by C. L. Werner
‘Brothers, fall back!’ Diocletian shouted to his paladins, bringing his own thunderaxe sweeping around in a crimson arc that tore the head from one dog and split a second in two. A third beast, its muzzle distorted by insect-like mandibles, sprang at him, the nails on its paws raking at his armour as it struggled to reach his throat. Diocletian slammed the butt of his axe into the hound’s ribs, shattering its bones and sending its infected carcass sliding across the ice.
With the Judicators and their skybolt bows keeping fresh packs of hounds from closing upon the Decimators, the axemen were able to withdraw, joining the massed ranks of the Liberators. Diocletian saluted Angstun, quickly reporting to the Knight-Vexillor.
‘I do not think it will be long before the enemy finds us,’ Diocletian said. ‘The dogs must have caught our scent even on the ice, but what follows them needs a stronger trail. Each of the beasts we fought was already cut before our blades so much as scratched them. They’ve left a track of putrid blood behind them, straight from us back to their masters.’
Angstun cast a glance at the Judicators. The bowmen were still picking off hounds charging out from the mist. He realised that deploying Osric’s retinue hadn’t improved their situation much. True, he’d enabled the Decimators to withdraw, but they still had the mongrels snapping at their backs – with the promise of worse to come. Now it was the Judicators he had to think about leaving behind. The prospect revolted him.
‘We have to keep the column moving,’ Morbus said, seeming to reach into Angstun’s thoughts. ‘Our duty is to protect the Lady of Vines and the seed she carries.’
‘If we let the enemy pick away at us piece by piece, we’ll be incapable of executing that duty,’ Angstun countered. ‘We have to conserve our strength. If we stage two companies of Judicators and pull them back in relays…’
Shouts from the right flank of the column drew the attention of the officers away from the hounds behind them. While they were combating the foe at their back, other enemies had slipped around to assault them from the side. Snapping orders to the Liberators and Judicators to defend the rear, Angstun, Morbus and the Decimators rushed to the new conflict.
A sickly sweet smell, a stench he could only liken to decaying honey, smashed into Angstun’s senses at the same time as a cacophony of buzzing struck his ears. Through the mist he could see Stormcasts with shields upraised, guarding themselves against some threat from above. Then, out of the storm, a vile shape descended, a gigantic fly with a monstrous rider astride its back. Well did he know these abominations, the obscene plague drones, daemons of Nurgle. These then were the fiendish foes that had followed the trail of diseased blood, enemies with the intelligence to strike not at the first Stormcasts they had found, but against that part of the column that seemed weakest.
‘Sigmar’s hammer,’ Angstun growled. ‘They strive to split the column!’ More of the enormous flies and their monstrous riders were dipping out of the storm now. They swept across the Hallowed Knights, slashing at them with plague-infested swords and chitinous claws. A Liberator was lifted into the air as a disgusting barb at the end of one fly’s abdomen pierced his chestplate. Another Stormcast lost his shield when the slobbering proboscis of a winged daemon latched onto it. However, as vicious as the attack against the Hallowed Knights was, the monsters were more interested in striking the sylvaneth. The bloated horrors buzzed about the branches of treelords, ripping away great chunks of bark with their claws while the plaguebearers riding them chopped at the trunks of smaller tree-creatures, each cut delivering a white scum of rot to the wounded wood.
Justinian’s retinue strove to shoot down the diseased daemons. Sigmarite shafts slammed into the bloated rot flies, rupturing their swollen abdomens and piercing the membranes of their wings. A few of the monsters succumbed to the arrows, but many more flew on, oblivious to the wounds inflicted upon their rotten bodies.
‘The daemons seek to use the storm against us,’ Morbus said. ‘That is their mistake.’ Holding his relic hammer high, the skull-helmed warrior prayed to the God-King for a small measure of His divine might. Light flashed within the overhead clouds, crackling and booming with an elemental indignation. A lance of lightning came streaking down, sizzling into the grotesque shape of a plague drone. Rot fly and rider exploded in a burst of green muck, spattering across the snow in steaming drops. More spears of lightning came searing out of the clouds, blasting the flying daemons with vindictive wrath.
