sick in their stomachs.

  Albrecht knew from experience that this was always the worst part of any battle - the waiting. Well, apart from the getting stabbed part, he thought. He moved amongst the men, giving advice and telling crude jokes, making sure that he seemed relaxed and comfortable, although inside he was far from it. The men were tense and uneasy, mirroring his own feelings, but he continued to do his duty, putting on a front of being in control and relaxed.

  He knew the effect this had on his troops - if they felt their superiors were confident and knew what they were doing, then they relaxed as well. If they saw their commanders stressed and ill at ease, that was when the feelings of uncertainty entered the hearts of the soldiers, sapping their courage and strength, and eroding their morale. That was how battles were lost, Albrecht knew. Still, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the enemy, better equipped with more than double the cannon and mortars that the captain had within his force, and already dug in up ahead, would blast them from the field of battle with ease.

  The scout Wilhelm raced through the trees, running low, covering the icy ground quickly. Bow in hand, he leapt over rotten logs and ducked under low-hanging branches, ferns brushing at his legs. He stopped abruptly; ducking down behind a moss covered rock, and glanced behind him. His team of huntsmen raced along behind him, flitting like ghosts amongst the trees. They paused, seeing that Wilhelm had halted, and crouched low to the ground. Instantly, they were completely hidden by the low ferns and mist.

  Wilhelm rose to his feet and slipped around the rock, descending down a slippery slope, eyes wary. Coming to the bottom of the slope, he broke into a run once more, racing through the trees at great speed.

  The land dipped down into another hollow, and Wilhelm sprinted down into it, splashing through the creek there and leaping up the bank on the other side. He threw himself to the ground, staring cautiously over the bank, before rising to his feet and continuing. Finally, he came to a halt and dropped to one knee, his chest rising and falling quickly from the prolonged exertion.

  Wilhelm nocked an arrow to his bow suddenly, staring into the mist. His breathing evened out as he drew back the arrow, his powerful bow curving. For a moment, he could see nothing, but then a figure moved out of the mist, crouching low, its head moving from side to side warily. Wilhelm recognised him - a fellow scout he had trained alongside - a scout that was not part of Captain von Kessel's army. He was a good man, who had a wife and two young daughters, he recalled. Still, he had no qualms about killing him; in fact it never even entered his mind to feel compassion or remorse. He was doing his job, and that was all.

  The man steppe
d carefully through the ferns, and Wilhelm concentrated on him, his bow still drawn. When the man was less than thirty paces away, he fired. The arrow flashed through the air and struck the scout in the throat. He fell to the ground without a sound. About fifty paces to the east, he saw another enemy scout drop silently, an arrow protruding from his mouth.

  A muffled shout came from the west, and Wilhelm swore. He rose to his feet and sprinted forwards, running as fast as he could towards the sound. He caught sight of a man, running through the trees ahead of him, and Wilhelm cut off to the left, guessing that the man would turn back that way.

  Branches scratched at his face as he leapt over a rock, and Wilhelm felt blood running down his face. He ignored the stinging pain, and raced on, bursting through a cluster of branches, sending a flurry of ice to the ground. The running man was just in front of him, and Wilhelm leapt upon him, dragging him heavily to the ground. Pulling his long hunting knife, he rammed it into the man's back. When the man ceased to struggle, he rose to his feet.

  One of his scouts burst through the undergrowth, his face flushed. He halted as he saw the dead man. 'Sorry sir, he was too quick for me,' the man panted. Wilhelm grunted in return.

  'We got them all?' he asked.

  'Aye, sir. This was the only one that looked like getting away. The enemy does not know that we are behind them.'

  'Good. Instruct the men to approach the edge of the forest. Do it silently. Let no man be seen. Then, await my order.' The man nodded, and disappeared into the trees.

  If Wilhelm was not mistaken, they should emerge right behind the enemy guns.

  Captain Stefan von Kessel held the sword up, examining its long, thin blade. It was beautifully crafted, without imperfection, with delicate elf runes running along its length. It seemed to glow faintly, and the captain hefted, taking a practice swing with it. He frowned. 'It's a bit light,' he commented.

  'Aye, it is. Elves ain't the biggest of chaps, now, are they? But that don't matter. This blade is true death for the count.'

  'Good. We cannot let this battle last long. I must kill Gruber quickly - then we can end this farce. I don't want men of Ostermark slaughtering each other - these are my people, Gunthar.'

  'Aye, I know. You are going with your plan, then?'

  'I am. Even now, my scouts have cleared the forests clean of the foe. Already the Reiklandguard knights are moving into position. I must leave to join them. You are sure you will not fight at my side? I could use your strength and your faith.'

  'Me? Fight on horseback? Ha! No, my place is with my feet on solid ground, lad,' the warrior priest said. He sighed. 'It's suicide though, captain.If you manage to break through, you will have to fight through his greatswords to get to him, and all the while his other bodyguard regiments will be encircling you. Even if you kill him, the chances are you will be surrounded and slaughtered. You know this. It's suicide.'

  'Suicide? Maybe, but maybe not. It's the only way to end it quickly, Gunthar. You know this.'

  'I know I don't like it,' the big priest said solemnly. 'May Sigmar guide your blade, von Kessel. Kneel before me, lad,' he said. The captain lowered himself to his knees, bowing his head before the priest. The priest raised his hammer to the heavens in one hand, and placed his other hand atop Stefan's head. He closed his eyes, and implored Sigmar to protect this one, to fill him with strength and courage. He felt a warmth in his hand as the power of his god passed into the captain.

  Stefan rose to his feet, his eyes filled with faith. 'I will not fail.' he swore.

