[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Now only yards remained. The greenskins had been taken by surprise. Their polluting stench rose over the pristine fields, wafted over the charging knights by the warm breeze. Some larger warriors turned and stood their ground. Silently, one by one, they were singled out by the knights. Near the centre of the mob, a larger monster prepared to meet the assault. He had a near-black hide and his bodyguard were clad in what looked like plates of armour. Clearly the leader.

  “That one’s mine!” roared Schwarzhelm.

  Hooves churned. The distance shrunk further. Details came into focus. The final few yards vanished in a blur of speed. Schwarzhelm grasped his lance tightly and took aim. With a crash of metal, bone, hoof and muscle, the knights crashed into the orc lines.

  The defence broke. Any pretence at formation was swept away with the first charge. Schwarzhelm’s lance plunged into the breast of the foremost orc, lifting the massive warrior clean from the ground before the shaft snapped. Blood sprayed into the air, sparkling like rubies in the sun. All along the line, the knights scythed their way through the greenskin ranks, driving great wedges into them and throwing them into confusion.

  Schwarzhelm let the broken lance fall and pulled the Rechtstahl from its scabbard. As the metal withdrew it seemed to shimmer with light. It knew it would taste blood. He pulled his stallion around, searching for the leader. A lumbering greenskin half-heartedly attempted to engage him. Schwarzhelm rode straight at it, his blade whirling. The warrior crumpled to the blood-soaked earth, spine severed. There were more behind him. Dozens of them. Fodder for his holy blade.

  “For Sigmar!” Schwarzhelm roared, feeling the coppery taste of blood in the air. “For Grunwald!” After weeks cooped up in the cesspit of Averheim, the Sword of Justice had been unleashed at last.

  And it felt good.

  Verstohlen ran along the streets of Averheim’s Old City, maintaining an easy pace. The hunt for Leitdorf had begun in earnest. All around him, Grosslich’s men kept their formation. There were two dozen in the warband, and they’d been well trained. Some were dogs of war, paid handsomely for their services, others were taken from the Alptraum estates. None of them had the stench of joyroot about them. That, more than anything else, reassured him.

  “Was this the way?” asked the captain, holding the pace steady pace as he spoke.

  “We’re nearly there, Herr Euler. This is the district.”

  All across the city, similar bands of Grosslich’s supporters were fanning out. Up until now, the fighting had been sporadic. Now all the cells across Averheim had been mobilised. The battles had been notched up a level. Alptraum had offered Verstohlen a place beside him with the forces attacking the Averburg. Verstohlen had refused. He had business of his own to deal with.

  The warband rounded the final corner. There were men ahead. A few of Leitdorf’s hired thugs. They didn’t stay to fight. They ran off into the sidestreets, and a couple of Euler’s soldiers made to go after them.

  “Leave them,” snapped Verstohlen. He looked down the street they’d cleared of men. At the far end of it, a narrow alleyway stood. He knew what lay down there. Part of him dreaded going back, but the contagion had to be cut off at the source.

  “Follow me,” he said grimly, drawing his pistol from its holster. Euler and his men fell into close formation around him. Without saying another word, the warband advanced towards the unassuming-looking townhouse at the end of the alley.

  Out on the fields of Averland, Schwarzhelm drew his horse up, feeling the beast shiver from fatigue. He’d ridden it hard. His hands were streaked with the dark blood of the orcs. All around him, the butchery was in full flow. He shaded his eyes from the sun, trying to get an overview of the fighting.

  The orc warband leader was close at hand, hurling threats in its obscene tongue. The initial charge of the knights had carved through the disarranged ranks of greenskins like a dagger through flesh. There would be no respite. They would press on until every last one of them was dead or driven back over the mountains. Grunwald’s memory would be honoured.

  Schwarzhelm turned back to face the enemy. They were massing for a counter-attack. Scattered bands of orcs nearby had somehow got wind of the battle and were streaming across the fields to reinforce their kin. That was all good. There was no point picking off the fringes of the contagion. The heart of it had to be cut out.

