05 - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Across the hillside, other knightly orders were entering the fray and for a while the enemy’s advance slowed. The winged figure of Mormius was still gliding towards Hagen’s Claw and as he approached, his horn rang out once more. The wavering note was now so loud that several of the Ostlanders had to clamp their hands over their ears to block out the trilling sound. The marauders exploded into action—driven onwards by the close proximity of their general’s rallying cry. Even Maximilian’s knights struggled to defend themselves against such unhinged aggression. The bare-chested barbarians threw themselves at the polished armour of the knights with no thought for their own safety. For every one that fell, gutted, to the bloody ground, a dozen others clambered up onto the horses, their eyes rolling wildly as they wrenched and hacked at the men’s armour.

  The crush of bodies slowly halted the knights’ advance. In fact, as the horn drove them to even greater fury, the marauders began to push them back up the hill. As the marauders swarmed over them, Ratboy saw one of the knights dragged from his charger. A crowd of enemy soldiers had grappled and shoved at his horse with such fury that it eventually toppled onto its side, thrashing and kicking in fear as the marauders plunged knives beneath its scalloped armour. The knight rolled clear of the horse and continued to fight with calm dispassion, but down on the ground he stood little chance against the seething mob. The other knights showed no sign of recognition as he vanished beneath a flurry of blows; they simply closed ranks and continued to fight with a quiet dignity as they were forced slowly back towards the monoliths.

  A furious roar echoed across the hillside as the marauders greeted the arrival of Mormius. He dropped gracefully down amongst them and folded his flashing wings behind his back. Ratboy found it hard to look directly at him. It seemed almost as though a fragment of the bright, gibbous moon had broken away and fallen to earth. He could see quite clearly how tall the man was though; he was almost as big as the ogres that had led the attack. But as he strode towards the Empire troops, he showed none of the ogres’ animal simplicity. He sauntered casually through the carnage, as though promenading into a ballroom, flicking his red hair back from his face as he drew a long, two-handed sword.

  The first Ostlanders to face him were so paralysed with fear that Mormius simply ignored them, strolling past the rows of shocked faces and leaving the marauders that followed in his wake to hack them to the ground.

  Two of Fabian’s honour guard attempted to rally the Ostlanders, charging at Mormius with their two-handed swords above their heads and calling furiously for the ashen-faced onlookers to follow. As they neared the winged colossus, a detachment of swordsmen grudgingly shuffled after them, wide-eyed and trembling in the face of such an unholy vision. As the wolf-helmed Oberhau reached Mormius, they dropped into a low crouch and edged slowly towards him.

  At the sight of the two officers, Mormius revealed his perfect teeth in a broad smile. His regal gait became a lurching, twitching stagger, as a fit of laughter gripped him; but then his pretty face twisted with anguish. “Be calm,” he hissed, in a desperate voice, shaking his head furiously as the soldiers approached. “It’s not funny.” He took a deep, calming breath and his crystal wings spread out behind him, creating a flash of moonlight so powerful that it temporarily blinded the Oberhau. They faltered, raising their hands to try to block the glare and, with a casual flick of his wrist, Mormius lopped their heads from their shoulders.

  The swordsmen baulked in the face of such incredible speed and as the giggling, cursing champion stepped towards them they backed away, raising their shields defensively against the glare of his glimmering breastplate.

  Mormius continued up the hill. As the terrified Empire soldiers shuffled back, they created a broad path ahead of him, leading straight towards the distant banners of the command group. The only possible danger to the champion seemed to come from himself; as his expression alternated from a leering grin to an agonised scowl, he began slapping his armour-clad fists against the side of his head, punching himself with such force that blood began to flow from his ears.

  “We must stop him,” cried Wolff, leaping back up into his saddle. “If he reaches Fabian something terrible will happen, I can feel it.”