  Horns blasted and drums began to beat as Stefan's army began to move. The ground reverberated as thousands of men marched forwards. Scores of banners were held high in the air, most bearing the purple and yellow of Ostermark, but also others bearing the green and red of Hochland, and several from Talabecland, flying their red and yellow colours proudly. Gruber's army, the standing army of Ostermark, was arrayed against them. The entire force wore their traditional colours, except for a small ragtag contingent of halflings out on the northern flank, representatives from the moot, who wore an eclectic array of earthy colours.

  Albrecht's heart was heavy as he shouted the order to begin the march across the frost-covered field. A feeling of inevitability and despair ran through him as he saw Gruber's soldiers, lined up on the hillside before them. They were not moving. Looking at the grand count's army, he estimated they were outnumbered three men to every two. Not terrible odds, he thought, although the enemy's cannon were far superior, and he thought that that would make all the difference.

  The grand count's plan was simple and obvious. He planned to wait for Stefan's army to advance, and begin pounding them with his cannon. As they continued to advance, his mortars would join them, hammering the advancing soldiers with their explosive shells, causing chaos. Finally, the crossbowmen and handgunners arrayed on the hillside would join the attack, scything through the ranks of the advancing soldiers. That was when Gruber's foot soldiers would advance, smashing anything that remained. He reckoned that they would see the full power of the count's cannon once they had advanced about another two hundred paces up the hill. That was when the first shots of the battle would be fired.

  At least, that would be what the count had planned, Albrecht was sure. The reality of things might prove very different. Stefan's cannon were hitched, and were advancing behind the main press of bodies. Once within range, they would be unlimbered, and they would begin to pound the enemy lines. Albrecht knew that the little engineer, Markus, had drilled the crews of those machines time and time again, so that the time it took them to unlimber and be ready to fire was less than a minute. The sergeant had to admit that, for all the merciless mocking the eccentric engineer suffered, his methods were effective.

  With any luck, the scout Wilhelm would be moving into position in the forest behind Gruber's army, and would launch an attack upon the enemy guns, if at all possible. He would have said that such an attack was doomed to failure, but then, if anyone could succeed in such a venture, it would be Wilhelm. Albrecht did not like the hunter - he was an emotionless killer - but he respected the man's skills.

  Von Kessel, leading the Reiklandguard, was also moving up through the trees, somewhere up ahead. The damn fool, thought Albrecht, trying to get himself killed with his heroics. He had said those same words to the captain's face, but the man had been sanguine about it. He had pointed out that it was the best way for the battle to be ended quickly. Albrecht could not argue with that, but he did not like it.

  'There's certainly a lot of them, ain't there,' said the massive priest, Gunthar, who marched at his side amongst the halberdiers.

  Wilhelm swore as he heard the blare of horns in the distance, announcing that the army was on the move. He crouched at the edge of the trees, staring out across the field to where Gruber's cannon and mortars were dug into the frozen earth. They were about two hundred yards off. This was within range of his longbow, but there was no way that he could fire accurately at that distance. If he was firing into a mass of enemy troops, then fine, but trying to pick out individual crewmen at such a range was folly.

  To make things more difficult, the guns were defended, but then he had expected them to be. There was a block of halberdiers to one side of the entrenched guns - about a hundred men, he guessed. Also, there was a group of horsemen behind the guns. There were about thirty of them - more than the number of scouts that Wilhelm had with him. They were lightly armoured troops, wearing blackened breastplates and helms, but no other armour. They had high plumes on their helmets, and their horses looked well-bred to Wilhelm's eyes. He guessed that they were young nobles, placed behind the guns to act as a rear guard, or, more likely, just to keep them out of harm's way. He sat watching them for a moment, thoughtfully.

  At last, he retreated back within the forest, and relayed his plan to his scouts. At his word, they moved off, half of them deeper into the trees, the others moving with Wilhelm to the edge of the forest. Running boldly out into the open, Wi
lhelm and his men covered about fifty yards before they were noticed. They halted their advance, and drew back the strings of their bows. They launched one flight of arrows towards the wheeling horsemen, and then a second, before the first had yet struck home. As the arrows struck, sending several men pitching from their saddles, Wilhelm and his men turned and fled back towards the tree line. They ran towards a small trail that cut into the trees, probably a path used by deer, or wild boar.

  The horsemen galloped after them, thundering over the uneven ground. Several booming shots sounded, and two of the scouts fell screaming to the ground. Looking over his shoulder, Wilhelm saw a young noble bearing down on him with a pistol drawn and aimed. Reaching the line of trees, Wilhelm threw himself over a fallen log. The pistol boomed, and the rotten log splintered as the shot smashed into it, inches from Wilhelm's head. The horse leapt over the downed log, its hooves flashing over Wilhelm. He rose to his knees, nocking an arrow to his bow, and sent the shaft smashing into the horseman's back as he pulled his horse around, throwing him from the saddle.

  Wilhelm was up, and running deeper into the trees, and he felt a shot scream past his ear. Ducking behind a tree, he peered around it. He could see the pistoliers some way back, not wishing to go too far into the trees. They spun their horses on the spot, several of the young nobles firing their pistols at the retreating scouts.

  Wilhelm stepped out into plain view on the path, and launched an arrow into the chest of another of the riders. The horsemen, seeing their enemy clearly on the path ahead, kicked their steeds forwards, and they pounded down the path towards Wilhelm. About halfway down the path, the lead riders were suddenly pitched from their saddles, arrows streaking from the sides of the path, cutting them down mercilessly. Wilhelm took down another two, as they turned around in confusion. Some of the riders, realising the trap, tried to spin their steeds and gallop to safety, but those at the rear, unaware of the ambush, were still trying to advance. Within moments, all the young horsemen were shot from their saddles, and Wilhelm's scouts were grabbing the reins of their horses. Wilhelm himself was checking each of the fallen men, cutting the throats of those who were not dead.