Mannfred decided that swift action was required.
There could be no waiting.
He ordered his forces to quicken their advance, throwing all their weight at the centre.
The forlorn hope must fall.
It was an error of judgement that would prove fatal.
The Grand Theogonist, Kurt III, received his orders from Martin and understood what was required of the Divine Sword.
They formed an armoured column, like one half of the pincer of a mighty demi-kraken. Thousands of knights resplendent in full battle armour rode onto the field of death. They held aloft flaming torches. The reddish hue of fire danced across the contours of their burnished plate armour. They were an awesome sight to behold, riding out of the storm. The snow seemed to melt away from them.
Spurring their warhorses into a wild charge, they punched a hole clean through the ranks of the dead. Trailing their sword arms low, the knights wielded their flaming brands like great swords and thrust at the horde of undead, igniting the rags they were clothed in. The fire spread like a plague. The sweet stench of cooking flesh wafted across the battlefield.
They did not scream.
Ablaze, they marched ever onwards, driven by Mannfred’s unbending will.
It was not long before their charred bones became so brittle that their legs snapped like twigs as they marched and then crumbled into a fine coating of black soot, dusting the snow.
The horns of the Divine Knights blared out, sending a message of hope to the defenders. The dwarfs, seeing the dead burn and the knights riding through the fire, fought with renewed purpose.
The clash of steel on bone was sickening.
The flames roaring around him, Kurt III, Grand Theogonist of Sigmar, signalled to the entire left flank that now was the time to break from defence and drive forwards down the ridge, corralling the enemy into the centre ground.
Across the battlefield, on the right flank, Vorster, exhausted, bloodied and sweating, his battered armour hanging heavy on his bruised and equally battered body, matched the signal, three sharp blasts on his trumpet, signalling Ackim Brandt to lead the reserve and charge at the right flank.
lust as the Knights of the Divine Sword had punched through on the left, so Brandt’s reserves smashed through on the right.
Their legs pumped, knee deep in thick snow, their feet slipping and sliding through the treacherous icy bog. It mattered little that the men were fresh into the battle.
The only thing that mattered was that they carried out this single manoeuvre at speed.
They began driving the enemy into the centre ground.
By now Mannfred’s shock at seeing not one regiment but two enter the fray must surely have worn off. He would be able to see clearly that Martin’s ultimate strategy was to envelop his undead horde in two mighty pincers and crush them.
Identifying a plan and neutralising one were two different beasts.
Orders and counter orders rippled down the enemy lines.
They only served to wreak confusion as the legions of foot sloggers, flesh eaters, dire wolves and ghouls quickly discovered that they had nowhere to advance to, nor retreat from. They were bogged down and defenceless.
Kurt unleashed the Divine Sword.
The knights raced to encircle the battlefield, driving the stragglers from Mannfred’s army deep into the fray at the centre. They joined up with the right flank.
Mannfred’s entire army was trapped within the noose.
All that remained was for Martin von Kristallbach to tighten it.
High above Hel Fenn he ordered the gunners, the cannoneers, the musketeers and the pistoliers to begin a relentless and unceasing bombardment of the heart of Mannfred’s ensnared forces.
All around the Imperial circle, pike—and spearmen rushed forwards, slogging through the mire, to form the teeth upon which the undead would be devoured.
Mannfred, trapped in the centre, panicked. It was not an emotion he was familiar with. The alien sense of fear had him reeling. He spun his nightmare steed around in circles, yanking at the reins. Flame billowed from the beast’s nostrils. The scent of blood filled the air.
Everywhere he looked, the living pressed in.
A low-lying undercurrent of chanting took shape. It possessed a steady melodious rhythm that seemed to enthral the outermost lines of the dead, holding them at bay as surely as any sword or axe. The devout priests of Taal were joining the circle. It was their song that penetrated into the cavities of the corpses searching for their souls. Ordinarily an undead warrior was a hollow husk devoid of any holy light, but as the grand theogonist had discovered, when some of the humans fell their bodies were being raised so quickly to fight in the undead legions that their souls had not yet crossed over and were trapped, often powerless inside the meat of their former selves.
Now, one by one, a shining blue corona of holy light blossomed around random carcasses.
Seeing the spectral lights flowering across the battlefield, the Grand Theogonist saw the extent of his task and began his invocation. The flurry of thick winter snow sparkled like fireflies around the glowing corpses. It was a glorious sight, proof of the divine.
He threw his arms up to the heavens beseeching Sigmar’s intervention with Morr, god of death and dreams, on behalf of these wretched souls. They deserved to die warriors’ deaths. They could not do so as prisoners. He prayed for Sigmar’s help to break the bonds of Mannfred’s will and giving each man back his destiny, and more importantly, his death.
The final words of the invocation spilled from his tongue and a miraculous sight took hold. Throughout the ranks of the dead, soldier turned on soldier, the illumed against the shadowed.