Their aerial assault dissolved in the fury of Morbus’ invocation and, driven downwards, they found themselves victim to the flashing hammers and swords of the Liberators and the branchclaws of the vengeful sylvaneth. One after another the fiends were struck down, their loathsome essence steaming away in bursts of corruption as their putrid vitality was extinguished.
Angstun watched as a handful of the flying daemons vanished into the snow squall.
‘Casualties,’ he called out to the Primes.
‘One of mine and two from Ishiro’s,’ Judicator-Prime Asterion reported. ‘Our skybolt bows were enough to keep them from closing with our warriors but not enough to keep them from reaching the sylvaneth.’
Angstun nodded, feeling the weight of his decision to withdraw Oscric’s retinue. With more of the Judicators on the right flank, perhaps they could have kept the daemons back entirely. He glanced up at the standard he bore, the forked lightning bolt of Sigmar’s Stormhosts. When he left command to Angstun, Lord-Castellant Grymn had done more than entrust the honour of their chamber to him; he’d made the Knight-Vexillor responsible for it as well.
Angstun turned towards the sylvaneth. The visages of the tree-creatures were inscrutable, but there was no mistaking the pained movements of those that had been struck by the daemons or the malignant mould that encrusted the noxious wounds the plaguebearers left behind. A sickening appreciation for their condition filled him with regret. They had to keep moving, had to get the Lady of Vines beyond the reach of Torglug’s pursuing legion. They couldn’t slow the retreat for the sick and wounded. How could he make these strange creatures understand that? Could he make them understand? Without Alarielle to mediate for them, the Stormcasts were without any firm method of commanding their allies, relying on the vagaries of shared purpose and common enemy.
‘Let me attend them,’ Morbus said as he stepped towards the sylvaneth. The Lord-Relictor held his relic hammer before him, both hands wrapped about its leather-bound grip. He bore it not as a weapon now but rather as a symbol, the standard not of the Hallowed Knights but of Sigmar himself. ‘I have called upon the God-King’s power to destroy, now may His beneficence grant me the power to heal as well.’
A golden glow slowly began to suffuse the hammer, extending from the relic to engulf the man who carried it. While he moved among the sylvaneth, the tree-creatures drew back, uncertain of the power they could sense flowing through Morbus. Then a dryad, hideously stricken by a daemon’s plaguesword, found itself unable to draw back. The golden light washed across the sylvaneth and as it did the mould withered away, and the gashes in its trunk and branches began to close up. When the small dryad was restored, the uncertainty of the other tree-creatures was banished. One after another they lumbered towards Morbus to bathe in the healing light his prayers had invoked.
Angstun looked on in fascination for a moment. He’d seen Morbus heal wounded Stormcasts, humans and even duardin before, but he’d never seen the power used on creatures as strange and uncanny as the sylvaneth. It was a relief to him that there would be no need to leave any injured allies behind. He even fancied that there was a change in the keening song of the Lady of Vines, a quality of appreciation that hadn’t been there before.
Casting aside his interest in Morbus’ power and the branchwraith’s song, Angstun turned back to the rear of the column. From the sound of things, it seemed Osric’s retinue had dropped the last of the hounds during the fight with the plague drones. He hoped such was the ca
se. They had to get moving again. The daemons that had escaped would certainly return to Torglug and try to guide the plaguehosts back.
By then, if the Hallowed Knights were to fulfil their mission, the Lady of Vines would have to be far away.
Lord-Castellant Grymn felt cold certainty pulse through him. The more he looked at the nature of the enemy attacking them, the more convinced he was that they’d been tricked. Torglug had recognised Grymn’s strategy and taken measures to bypass them entirely.
‘Tegrus, you’ve seen Torglug’s horde,’ Grymn stated. ‘He has troops under his command far worse than herds of beastmen and barbarians. Why hasn’t he brought them against us? He knows the warriors he’s using can’t break through.’
The Prosecutor-Prime followed Grymn’s gaze. ‘Perhaps he thinks he can tire us and then deploy his best warriors?’
‘No,’ Grymn disagreed. ‘He’s fought Stormcasts already.’ The image of Lord-Celestant Gardus and all the fallen Hallowed Knights flashed through his mind. ‘Torglug knows he can’t wear us down. What he can do is pin us down, hold us where our strength is no longer an obstacle for him.’