  Maximilian nodded and with a wave of his sword, ordered his men to abandon their futile attempt to advance. He led them sideways across the hill, through the moonlit jumble of corpses and broken guns. The crush of bodies was just as great in that direction though, and they soon found themselves mired once more in the mass of struggling soldiers. The knights hacked and shoved with all their strength, but the marauders seemed endless. Ratboy’s face and hair were slick with blood and his voice was hoarse from screaming. He paused, mid strike, as a familiar face looked out at him from the heaving throng. He could see no more than a pair of pale eyes, glaring at him from behind the flailing mass of swords and limbs, but something about the face chilled him. He had no time to dwell on it though, as another lumbering brute lashed out at him, swinging a battered sword straight at his head. He parried the blow and kicked the marauder to the floor and when he looked again, the face in the crowd was gone.

  Wolff suddenly gave a howl of frustration and Ratboy looked over in alarm, surprised by the desperation in the priest’s voice. Wolff’s face was purple with rage and his scarlet robes were drenched with sweat and blood. His inability to reach the champion seemed to have driven him to distraction. There was a feral look in his eyes that Ratboy had never seen before.

  Wolff leapt from his horse, diving face first into the enemy. His heavy frame hit the northmen with such force that a whole row of them toppled backwards under his weight. Before they could clamber to their feet, Wolff grabbed the nearest one by his greasy hair and slammed his warhammer into his face. “Bow down before Sigmar!” he screamed, pounding the weapon repeatedly into the man’s shattered head and shaking him violently back and forth, even though he was obviously already dead. “Receive His judgement!”

  Ratboy watched in horror as his master ripped and pounded his way through the struggling men. He seemed unhinged; inhuman even. As he bludgeoned his way towards Mormius, the priest was no longer taking heed of who crumpled beneath his bone-crunching hammer blows. Ratboy saw several Empire soldiers, smashed to the ground by his blind, uncontrollable rage. The sight of such untrammelled fervour reminded him of someone and with a sickening rush of fear, Ratboy realised who he had seen in the crowd. It was the witch hunter, Surman: alive and here with them on Hagen’s Claw. He must have trailed them right across the province, but for what purpose? He looked around but could see no sign of the frail old man amongst the crowds of struggling warriors.

  Ducking beneath a spear thrust, he dropped from his horse and ran to his master’s side. On approaching him, he paused. As Wolff screamed a tirade of furious blessings into the pulped faces of his victims, he suddenly seemed indistinguishable from Surman. Is that what I will become, wondered Ratboy, lowering his sword in horror. A vision of Raphael’s corpse filled his head, surrounded by his adoring crowds of penitent followers, tearing their flesh for the glory of Sigmar. Where were they now? Broken and forgotten on a muddy field. Sacrificed on a whim of his master. Anna’s intense, grey eyes suddenly filled Ratboy’s thoughts and he looked back up the hill, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. I can’t do this, he suddenly realised, blanching at the sight of so much bloodshed. He turned away from his master and began to climb back up the hill.

  Rough hands grabbed him beneath the shoulders and hoisted him up onto a horse. He found himself sat behind Maximilian. The knight’s helmet was gone and his steel grey beard was splattered with blood, but he had a fierce grin on his face. “We’d best keep up with your master, eh lad?” he said, giving Ratboy a suspicious look. “A wolf needs his pack around him at a time like this.”

  Ratboy flushed with embarrassment and nodded, gripping his sword a little tighter.

  Wolff’s frenzied attack had cleared a path across the hillside, and as Maximilian rode after him,
Ratboy got his first clear glimpse of Mormius. The champion was only about two-dozen yards away, and he noticed again that some of his crystal armour was stained and dark. The black shadow had now spread from his left hand all the way down to his waist, and, from the awkward, one-handed way Mormius held his sword, Ratboy guessed he was in a lot of pain.

  “He’s wounded,” he yelled into Maximilian’s ear, pointing at the champion’s arm.

  The knight nodded as he steered his horse around the struggling figures, closing quickly on Wolff. “Doubdess his corruption is eating him up from the inside. Should make our job a little easier.”

  As they reached Wolff’s side, there was no sign of his wrath diminishing. He was fighting towards the gleaming champion with jerking spasmodic movements that reminded Ratboy of a marionette or an automaton. As he shouldered and punched his way into the clearing around Mormius, the priest’s robes were hanging in tatters from beneath his dented armour, but he still had his warhammer grasped firmly in both hands, and it was glowing with a light almost as dazzling as Mormius’ armour. “Blasphemer,” he gasped, slamming his hammer against one of the stone columns with a dull clang.

