3 the heart of chaos

by ich du

  The shots from the cannons wrought as much havoc and death amongst the Kurgan riders as they had the infantry. Massive gaps were torn into the mounted horde, filled with the tangled remains of riders and horses.

  Following the lead of Andar Kul, the Kurgan picked up the pace, now moving at some speed towards the hill. Riding at the front of the irregular column, Kul drew his sword, a wickedly curved blade, and raised it above his head. Bringing it down with a sweeping motion he signalled the charge and dug in his heels.

  The ground trembled under the thousands of hoof-beats as the Kurgan charged the Empire guns. A forest of spears and swords held above their heads, they swept up the hill towards the Imperial position, mud and snow flying from the hooves of their horses, the plaited manes and tails of their steeds streaming in the wind.

  Kul gave a piercing battle cry that could be heard over the thunder of hooves and rushing wind, a chilling ululation from the depths of his throat. The cry was echoed by the others of his tribe, and joined by shouts and whistles from the other riders, until the whole force was a screaming mass.

  They were almost upon the cannons now and Kul could see the smoke-stained faces of the crews looking at him. A man stood by each of the six guns with a burning taper in his hand. Now only fifty yards away and still moving fast, Kul directed the point of his sword at the cowardly southerners.

  At a shouted order from their captain, the gunners put their matches to the touch holes of their weapons and a moment later the hill erupted with flame and smoke. One of the cannons misfired, sending red-hot shards of metal scything through its crew as its barrel split, but the others discharged their lethal loads at point blank range into the charging Kurgan.

  A storm of lead pellets filled the air as the grapeshot chewed through the riders, ripping men from their saddles, tearing the flesh from horses, breaking bones and smashing apart skulls. The devastation wrought by the volley was horrendous, hundreds lying scattered over the hillside, but it was not enough to stop the charge.

  Miraculously unscathed except for a slight scratch on his arm, Kul was the first to reach the gunners. He swept out his sword without slowing and its razor edge slashed across the face of one man. Turning his horse with his thighs, he rode straight over another, who fell beneath the hooves of his sturdy mount.

  It was over in a matter of moments, the Kurgan reining in their mounts as the last of the gunners fell beneath the storm of blades and spears that had descended like the vengeance of the gods upon the Empire soldiers. From the hill, Kul could see into the town and marvelled at the burning buildings.

  He was wondering what to do next when a horn blast from the south caught his attention.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Retreat

  Mursk, Early autumn 1712

  LORD BAYARD HAD held his knights back from the town, knowing that his men would be wasted fighting amongst the tight streets. Instead, he had promised Count Vapold that the Osterknacht would act as a reserve, ready to move forwards and cover a retreat to the position on the hill.

  When he had first seen the shadow on the horizon to the west he thought it was the victorious Kislevites marching to their aid. As the horde had become easier to see he had realised with horror that it was not the Kislevites at all, but instead their supposedly defeated foes, the barbaric Kurgan.

  He had argued against leaving the cannons unprotected on the hill, but the count had said that every man would be needed to hold the bridge. Vapold had reasoned that, sited on the far bank from the assault, if the artillery were ever under threat it meant the battle was probably already lost.

  Now the foe had appeared from an unexpected quarter, and there was nothing that Bayard could do about it. He had watched in admiration as the gun crews wheeled their war machines around to face this new threat, refusing to flee in the face of the overwhelming force coming towards them. They had calmly loaded their guns and fired, then loaded grapeshot and waited for the final, devastating onslaught. They had died as brave men, manning their guns to the last.

  With the attention of the Kurgan focussed on the cannons, Bayard had given the order to form up and advance. In neat files ten wide, the three hundred had trotted northwards, towards the hill. Bayard had been less than half a mile away at the front of the column when the final charge had hit amidst the thunder and fire of the cannons' final shots.

  The Kurgan were disorganised, their opponents so easily overwhelmed that they had continued on over the far side of the hill a little way. They milled around the summit waiting for their leaders to regain control.

  Bayard signalled to his hornblower, Lothar, and the youth raised his instrument to his lips and blew a clear, long note. As the sound died away Bayard kicked his horse into a run, the knights behind him keeping pace.