  “To me!” Schwarzhelm bellowed to his honour guard, raising the Rechtstahl aloft. Kraus was at his side instantly, along with a dozen of the honour guard.

  Averlanders followed in their wake looking hollow-eyed and murderous. Any pretence at holding detachments had long gone. This was melee fighting, close and packed-tight. That was fine. They had the numbers, and they had the leadership. Schwarzhelm’s fury had been roused, and there wasn’t a warrior on earth, greenskin or not, who could stand against him.

  With a kick of his spurs, Schwarzhelm swung his charger around to renew the charge. Kraus fell in alongside him. Fresh lances were brought up, and the assault was marshalled anew.

  The orc leader saw the danger. Like of all its cursed race, it showed no fear. With a low growl, it stamped on the earth, rousing its followers into a frenzy of defiance.

  Schwarzhelm rode straight for it. He lowered his lance, watching the steel tip swing into position over the approaching orc’s eyes. He could sense Kraus riding hard at his shoulder, feel the momentum of the charge all around him. The orcs could see it too. Despite their bravado, despite their dogged willingness to stay and face the onslaught, their roars of defiance were less pronounced than usual. They feared the cavalry.

  The gap closed in seconds, and then they were among them. The orc leader, a head bigger than its nearest rival, swung a spiked club in a wide circle, aiming to take out the horse’s legs as it thundered towards him. Schwarzhelm pulled the reins and the beast swerved comfortably to avoid the swipe. Then he was on top of it, hooves kicking out. The orc leapt to the ground, rolling across the grass before springing up with surprising agility. Schwarzhelm’s lance missed it by inches. His steed careered onwards before he could pull it round for the return run.

  The evidence of the charge’s devastation was all around him. Kraus and the other knights had carved straight through the heart of the orc horde, and the surviving warriors were in disarray In the gap opened up by their assault, Averlander footsoldiers were hurrying to catch up and consolidate the won ground.

  But the monster, the guiding force behind the orc’s movements, still lived. Schwarzhelm kicked his horse back towards the huge figure of the greenskin commander, watching carefully as the creature prepared itself for the next pass.

  In a split second, he determined his tactics. He was too close for another full charge. At such a range the lance would be more of a hindrance than a weapon. As the powerful horse lurched forward, he let the long shaft fall to the ground and drew the Sword of Justice. The orc saw the change of strategy and braced itself, hurling insults at the oncoming Schwarzhelm in its dark and obscene tongue.

  They came together again. The orc reared, scything its spiked weapon, once again aiming at the horse. This had been expected. The warhorse had been trained for combat, and was more than just a mere mount. As it closed on the orc, Schwarzhelm pulled sharply up on the reins. The charger reared, kicking its front hooves out viciously before they fell back down to earth. One of them connected with the orc’s face, knocking one of its tusks out and cracking bone. The warband leader staggered back, roaring in pain.

  Then Schwarzhelm was on it. He brought the Rechtstahl down in a sudden plunge, burying the tip of the steel deep into the orc’s hide. The warrior howled, twisting to escape the agony of the blade. Like all of its kind, it was strong, nearly wresting the sword from Schwarzhelm’s hands.

  But Schwarzhelm was too expert a swordsman for that. He withdrew the blade while pulling the horse round, keeping it close to the stricken creature below. The orc tried to match the move, turning on its squat legs clumsily and raising its club more in defen
ce than attack.

  Schwarzhelm ignored the threat, watching for the opening. It came soon enough. He spun the sword rapidly in his grip, switching so the blade pointed down from his clenched right fist. As it whirled into position, the sunlight blazed from the holy steel.

  Mustering all the power in his arm, Schwarzhelm stabbed the Rechtstahl down. The tip of the sword punctured the orc’s flesh between shoulder and neck, and kept going.

  The greenskin screamed, an unearthly sound that echoed over the whole field of battle. With a fury born of desperation, it tried to tear itself away from the pain, lashing out blindly with its club. The blows were ill-aimed, and Schwarzhelm evaded them easily, keeping the blade in position, turning it and pushing it down, aiming for the heart. For a moment they struggled together thus, their strength pitted against one another.

