Chapter Five
Ambushed
Blösstadt village, Averland,
319 miles from Altdorf
The report of Sturnbled’s pistol was smothered by a series of loud clangs as Blösstadt’s watchtower bell pealed its warning. Powder smoke discharged silently into the air like a gust of grey breath. The Middenlander’s shot was true and struck the charging orc in the forehead. Blood, brain and bone fragments blew from the back of the greenskin’s skull in a ruddy plume. The beast staggered a few more steps, slumped down and was still.
Another trampled over it as if it was just another obstacle to be trammelled in the pursuit of violence. A further two orcs followed: one carried a long spear with a barbed tip, the other a rusty sword and a shield. Goblins had joined the greenskin vanguard too, and rushed ahead of the burly orcs. One came at Sturnbled. With no time to reload, the Middenlander twisted his pistol around so he could use its weighted butt like a club. In his other hand, he’d drawn his sword. Parrying the wild slash of the goblin’s blade, Sturnbled brained it with the pistol. A second died to Torveld’s expert sword thrust, before the orcs caught up and the fight was on.
Despite bracing himself, Volker was barrelled off his feet by a charging orc. It was the beast bearing the shield. The orc had used it like a battering ram and now had the Reiklander at its mercy, until the mastiff pounced, wrapping its frothing jaws around the greenskin’s forearm and biting down hard. Shaking its sword arm fervently, the orc took several seconds to shrug the hound off. The mastiff went scrambling off into the dirt but had clung on long enough for Masbrecht and Eber to end the greenskin with their halberds. Undeterred, the mastiff bounced to its paws and launched itself at another goblin. The greenskin squealed in pain and shock as the vicious dog tore its throat out. Volker was back on his feet by then.
‘Good dog!’ he praised, weighing in against another orc fighting Masbrecht. The sounds of battle had drawn more Reiklanders and Middenlanders from the surrounding streets and they came with weapons bared. It was hectic and blurred, filled with blood, grunting and metal clashing against metal. Sweat stung Eber’s eyes and orc stink rankled in his nose, but he kept on swinging until there was nothing left to kill.
Sturnbled reloaded his pistol, the greenskins kept at bay by Torveld and his other men, and another blast filled the air, this time without the ringing of the warning bell to silence it. Two goblins took flight at the noise and the smell. One was dragged to heel by Volker’s mastiff, the dog’s master finishing what it had begun with the point of his halberd; the other Torveld killed with a flung dagger.
It was over in minutes, but each man was heaving for breath and red-faced with effort. A soldier wearing a Reikland uniform was lying face down on the ground, blood seeping from a wound to his head. Masbrecht knelt by his side and whispered a few words of prayer, but didn’t turn the poor wretch over.
‘It’s Gethin,’ announced the other Grimblade that had come with him to join the fight. ‘Fourth ranker.’
Volker knew the speaker to be a man called Lodde, and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Eber looked on grimly at the morbid scene. He hoped he would not die face down in the dirt like that.
The Middenlanders weren’t spared from grief, either. One had been decapitated by an orc’s blade, so Torveld took the deceased’s cloak and shawled it over the body. In lieu of a funeral, it was the best he could do.
‘Ulric will keep them to his breast,’ said Sturnbled solemnly, casting a glance in Masbrecht’s direction as he performed the benediction. ‘Aye, and Sigmar too,’ the Middenlander concluded.
By the end of it, four orcs and six goblins were dead, compared to the one each of the Reiklanders and Middenlanders. But it wasn’t over, not nearly done. More greenskins were coming, many more. Another horde erupted from the opposite direction in a running battle with some more of Sturnbled’s men.
‘Get them to the hill,’ the sergeant told Torveld, recognising the sense in Karlich’s plan to rally there. It was painfully clear the Empire men were outnumbered and the only way they’d survive long enough for reinforcements was to stage a dogged defence. For that they needed a strongpoint, and in a village like Blösstadt the lookout hill with its watchtower was as good a place as any.
Torveld started bellowing at the retreating men, seeing Wode amongst them and pointing him to the hill where the Reiklanders were already gathering. He tried not to balk at the sheer number of greenskins in pursuit, nor the horde that had now emerged from the same direction as the initial vanguard they’d just despatched.
Varveiter heard the tolling bell as he came out of the shack. Another three Grimblades had been drawn to the woman’s soft pleas and were outside in the small square of dirt before the hovels. One was already dead, his helmet split in two by an orc’s cleaver. It could have been Mensk. Varveiter had seen death on the battlefield many times, he was no stranger to it, but even so he tried not to look at the slain Reiklander. The other two, Prünst and Otto, were fighting hard against a pair of orcs. Brand went into the fray, just as another orc and a pair of goblins rushed into the lane facing the hovels, bellowing war cries.