It reduced some of the soldiers to fighting with tears streaming down their cheeks as men they had fought side by side with during the long bloody days of the campaign were allowed to fight and finally die with dignity.
As each shadow fell, Mannfred’s army simply diminished, but with each illumed that fell the mesmeric blue corona that had come to define them found release, coruscating down into the snow and billowing out in one final pulsating glory that illuminated the ground at their feet, to the earth returned.
Martin von Kristallbach saw the final chapter of the battle with perfect clarity.
As the last of the illumed faded, their essences rippling out through the cracked ice and muddy snow, he saw the opportunity to finish off Mannfred’s remaining forces. He led the charge to tighten the noose he had so masterfully looped around the Vampire Count’s neck.
With Vorster and Brant stepping up, aiming to meet him in the centre, the hack and slash of cruel battle was undeniably in their favour.
The other regiments picked their targets and seized the night.
The Knights of the Divine Sword wheeled their mounts in their hunt for the wight lord known as The Undying.
The knights still knew their enemy as Gothard for he had been one of them.
They saw his slaying as their sacred duty, not because they hated him for the monster he was, but because they loved him for the man he had once been.
As one, they made for the once proud champion of their order and raised their great swords in his honour before raining them down upon his corrupt flesh and finally laying him to rest.
His death was savage. Even after he had fallen they cut him limb from limb, hacking his corpse into ruined pieces.
Kallad Stormwarden spied Mannfred, Adolphus Krieger at his side. “Come on, lads. This is what we’re here for.” Belamir cracked four skulls in a wide sweeping arc.
Othtin mirrored the blow, caving in the chest cavity of a zombie.
Gasping for breath, Kallad rammed his head into an undead beast’s maw and fell upon it, Ruinthorn splitting the beast from throat to gut.
Cahgur lunged forwards, thrusting the head of his warhammer up under the chin of the zombie before him. The blow came out of the back of its skull, sending a spray of rotten brain showering over the shambling undead that r
emained behind.
Molagon cut the legs out from under a stumbling skeleton. The bone splintered, and even though the thing fell it still clawed on through the snow grasping for the dwarfs boots. Molagon stamped on its head, grinding the bone to dust beneath his hobnailed boot.
Seeing the skeletal horde humbled and no longer the terrifying force they had once been, the dwarfs regarded them as little more than an inconvenience on the path to their ultimate goal.
Hacking and cleaving at bone, they lopped heads and severed limbs, driving towards the two vampires.
With his army collapsing around him Mannfred saw a path opening up.
The crush of the dead had thinned.
The battle was all but lost.
He did not have to lose the war.
Now was the time to make good his escape.
Adolphus Krieger saw it too. With chaos reigning around them it was pointless to stand and fight. He pointed the way with his black blade.
They plunged forwards, leaping their nightmarish mounts over the bodies of the fallen in their haste to make it through the opening before it slammed shut and the opportunity to escape was snatched away.
Hammer blows rained down on the legs of both steeds, from nowhere, crippling the animals. The two vampires came crashing down headlong into the snow to the agonised screams of their mounts. Krieger’s nightmare reared up, flames snorting from its muzzle as the animal’s legs buckled and then fell directly on top of him.
Pinned under a tonne of panicked animal, even the vampire’s formidable strength could not save him.
Two dwarfs stood over him.
Together they raised their hammers and piled them into his skull again and again and again until it caved in on itself, spilling the beast’s brain across the battlefield.
Kallad Stormwarden blocked Mannfred’s path.
“I killed you too fast the first time. I shall not make the same mistake a second time,” said Mannfred coldly.
“Are you the beast or just another one of his proxies?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not a fan of thinking, it interferes with the killing.” Kallad looked down at the beast’s right hand. He wore but a single ring, a plain signet. It looked utterly unremarkable beside the vampire’s gaudy ceremonial finery. The plates of armour were decadent and impractical, offering no protection from the enemy’s weapons. He needed no such protection. He had other means of defence. The plates were designed to allow the dexterity needed for spellcraft. “Just so you know, whether yer him or no, I’m gonna batter yer anyway.”
Mannfred opened his mouth to respond, but stopped short, sensing movement to his right. He whirled around with hideous grace to see another dwarf charging straight at him. Kallad raged, but his moment had been shattered.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Molagon responded, “Not standing around scratching me backside talking to the whoreson, that’s for sure.”
It was the last thing he would ever say.
In a blur of motion, Mannfred lunged at the attacking dwarf, his entire form shifting into a slick coat of grey fur and the snout of a huge dire wolf. The beast buried feral claws into Molagon’s belly, opening him up with a savage slash.
With a mouthful of snarling teeth, Mannfred bit out his throat.
Kallad screamed his pain. He could not save his friend, but he could kill the beast.
Belamir and Cahgur abandoned Krieger’s corpse and ran to engage the dark lord.
Kallad split the wolfs spine with Ruinthorn, chopping the mighty axe deep into the Vampire Count’s arched back. The beast howled its pain and bolted for freedom, Kallad struggling to restrain it, but Ruinthorn’s purchase became slick with blood and quickly tore free of the wolfs flesh as the creature writhed beneath it.