  Eventually, the blood loss was too much. The mighty creature sunk to its knees, the fire in its eyes extinguished. Schwarzhelm withdrew his sword. The orc’s gore flew into the air as he reverted to his usual grip. With a rattling sigh, the greenskin keeled over on to the pristine turf.

  Schwarzhelm looked around him. In every direction the honour guard were slicing apart the orc defences. In their wake the Averlanders were rushing to make good the gains made. The assault was progressing well.

  But the greenskins were numerous. Some signal must have been given, as more were running to reinforce them from all across the plains. Schwarzhelm’s forces were taking losses as they advanced, and even as he watched one of the knights was dragged from his steed by the press of orcs around him. They still needed discipline, still needed formation. If this thing slipped into a shapeless scrap, then all their advantages would be gone:

  “To me!” he cried, his powerful voice echoing across the battlefield. The horsemen began to fight their way back to his position. They would need to re-form the wedge, set up another massed charge, punch the orcs into submission. They would have to do it over and over again. More than most, Schwarzhelm knew how stubborn an opponent the orcs were.

  They would have to be. Now his fury was roused, there was no place for them to hide.

  Euler’s party ran down the narrow alleyway towards the townhouse. Verstohlen reached the door first. It was just as he remembered it. In the daylight it looked, if anything, even more innocuous. There was no handle, no decoration.

  “Break this door down,” he ordered.

  Euler gestured to his men, and two of his larger soldiers came forward. They slammed their bodies against the wood. Once, twice, three times, then the frame buckled. A fourth heave and the planks splintered. Euler hacked the broken wood aside and reached in to unlock the door. It swung open. The familiar aroma of jasmine wafted from the chamber within.

  “Keep together,” warned Verstohlen. “Do not be deceived by appearances. Kill anyone inside you see, fair-seeming or foul.”

  Some of the men were looking uncertain. Their stock in trade was street fighting and campaigns against rival magnates. Even they could sense that there was something very wrong about the townhouse.

  Verstohlen didn’t have time to pity them. If Rufus’ allies were allowed to take root, there’d be plenty more such establishments in Averheim to give them nightmares.

  “Let’s go.”

  He went inside, pistol drawn. There was no one in the antechamber. The stone was bare and the lanterns had been extinguished. The body of the grotesque dog-warrior had been removed. Where his corpse had been slumped, Verstohlen thought he could see a faint brown stain against the plaster.

  He went on, down the stairs and towards the central chamber. Euler followed close behind. The men had trouble squeezing into the narrow way, and their weapons clanged against the stone. Fighting in such close quarters would be difficult.

  Verstohlen reached the bottom of the stairs. The corridor was empty and silent. To his right was the route he’d taken last time. Ahead of him were the double doors leading straight into the chamber.

  Euler stood beside him, breathing heavily from the earlier exertions.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  Verstohlen nodded in the direction of the doors.

  “Straight to the heart of it,” he said.

  With a faint tremble that he couldn’t suppress, Verstohlen reached for the handle. He pushed firmly, and the doors to Natassja’s throne room swung apart.

  Bloch lowered his blade and grinned. After days of fighting, he knew they must be close to Heideck. The fact that they’d run into yet another splinter band of orcs wouldn’t stop them achieving their goal. The days of endless combat had begun to blur into one long procession of fighting, but he’d somehow managed to keep it together. His forces were intact, morale was as good as could be expected, and they were nearing their destination. They’d turned from mindless running from the enemy and started to engage them at will. Something had got the greenskins worried, and the feeling was infectious. From every direction he could hear his men laying into the enemy, hurling themselves into combat with a commendable ferocity. He was happy to join them. He’d even started enjoying himself.

  The orc before Bloch looked drunk with fatigue. Its slab-muscled shoulders slumped, and its chest heaved. The end would not be long now.

  “Is that the best you’ve got?” he taunted, swinging his blade and advancing towards his enemy. The orc stared back at him stupidly. The fire in its red eyes was nearly out. Blood as thick and dark as oil ran from a dozen wounds. Like a bull in the rings of the Estalians, it had been ground into the dirt.