Raising his warding lantern high, Grymn called out to the Stormcasts. ‘Hallowed Knights! They aren’t trying to break through! They’re just keeping us pinned. We need to pull back. All save the Annihilation Brotherhood retreat in good order.’ He looked across the ranks of Judicators with their boltstorm crossbows. They would be called into action soon. Swinging the lantern from side to side, he gave them the signal they had been waiting for. He glanced across to where the sylvaneth fought. It seemed the tree-creatures were following the example set by the Stormcasts. The beastmen pursued them every step, just as they did the Hallowed Knights. The difference was that the sylvaneth didn’t have the Judicators behind them.
‘Liberators! Stand!’ Grymn shouted the command. Following upon his call for retreat, the order meant something far different to all the Hallowed Knights. The squads of Retributors pulled away to the sides, leaving no one between the Liberators and the Judicators. The shield wall, almost like a single creature, arrested its slow backwards march. The warriors fell to one knee, holding their shields upward to fend off the fury of blows unleashed upon them by their foes. Savage in their bloodlust, the beastmen failed to notice the ranks of crossbows now aimed at them.
The crack of the boltstorm crossbows was like the rumble of thunder as the Judicators loosed a barrage of bolts into the monsters. Shooting above the heads of their comrades, the missiles slammed into the gors and ungors, hurling their bloodied bodies into the beasts following behind them. Only some of the human marauders had sense enough to throw themselves flat as the Judicators continued to rake the Chaos horde. Scores of beastmen were killed outright, and dozens more lay gasping and bleating as rancid blood pumped from their wounds. Again and again, the crack of crossbows sounded until at last Grymn’s voice cried out. ‘Recover!’
Instantly the Liberators were back on their feet, the shield wall ready to defy the mob of snarling beasts that charged at them across the litter of their own dead and wounded. While the Stormcasts absorbed the crushing impact of the enraged gors, the Judicators readied themselves for another salvo.
Grymn started down from his vantage. His place now was with his men. Turning, he gave one more order to Tegrus. ‘I need your Prosecutors back in the air. Find out if the plaguehost are outflanking us or if they’re simply chasing Alarielle.’
Stepping back, Tegrus spread his wings and climbed into the sky. Seeing their leader ascend, the rest of the Prosecutors followed him, pausing to hurl a few stormcall javelins into the massed Chaos horde below. The winged warriors circled the battlefield once, then flew off in different directions to scout the storm-wracked terrain.
The slow, steady withdrawal of the Liberators continued, the Stormcasts cutting down swathes of beastmen at every step. Beside them, the sylvaneth gradually fell back as well, their own ranks exhibiting as much order and discipline as their allies, leaving behind the few tree-creatures dragged down by the pursuing gors so as not to break the pace of their retreat. It took Grymn a few moments to appreciate the cold and inhuman strategy of the sylvaneth. The tree-creatures left behind were abandoned deliberately, sacrificed so the rest could gain ground while the beastmen hacked apart the lost sylvaneth in an orgy of violence.
‘Liberators! Stand!’ Grymn called out as he marched out to join his men. Once again, the tactic was repeated, but this time with a twist that further surprised the beastmen. After the initial salvo, the Liberators rushed at the bedraggled survivors, slamming into them with sword, shield and hammer. Grymn’s warding lantern cast its holy light across the fray, blinding and tormenting the diseased gors while invigorating and revivifying the Stormcasts. The Lord-Castellant’s halberd slashed at the goat-headed monsters, gouging their mangy pelts and branded hides. Tallon snapped and savaged any foe that strove to slip past his master’s guard.
Soon the gors were routed, stampeding back into the faces of the warherds following behind. When the enemy was entangled in a confusion of retreat and advance, Grymn shouted a command and the Stormcasts turned about. The shield wall disintegrated as the Liberators withdrew towards the Judicators.
The beastmen behind howled in fury and smashed down their routed kin, leaping forwards in pursuit. The smell of blood broke any semblance of restraint; those few human marauders near the crazed warherds were butchered, the ancient hate of the gors for mankind overcoming their common allegiance and mutual master. The rest of the barbarians fled, hurrying away lest they share the fate of their comrades.