The wolf disappeared amid the legs of the dead, racing for the cover of the woods.
The dwarfs set off after it, struggling through the blood and the mud, and the churned snow.
Suddenly a terrifying howl rang out across Hel Fenn. As Kallad emerged into open ground beyond the line of the Taal priests he saw a second huge wolf come barrelling down towards them from out of the trees.
Not them, he realised… towards the beast that was Mannfred!
The two wolves clashed in mid-air in a fury of fur and teeth, and claws.
Neither beast could get the upper hand.
They tumbled in the snow, kicking and biting, snapping at each other furiously until suddenly one emerged atop the other, pinning him down by the chest and biting down on a hammering paw, chewing it clean off. The victor having claimed his prize had no interest in whether his prey lived or died. The vanquished wolf yelped pitifully, staggered to its three remaining paws and limped away towards Shadow Lake, leaving nothing but a trail of blood in the snow.
But who had injured whom?
Kallad could not tell.
The pain was excruciating.
Mannfred could barely see as he stumbled forwards. He felt his grip on his lupine form slacken. He could not maintain it. He felt the fur go first, melting away from his arms. His sense of smell diminished, lost to the overwhelming reek of blood. He collapsed to the snow and crawled forwards on his one good hand and knees.
He looked around to see how far he had made it from the battlefield, but no more than a few hundred feet away he saw the damnable dwarf raising his fingers to his lips and unleashing an ear-splitting whistle that drew every living eye in his direction.
He watched as Kallad levelled Ruinthorn, pointing the axe at him, yelling, “The beast is injured!”
Within moments Martin and his cavalry were closing in.
Mannfred groaned and stumbled to his feet. The snow was thick and deep, obscuring the treacherous nature of the terrain beneath. He ran, fell, ran and fell again.
The second wolf padded along beside him, tantalisingly out of reach, taunting him, making sure that whenever he ducked out of sight of the Empire forces he drew them back to the vampire’s trail.
“Who are you?” Mannfred yelled at the beast.
It didn’t answer. Its silence mocked him.
Shadow Lake lay hidden within the depths of the forest.
It was towards here that Mannfred ran, with its underwater caves and grottos hidden within the reeds. If he could only reach it, it would be the perfect hiding place for respite and recovery.
If he could only reach it.
Martin, Vorster and Ackim Brandt spurred their mounts forwards, answering the shrill whistle.
The horses lengthened their strides, eating up the snow-covered ground as they made for the dwarf axeman.
Mid-gallop, Vorster Schlagener reached down and scooped Kallad Stormwarden up, helping the dwarf commander into the saddle behind him. Kallad clung on for dear life, but was thankful for the human’s intervention.
“I’ll not be missing out on this,” the dwarf rumbled.
Together they bore down on the last of the Vampire Counts.
Darting between the thinning trees, they were forced to slow when they hit the marshes, but it was of no consequence. It was obvious to all that Mannfred had nowhere else to run.
They dismounted and drew their steel, closing in for the kill.
Despite the weight of the Runefang in his hands and the thrill of victory in his heart, Martin von Kristallbach was not fool enough to have banished his fears completely. He approached the vampire with caution, knowing full well that an injured animal was always at its most dangerous when cornered.
“I will burn your corpse, vampire, and make sure your kind can never return.”
“So this is how it ends?” Mannfred held up the bloody stump where his right hand had been. “I seem to have lost my… protection.” He threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “Take me then. End it. Or are you afraid? I may be weakened, human, but I could tear your heart from your chest and feast before you knew it was gone. So, are you man enough?”
There was no more need for words.<
br />
Vorster and Brandt stepped aside to allow Martin, Elector Count of Stirland, victor of Hel Fenn, through. He swung his Runefang with such decisive might that Mannfred von Carstein was hurled back into the black lake, truly dead before the brackish waters closed over his corpse.
Skull cleaved in two, the last of the Vampire Counts was no more.
Together, Vorster and Ackim Brandt walked back to the battlefield, leading their horses by the reins. The moment Mannfred had died, the remnants of his army had crumbled to dust.
Handfuls of peasant levies crawled around in the snow, weeping. How these pitiful wretches could fight for the dead, could mourn the undead, baffled them. They lacked the courage or good grace to fall upon their own blades and hasten their journey to join their vile masters.
Thick palls of smoke dung to the fen where the living had gathered their dead into huge pyres and begun the grim work of cremation. The casualties were horrific.
Vorster and Brandt stood, awed by the slaughter, wondering how they had survived.
The death toll was severe.
They walked among the casualties, unable and unwilling to appreciate the true extent of the horrors they had lived through. Blood soaked into the battlefield; the blood of good men. Vorster could not begin to count their losses. Thousands upon thousands lay dead in the field.
[Von Carstein 03] - Retribution Page 30