  Bloch laughed and swung his halberd directly at the monster’s head. The orc parried, lifting its spike-studded cudgel to block the path of the blade. Bloch pulled back and swung again, probing for the weak spot. The orc, its breathing heavy and uncertain, matched the strokes. Bloch began to hammer his weapon down more quickly, using the shaft of the halberd as much as a club as a blade. The orc staggered backwards, desperately fending off the blows.

  Bloch didn’t relent. He felt a surge of exhilaration course through him. The greenskins had killed too many. They’d had it their own way for too long. This was their chance to even the score a little.

  With a final, limb-jarring thud, his halberd found a way through the greenskin’s defences. It bit deep, slicing into the thick flesh of the orc’s neck. The stricken creature bellowed a final time and sank to its knees. Bloch withdrew the blade and hacked downward again. And a third time. The creature collapsed on to the ground, limbs twitching. Bloch raised his weapon in triumph, angling the point over the orc’s prone heart. With a savage cry, he brought it down with all his might. The tip pierced the greenskin’s heart, ending its rampaging forever. Bloch twisted the metal, watching the blood bubble from the wound like spring water. It wasn’t much to celebrate, but it gave him some satisfaction.

  At last, he pulled the halberd from the still twitching body of the orc. He stepped back and looked about him. The enemy were routed. His men still stood their ground. They’d run the orcs out of the forests and into the open country. For the first time since Grunwald’s last stand, they had the initiative.

  “What’s got into them?” came a voice from behind him. Fischer. The lad had taken a nasty wound to his forearm and carried his weapon in his left hand. He looked pale but defiant.

  Bloch shaded his eyes against the violent sun and tried to make out where the fleeing greenskins were heading. The countryside was open. They were all loping in the same direction, as if called by a signal beyond his hearing. They didn’t look like they were running mindlessly or in a panic. Something had summoned them away.

  “Sigmar only knows. They’ve been all over us for days, and now…” He trailed off. He strained against the haze, trying to make out what was happening.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Fischer. “We’re out of cover here.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Bloch. He peered into the distance. The heat made the ground shimmer. On the horizon, everything was indistinct. It looked, though, as if there were anoth
er orc warband in the distance, kicking up dust from the parched earth. A big one, by the cloud they threw up. As big, perhaps, as the one that had defeated them in the foothills. And, unless his eyes deceived him, it was already fighting.

  He turned to Fischer. This was getting interesting.

  “They’re not running from us,” he said. “They’re mustering to face a greater threat. That’s why they’re falling back. Something bigger has got them worried.”

  Fischer looked blank.

  “From Heideck?”

  Bloch snorted derisively. “Those milk-fed weaklings? No. You’d have to have balls of gromril to take that mob on.”

  He hefted his halberd, ready for another long trek across the fields. This time, however, the objective was more than just survival.

  “Ready the men,” he ordered. “We’ll form up again and follow that pack. Carefully, mind. Nothing reckless. But I’ve a feeling we’re all headed towards the same place. And I’ve a feeling I know who’s there too.”

  Fischer still looked clueless. Bloch grinned at him. “Trust me. We’re not done fighting yet.”

  The doors of the townhouse’s central chamber swung open. Their motion was noiseless. For a moment, Verstohlen thought he saw movement within. He swung his pistol round swiftly.

  Nothing. The chamber was empty.

  He walked in, keeping the weapon raised. Euler and his men followed, fanning out across the wide circle.

  “Send men up to the next level,” said Verstohlen. His voice sounded very loud against the echoing silence. “They may be hiding. No man is to enter any room alone.”

  While Euler relayed the orders, Verstohlen took a good look around. There was no throne, no dais, no iron braziers. The place had been stripped bare. The floor was wooden, the stone unadorned. If it were not for the lingering smell of jasmine, he might have begun to doubt his own recollection.

  He crouched down and examined the floor. There were no scraps of cloth, no remnants of Natassja’s spiked toys. They’d done a good job. As good as he would have done.