Gutting the first orc, but not quick enough to save Prünst, Brand then moved on to the second with Rechts in support. The three halberdiers overwhelmed the beast with sheer weight of numbers. As it died, Otto went to give Brand his thanks but the words died on his lips with a gurgle of blood. His legs twisted beneath him and he crumpled, a black-feathered shaft protruding from his neck. The goblins were carrying short bows.
‘Shields!’ cried Varveiter, bringing up his own shield to protect him. While the others had been fighting, he’d moved ahead to waylay the second group of greenskins. The arrow hitting his shield made him slow a little, enough for Brand to catch up. Rechts was on his heels. Together, Brand and Varveiter presented a wall of halberd points for the orc to career into, which it did with bloodthirsty abandon.
Though impaled, the beast still swung wildly at them with a rusty axe. It caught Rechts on his shoulder as he tried to stab the greenskin with his short sword. The tunic ripped and blood welled in a narrow gash, making the drummer cry out with pain as the old spear wound from the ungor opened up again.
‘Die you dirty, green swine,’ spat Varveiter, shoving the halberd deeper into the orc’s gut. Arrows thunked into the creature’s broad back as the Grimblades put the orc between them and the goblin archers. Brand twisted his blade then secured the haft in the dirt with his foot as the orc squirmed. Rechts had backed off, pressing at the gash in his shoulder and trying to staunch the blood flow. It left only two of them to hold off the beast.
Pinioned to both halberds, the orc had little movement save to slash madly with its axe. Ducking one swing that tainted the air with the reek of old blood, Brand went around the creature’s blindside. He idly killed one of the goblins with a throwing knife – the other had run out of arrows – before pulling out his dirk and ramming it straight into the back of the orc’s skull. He needed to use both hands to make it penetrate. Varveiter grimaced in disgust as the blade point punched through the greenskin’s eye on the other side, rupturing it like a red grape. At last, he yanked out his halberd but the dead orc stayed upright affixed to Brand’s weapon. Together, all three men rolled the creature over and onto the ground.
When Brand had retrieved his weapons, he turned to Varveiter who was leaning on a horse trough and breathing heavily.
‘You all right, Siegen?’
‘Fine, lad. Go get that little bastard, before it fetches more of its kin.’
After loosing all of its shafts and seeing its fellows slain, the last goblin had fled further north into Blösstadt. The way ahead looked clear for now, most of the fighting sounded like it was happening across the stream on the other side of the village.
Brand nodded and started to jog in that direction. He was of the killing mind now; Varveiter saw the feral spark in his col
d eyes. Rechts was about to go after him, when he decided to lag behind for the old soldier, who was gasping for breath.
Varveiter waved him on.
‘Go! Make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.’
Rechts looked at Varveiter then around the hovels at the bodies of man and greenskin. There were no enemies nearby.
‘Be right behind us, old man.’
Varveiter scowled as only the curmudgeonly can but caught the note of concern. ‘Get gone!’
And he did, short sword in hand, after Brand.
As soon as the drummer was out of sight, Varveiter staggered and nearly fell. The pain in his leg was bad. Much worse than he’d let on to Rechts or Brand.
Just wait a while, and I’ll be fine, he told himself. Can’t let them see me like this. I need to fight, I need to be a soldier, I–
A dizzy spell came and went. Varveiter sorely wanted to take off his helmet and breastplate, the tasset that felt as if it was cutting off the blood to his leg, but knew that was foolish. So he gritted his teeth and bore it.
To be duped into an ambush was one thing, but for it to be perpetrated by orcs was just galling. Even as badly executed as it was, even with the corpses masking their stench as well as concealing the greenskins physically, it should not have got to this. It was rare cunning, and Varveiter suspected a goblin’s nous. Orcs had no aptitude for anything except violence. A man will recoil from an effigy representing his own mortality. He will not look too closely at the dead. They are repugnant, tragic; a cautionary tale that there but for the grace of Sigmar goes he. Yes, the goblins were wise and now with their larger brethren they were upon them.
Gauging their position by concentration of stench, and the likely sites for an ambush, Varveiter reckoned on the bulk of the greenskin horde being across the stream in amongst the more densely-packed buildings. It would be too risky for the creatures to try and stay concealed any closer. No orc could pull it off, for sure. They wouldn’t stray too close to the lookout post, either. Maybe just the odd lurking sentry, looking for a quick and dirty kill. It was largely open ground and with few places to hide, save the watchtower. Put too many greenskins in there and they’d be dead within minutes as the Empire men burned it to the ground. The situation was grim. Orcs would be flooding the village and Karlich would no doubt send a warning to Captain Stahler, hence the tower bell, and rally the rest to the lookout.