  Mormius paused at the sound and looked back. He met Wolff’s bloody scowl with a wild grin. “A priest, a priest, a warrior priest,” he sang, strolling back down the hill towards him. “Have you come to pray for me?” He gave out a thin shriek of laughter and looked around at the rows of terrified faces that lined his path. “I think you may be a little late.” His laughter grew so hard that tears welled in his eyes and as he neared Wolff, his face was flushed with colour. “Your congregation seems to have already written me off.”

  “Speak carefully,” yelled Maximilian, as his horse crashed through the rows of cowering soldiers, a little further up the hill. As they rode down towards the champion, Ratboy’s pulse began to throb painfully in his temples. Mormius’ towering shape was essentially human, but corruption seemed to pour out of him. Ratboy found it impossible to meet the giant’s eyes as he turned towards them.

  “What’s this?” asked Mormius, leaning heavily on his sword as the battle raged around them. He wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “A welcoming committee? Finally. I was beginning to feel quite snubbed. Anyone would think you people had forgotten your manners.”

  Maximilian’s horse tossed its mane nervously as the knight rode towards Mormius and Wolff. As they approached him, Ratboy realised that his master, well built as he was, barely reached the flashing plates of Mormius’ chest armour.

  “You abomination,” muttered Wolff, wiping the gore from his shaven head and striding forwards. He pounded his gauntleted fist against the hammer device on his chest armour. “Sigmar denounces you, with every muscle, heart and sinew of His Holy Empire.”

  The champion’s laughter faded as he saw the passion burning in Wolff’s eyes. “I see no muscle here,” he replied, waving his sword nonchalantly at the rows of petrified onlookers. “Maybe Sigmar has tired of His snivelling, bastard offspring. Maybe He’s forsaken you, little priest.”

  Wolff gave no reply, but broke into a sprint, raising his hammer to strike as he raced towards Mormius.

  Mormius turned slightly so that the crystals of his armour flashed in the moonlight and presented Wolff with an image of his own, livid face.

  The priest stumbled in confusion and lowered his hammer.

  Mormius stepped to one side and sliced his greatsword at Wolff’s neck.

  The blade hit Maximilian’s sword with a ringing sound. With Mormius distracted by Wolff, the knight had managed to approach the champion and was now just a few feet away. He had extended his sword just in time to parry the blow and save Wolff’s life, but Mormius’ strength was such that the knight’s weapon flew from his hand, spinning across the battlefield towards the crowds of onlookers. The old soldier cried out, clutching his arm.

  Mormius rounded on Maximilian and Ratboy with a sardonic smile on his plump lips. He strode towards them, but then stumbled and winced. Ratboy noticed again that the crystals on his left arm were dark and lifeless. In fact, now that he saw it a little closer, he realised that his whole side was atrophied and twisted.

  There was a rending metallic crunch as Wolff’s hammer slammed into the small of Mormius’ back. The champion’s eyes widened in shock and he stumbled towards Maximilian’s horse. As he fell past them, Ratboy lashed out with his sword and a flash of red erupted from the champion’s face. Mormius slammed to the ground like a felled tree.

  Wolff strode forwards and struck again, but Mormius rolled to one side and the blow pounded harmlessly against the ground.

  The champion lurched to his feet and turned to face his three attackers, batting his long eyelashes in shock and pouting as he clutched his bleeding cheek. Then his mouth set in a determined line as he saw several other Knights Griffon fighting their way through the carnage and lining up behind Maximilian with their swords raised. He lowered his hand from his face, allowing the blood to flow freely down his pale neck and grinned. Then, he rocked back on his heels, rolling his eyes at the moon and letting out another burst of hysterical laughter. “Little friends,” he gasped, waving his sword at the scene behind them. “Your determination is commendable, but can’t you see? It’s already over.”

  Wolff and the others turned to see that marauders were now flooding the hillside in such numbers that the Empire troops had no option but to retreat. Huge crowds of the black and white clad figures were rushing back towards the banners at the top of the hill. Trumpets were blaring in several places as the sergeants ordered their men to retreat.