The great crush of beastmen came charging after the Liberators, determined to pull them down and slake their thirst for carnage. The Hallowed Knights met their rush. Swords and hammers struck down scores of the howling herd. Grymn’s halberd pierced the brutish bulk of a snarling chieftain, lifting the monster off the ground and flinging it back into the masses of its herd. ‘Only the faithful!’ the Lord-Castellant shouted as he pressed forwards, driving the beasts back. Twice he gave voice to the war cry, each time driving his warriors to greater effort. Then, a new cry rang from his silvered helm, a signal to Judicators and Liberators alike.
‘Sigmar’s wrath!’ Grymn roared. As he did so, the Liberators crouched down, shields upraised against the press of foes before them.
The Judicators were ready for the command. Arranged in a double file, half of them standing while those in the front rank knelt, they unleashed a devastating barrage into the charging beastmen. Dozens of the monsters were struck down by the murderous fire, pierced over and again by powerful bolts of sigmarite. Those in the front ranks pitched and fell, exposing those coming behind to the rapid salvoes cycling through the boltstorm crossbows.
One murderous fusillade and the Judicators on the flanks stopped shooting. At the same time, the Liberators ahead of them stood and advanced against the beastmen, shields locked together in a wall of sigmarite. The process was repeated all down the line, the crossbows falling silent while the Liberators regained their feet and their position. Soon, an unbroken shield wall again faced the horde, only now it was a horde in retreat, fleeing across an ice field heaped with their dead. Grymn knew it was but a momentary respite. The beastlords would soon have their warherds on the attack again. The threat of Torglug’s rage, if nothing else, would goad them onwards.
Grymn signalled Retributor-Prime Markius to join him on the battle line. ‘I fear I need to call upon the Annihilation Brotherhood for a dangerous duty,’ he told the mighty paladin.
‘Your word is my command,’ Markius vowed. ‘Whatever sacrifice you would ask of us, it is yours.’
The loyalty of a paladin was forged in sigmarite, an asset no commander could afford to squander. Grymn knew what he was asking might cost him the Retributors – he only hoped it was to good purpose. If what he felt in his gut was true – that this attack was but a ruse concocted by Torglug to hold them
while he brought the main body of his force against the column – then it was worth that risk.
‘Break the ice and fall back to join us,’ Grymn told Markius. He returned the paladin’s salute, then cast his gaze out towards the swirling eddies of the storm. More beastmen were loping out from the snow, grunting and snarling at the wretched survivors of the initial assault. It was a doubtful prospect that Markius would be able to break the ice in time to prevent the gors from reaching them. If that was the case, the Retributors would find themselves surrounded by hundreds of merciless enemies.
Yet the alternative was to have the beastmen dogging them all the way back to the column. Time was a commodity that Grymn didn’t have in such abundance that he could waste it driving back the harassing attacks of warherds. They had to reach the column before Torglug’s main force and prevent the warlord from overtaking the Lady of Vines and the queen-seed.
‘Hallowed Knights, fall back,’ Grymn shouted to the Stormcasts as he climbed down from the icy rise, Tallon loping ahead of him. The sylvaneth appeared to understand his meaning, and leaving a small number of their tree-creatures to hold the beastmen still attacking them, they withdrew to join their allies. He wondered if it was genuine initiative on their part or orders they had been given by the Lady of Vines to follow his example and support his warriors. Whichever way, he knew the sylvaneth would be a tremendous asset if they found Torglug before they rejoined the column.
Casting his eyes skywards, Grymn prayed that Tegrus and his scouts would return soon. He needed to know if he’d seen through Torglug’s ploy or if he’d played right into the warlord’s diseased hands.
Lord-Relictor Morbus raised his relic hammer high, calling down the divine lightning. Ice split and cracked, dropping into the frigid waters below. Jagged gashes snaked across the frozen sea, a spider-web of fissures and crevices. Stunned by the devastation wrought by the Stormcast’s magic, the barbarian horsemen were thrown into complete disarray. Charging stallions pitched and fell as the ice buckled or crumbled, smashing their riders beneath them. Men and steeds were sent hurtling into the icy sea as holes opened before them or the fractured ground shattered under their weight.