  From the south the hill was not so steep and as the Kurgan hurriedly turned towards their new foes, Bayard urged his horse on faster. At a speedy run, the Osterknacht drove up the hill towards the Kurgan.

  Though they lacked the speed of their foes, the impact of their charge was even more impressive. Having not broken into a full gallop they had retained their solid formation. With lances at full tilt, the Osterknacht literally smashed into the steppe riders.

  Bayard picked out a target and aimed his lance at the savage, scalp-locked warrior. The point struck the rider high in the left shoulder, almost tearing his arm off, and Bayard ripped the lance free as his horse carried him past. He was in the thick of the foe now, the impetus of his warhorse carrying him forwards, shoving aside the smaller, lighter steeds of the Kurgan.

  Their hasty sword blows and thrusting spears clanged harmlessly from the steel plates of Bayard's armour, scratching gouges in the dark enamel but otherwise having no effect. Another thrust of his lance spitted the gut of a bare-chested Kurgan with dark red warpaint across his face. The man kicked and struggled for a moment as he was dragged from his horse, tearing the lance out of Bayard's grip.

  He drew his sword and set about the enemy around him, using high sweeps and cuts to slash at faces and necks. The impetus of their charge had hardly faltered, and though outnumbered almost ten to one, the Osterknacht cleaved into the Kurgan horde like a sword through bare flesh.

  Caught almost unawares by the attack, unsure of how many foes assailed them in the chaos of the melee, those Kurgan who could kicked their horses in the flanks and fled back down the hill.

  The Osterknacht's momentum carried them through the splintering mass of riders, scattering their enemies in all directions. Bayard signalled to the left and Lothar gave two short blasts of his horn. As precisely as if they were on a parade ground and not a corpse-strewn hill, the Osterknacht wheeled after the fleeing marauders, chasing them down onto the plains.

  Though not as quick over short distances, the Kurgan's mounts carried them clear of the pursuing knights and Bayard signalled for the company to halt, not wishing to unnecessarily tire the knights' mounts. Redressing their ranks, the Osterknacht watched the Kurgan bolting back to the west. Free from immediate harm the steppes nomads gathered and stopped their rout some half a mile away, and there they stayed, watching the knights warily.

  Bayard stood in his stirrups and looked back over his men. He saw no more than a dozen holes in the ranks. In contrast, nearly five hundred Kurgan dead and wounded lay upon the bloodied snow and mud of the hill.

  'WHAT ARE THEY waiting for?' asked Gunther Fletzen quietly, turning to the spearman to his left.

  'It's the maiden,' Paulus Greid whispered back out of the side of his mouth, his stare fixed on the mass of warriors that were gathering in the streets ahead.

  The horde of the north filled the spaces between the buildings with a mass of dark armour, fur and tattooed flesh. A tall warrior with long blond plaits stood at their front, regarding the Empire line coolly. No more than fifty yards separated the two armies, and yet the wide street that ran alongside the river was deathly quiet.

  'What do you mean?' said Gunther.

  'She's the maid
en of Sigmar, in't she.' replied Paulus. 'Her holiness is like poison to 'em.'

  'I never knew that.' said Gunther.

  There were barks and howls from their right and dozens of beast-headed mutants burst forth from the ranks, rushing towards the Imperial soldiers.

  'Hold.' the deep voice of Sergeant Tilven told them.

  There were shouts and the sound of weapons clashing from further along the line and Gunther had to muster all of his willpower to resist the urge to step forward and see what was happening.

  Instead Gunther kept his gaze on the blond-haired warlord. As the spearman watched, it looked like the tall warrior shrugged and then with a howling battle cry launched himself into a run, spear raised above his head. Behind him the dark horde gave a roar and poured forwards.

  'Shit.' muttered Paulus. 'Here they come.'

  'Poison eh?' snapped Gunther.

  'Brace!' shouted Sergeant Tilven, and as one the Third Wolfenburg Company of Pike snapped their weapons into position.

  Gunther stepped up with his left foot and leaned forward, spear held with his right hand halfway down the shaft, his left hand a little further up, its butt braced against his right foot. The wide shield on his left arm covered his chest. His heart pounded as he watched the onrushing line of savage warriors.