  Mormius spread his wings to the breeze that was buffeting the hillside and lifted himself up over the heads of his opponents. “I’ve no time to entertain you,” he called, apologetically, as he flew up the hill towards the command group. As he glided over the soldiers, he lifted his long horn from his back and the mournful, undulating sound washed across the hillside once more, driving the marauders to new levels of ferocity as they rushed after him.

  Wolff vaulted up onto his horse and without even pausing to acknowledge his friends he raced up the hill.

  Maximilian and the other knights charged after him, led by the flashing shape of Mormius. The retreat was quickly becoming a rout. A second wave of ogres had swelled the ranks of marauders and as they grunted and stomped their way into the fray, the Empire soldiers fled for their lives.

  As they thundered back up the hill, Ratboy saw that the enemy had even overrun the command tents, trampling the striped canvas to the ground as they chased their prey. “Where’s Fabian?” he called.

  Maximilian shook his head and gave no reply as they raced towards the tents.

  As they reached the summit, Ratboy saw no sign of the Iron Duke, or his officers. The tents were empty and as the Ostlanders saw they had been abandoned to their fate, they screamed in fear and confusion, before fleeing down into the narrow valley behind Hagen’s Claw. Thousands of them were already scrambling and tumbling into the ravine, leaving a trail of broken weapons and banners as they went.

  Mormius was flitting back and forth like a carrion bird, searching desperately for Fabian and lashing out at the fleeing shapes in frustration. His great wings were silhouetted against the moon as he landed on top of one of the stone columns and looked down over the battlefield. Even from such a high vantage point, his enemy eluded him and the champion howled and gibbered at the stars, as though the heavens themselves were responsible for Fabian’s escape.

  Without their general to lead them, the Empire army lost all sense of order and its neat ranks collapsed into an unruly jumble of beleaguered knights and panic-stricken foot soldiers. Ratboy scoured the confusing scene for any sign of his master, but it was impossible to make out individual figures in the riot of plumed helms and tattered banners. This is it, he decided. This is the moment my master feared. Fabian has abandoned his army to its doom. He’s led them here to die.

  The ringing of swords filled his ears and he turned to
see that Maximilian’s knights were now a lone island of purity, surrounded by a host of screaming, grotesque brutes. The marauders were clambering over each other in their desperation to attack the knights and Ratboy saw immediately that they were about to be overwhelmed. “We must flee with the others,” he cried. “Into the valley.”

  Maximilian shook his head and hissed with frustration, lashing out at the clutching fingers trying to drag him from his horse, unwilling to show weakness in the face of such a barbarian rabble. Within seconds of Ratboy’s cry, however, the whole front rank of knights collapsed with a scream of twisting metal and injured steeds.

  “Retreat,” cried the baron in a despairing voice, as several of his men were dragged to the floor and butchered right before his eyes. “Pull back into the valley.” He turned his horse up the hill and led his men in a desperate charge away from the advancing hordes.

  Even then, on the very edge of defeat, the knights carried themselves with a quiet dignity that belied the hopelessness of their situation. As they reached the summit of the hill, they slowed to a canter and formed themselves back into neat, ordered ranks.

  Maximilian and Ratboy looked back to see a myriad of grotesque shapes teeming over the hillside: towering, slack-jawed ogres, sinewy, broad-shouldered barbarians and lumbering, unnatural shapes, all heeding the call of the winged monster perched on top of the obelisk.

  “My master’s probably down there,” cried Ratboy, straining to be heard over the din and pointing down into the crowded valley on the other side of the hill. “He’ll be trying to find his brother.”

  Maximilian had regained his composure and nodded calmly at the acolyte. “We’d not last a minute up here on our own anyway. And down there we can at least defend our countrymen as they retreat.” He signalled to his men with a flourish of his sword and led them down the hill after the fleeing Ostlanders. “Whatever Fabian’s motives,” he cried as they rode down the hill, “he was right about this ravine. The pass is so narrow, the marauders will find themselves in a bottleneck as they try to attack. Their numbers will work against them in such a confined space. Mormius will pay dearly for every foot he advances.”