  He could see the hate in their eyes as they charged, and smell the stench of their unwashed bodies.

  'Strike!' the sergeant bellowed when the first of the warriors were almost on top of the spearmen. Over Gunther's shoulder, Leburg thrust his pike forward, driving the hardened iron tip clean through the helmet of the Chaos warrior in front of him.

  With a small movement, Gunther guided the tip of his own weapon towards the chest of a fur-clad savage who was howling as he charged towards Paulus. The northman's own momentum carried him on to the sharpened point, the force of the impact snapping the spear shaft as his breastbone was carved open.

  Gunther reached for his short sword, but it was only halfway out of its scabbard when a snarling barbarian leapt upon him, smashing a heavy club into his helmet. Gunther's ears rang and he stumbled. The Norse's next blow smashed Gunther's jaw into his brain and he fell.

  IT WAS A SLAUGHTER, which was just the way that Count Steinhardt liked to wage war. From the vantage point of his horse's back, he watched as the enemy floundered through the freezing waters of the ford, the river swelled by the recent snow, his archers and crossbowmen loosing a steady torrent of steel-tipped death into the northerners.

  'How many do you think so far?' he asked, turning to Iversson.

  'A thousand at least,' the commander replied. 'Probably more.'

  The count watched impassively as the bodies in the water began to pile up, further hindering those behind. Corpses floated downstream, spinning slowly in the swirling current pierced by bolts and arrows.

  The marauders gamely continued to come on though, ignoring their losses, urged on by the bellows of the obscenely muscled warrior on the far bank. Through sheer weight of numbers, the northmen were making ground, some crawling onto the bank, their furs sodden, panting for breath.

  As hard as they tried, the missile troops simply could not keep up a sufficient rate of fire to take down every foe. Steinhardt was also worried about ammunition. They had been shooting steadily for several minutes now.

  There were now dozens of enemy clawing their way up the bank, only a hundred yards away. One brute of a man was wading across now as well, an axe in each hand. Steinhardt watched as a crossbow quarrel punched into the warlord's exposed chest. He barely even noticed it. Other bolts and arrows studded his warped body by the time he reached the near bank.

  'The cavalry, my lord?' asked Iversson. Steinhardt nodded, not taking his gaze from the monstrous northman now clambering up through the snow towards him.

  A trumpeter sounded the signal for the missile troops to fall back and they did so in good order, breaking to the left and right before retreating, leaving a clear run for the knights who were standing behind them.

  The disfigured northman raised his axes above his head in defiance and bellowed in his crude tongue, no doubt some cutting insult.

  'Now, my lord?' asked Iversson.

  'No, let some more come across first.' the count replied. 'We'll only have to waste time chasing down the survivors.'

  Within a few minutes there were several hundred warriors on the closest shore. With their leader at the front, they began to advance.

  'Now, I think.' Steinhardt said to Iversson. A couple of seconds later the trumpet called for the cavalry to charge.

  Bolstered by the two thousand knights sent to him this morning by Vapold, Steinhardt's cavalry careened forward with lances poised. As the count had expected, the cavalry crashed into the enemy with brutal efficiency.

  Everywhere except near the misshapen giant, that was.

  With a speed that should have been impossible for his bulk, the bestial man was cleaving men and horses with his double-bladed axes, their heads whirling in impossible arcs around him.

  He leapt aside from a spear point and with a backhand blow from his left-hand axe detached the head of the knight's horse, a split second later his other axe cleaving the rider in the chest.

  Limbs were severed and heads lopped off as the northman strode up the bank towards Steinhardt. Like the sea breaking against a headland, the knights were pushed to either side of him, decapitated and dismembered if they strayed too close.

  He was now only thirty yards away, and showed no sign of tiring. Beyond him the knights were now in the ford, sweeping across the river and riding down the Norse as they struggled against the current. On the near bank, however, the northern warlord showed no sign of relenting in his attack. Step by step, corpse by corpse, he advanced slowly. Fortunately, the press of knights heading into the ford barred his way, otherwise he would have already been upon Steinhardt.

  'He's getting rather close,' said Iversson, shifting nervously in his saddle. 'Perhaps we ought to retreat a little ways?'

  'Ridiculous.' Steinhardt snapped. 'There are at least fifty more men between him and us.'

  The fifty became forty, and then thirty, and then twenty. At fifteen, Steinhardt pulled his pistols free from his saddlebags and cocked them. With only ten men left, the fighting now only five yards away, the count could see his adversary more clearly.

  His skin was awash with blood from dozens of cuts and gashes, some of them quite deep. One of his fingers hung by a thread of skin from his hand, and more blood poured from his ruined nose. His muscles bulged and swelled with a life of their own, in a way not at all related to his movements. He was at least as broad across the chest as a horse and his shoulders were almost as wide as a man is tall. The veins in his arms stood out like thick cords, his upper arms thicker than both thighs of a normal man combined.

  Steinhardt took aim, the pistols aimed directly at the marauder's face. As the last man between the warlord and the count was struck down, the chieftain looked up.

  'Good effort.' said Steinhardt, pulling the triggers.

  The twin impacts of the bullets smashed apart the man's head, sending shards of bone and a flurry of blood in all direction. His headless corpse was thrown backwards, crashing into the snow and mud. Beyond the decapitated body the rampant knights were running down the surviving warriors of his army.

  'Come on.' Steinhardt said, looking over his shoulder at Iversson, who sat on his horse as rigid as a post. 'Vapold won't be able to wait all day for us.'

  THE FIGHTING IN Mursk was bitter and intense, as the battle fractured into a series of running clashes in the twisting streets. The Imperial line had held against the initial impact of the Chaos force, but in the close fighting, unsupported by their guns, the soldiers of Ostland fared poorly. Though they fought with discipline and bravery, they could not match the strength and ferocity of their foes.

  Ruprecht fought close to the bridge, the head of his hammer slicked with blood as he smashed it into the helmet of an armoured warrior,
crushing his adversary's head. The din of battle rang off the buildings that lined the Urskoy, the crackle of flames from the burning town drowned out by hoarse shouts and the screams of the dying, the ringing of metal on metal and the bellowing of titanic beasts.

  Despite the efforts of the soldiers around him, Ruprecht could feel the Empire army being pushed back towards the icy waters behind them. While it had seemed sensible to defend the bridge at all costs, it was now clear that the river would likely become their grave. To his right, Ruprecht heard cries of terror and saw the towering shapes of the dragon ogres looming over the spearmen who were embattled on the very edge of the river not far away. The large blades of the Chaos beasts carved bloodily through the ranks of the spearmen, felling a dozen men, and the survivors turned to flee. Some were driven into the freezing waters of the river itself, the others running into their comrades as they broke towards the bridge.

  Blocking an axe blade with his hammer, Ruprecht drove his fist into the face of a marauder with a shaven head and red, flame-shaped tattoos across his face. The tide of twisted warriors seemed almost endless. Over the clamour of the fighting, a trumpet sounded out, three short bursts. It was the signal for retreat.

  Ruprecht battled his way back towards the bridge, almost tripping over the armoured bodies of the Gold Company that littered the muddy street. A small knot of the greatsword-armed veterans held back a snarling horde of beastmen, their long blades chopping through fur and flesh. Her golden armour splashed with dark, foul blood, Ursula fought with them.

  The retreat was enacted with a careful precision, regiments pulling back from the line in a pre-arranged plan, their comrades to either side, closing the gap. It took several minutes for the thousands of soldiers to collapse back towards the bridge, the officers and sergeants bellowing orders, instilling their will on their men to avoid the retreat becoming a rout.

  Ruprecht stood with the remnants of the Gold Company now, not far from Ursula. During brief breaks in the fighting Ruprecht threw hurried glances towards Ursula. She appeared unharmed, and in fact as Ruprecht watched, protected for a moment by two swordsmen who were in front of him battling against a tall, bull-headed mutant, he realised that none of the enemy's attacks were directed against her. Trailing blue flames, Ulfshard cut through the enemy in Ursula's hands, but her foes backed away from her or attacked those who stood beside her,