Varveiter only hoped he had the strength and will to join them.
Agony flared up his side again, the focus of which started at his thigh where the beastman had stabbed him. Vomit regurgitated into his mouth, and he tasted the acrid sting of bile at the back of his throat. The dizziness came back with a vengeance as Varveiter took a tentative step from the horse trough he was using as a crutch. He stood upright in spite of it. Blood pulsed in his ears, louder than Rechts’s drum at full marching beat, and black fog billowed threateningly at the edge of his vision. He was close to passing out, so bit his lip hard. He drew blood, the copper taste of it filling his mouth, but the fresh pain kept him from falling. Then he heard him.
‘Warhorse…’
A shadow clouded over Varveiter, smothering the old soldier in shade. When he realised it wasn’t his failing eyesight, he turned and saw Keller.
‘What’d you want?’ he snapped with more conviction than he truly felt.
Perplexity turned to horror when Varveiter discovered he’d been stabbed in the side through a gap in his armour. Funny, he couldn’t remember Keller getting so close to him. Maybe he’d blacked out for a second. Survival instinct took over now. Keller was close, but that also meant he was in reach of the old soldier’s hands. He’d killed men with those bare hands before; men he’d had no grudge against. This was different. Varveiter seized the wiry Keller around the neck and squeezed. The younger man’s weasel face contorted as he struggled to breathe, but Varveiter kept up the pressure. Something warm was running down his side, dampening his leg and collecting in his boot. It sloshed as he adjusted his footing to get a better grip and take the weight off his ailing thigh.
Panicked, Keller dropped the knife now slick with Varveiter’s blood and pawed at the old man’s leathery fingers. They were like petrified oak: unyielding and rigid. Desperation crept into his movements now, as the life was slowly being choked out of him by a vengeful veteran with an aptitude for pugilism: an aptitude that had seen him humiliated and stoked an ember of resentment and bitterness into flaming rage within Keller’s core. He lashed out, striking the old soldier’s wounded thigh.
Varveiter screamed as lightning tore through his lower body, shocking him with tiny forks of pain. His leg crumpled and he lost his grip. Keller heaved in a relieved breath. The world was fading around Varveiter. Keller was saying something to him but it was as if his voice was too far away to make out the words, as if he was at the top of a long well and Varveiter was at its bottom. He fell, a cynical punch to his jaw putting the old soldier on his rump. Keller kicked and the lightning flared again, building to a thunderhead of agony. He couldn’t feel his leg at all now, and looked dumbfounded at his red palm and fingers as he brought them up to his face. He’d lost a lot of blood. It was pooling under him in a sticky morass.
Suddenly, Keller was gone. A strange silence descended, an eerie peace. Shadows were moving in the narrow lanes of Blösstadt. It took a while for Varveiter to realise they weren’t phantoms at the fringes of his clouding sight. The goblins had returned, or perhaps they were different creatures – Varveiter could no longer tell. He reached for his halberd. He didn’t remember dropping it, but there it sat in the dirt. Even as his fingers closed on the haft, he knew he couldn’t grasp it. He was too weak from blood loss.
You bastard, Keller, he thought, his mind the only faculty left to him he could rely on in his final moments. Didn’t even have the guts to do it yourself…
Blood pulsing from his side, slumped in the dirt without his weapon in his hand, it wasn’t the way Varveiter had wanted to die. The last thing he saw as his vision faded was the goblins stowing their cudgels as they approached him. Instead, they drew daggers and Siegen Varveiter realised then his death would not be quick…
Karlich emerged from the watchtower pale and out of breath. The wound in his side was still bloody, despite the rag of tunic he’d tied off to stymie it.
‘Found more than a dead milkmaid up there, eh, Reiklander?’
The Grimblade sergeant gave Sturnbled a dirty look as he reached the summit of the hill and approached him.
‘How many men do you have left?’ asked Karlich, ignoring the jibe.
‘Just over twenty. What’s your plan?’
Karlich trudged a few feet down the hill to where his men were gathering. In the distance, he saw the greenskins hustling towards them in a mass, coming from all four compass directions. The last few halberdiers were just ahead of them, emerging from Blösstadt’s eastern side. They slogged the final steps across the partially forded river, one man losing his footing and then his head to a flung axe as he went to rise. The stream ran red with his blood.
‘Form ranks!’ bellowed Karlich, half in answer to Sturnbled’s question. He regarded the Middenlander over his shoulder, who was priming his duelling pistol. ‘We need to cover every aspect of this hill,’ Karlich told him. ‘Make two half-circles – my men to the north and east, yours to the south and west. We make our stand as low as we can, while maintaining the advantage of height and retreat by steps as necessary.’
‘You want to hold out for Stahler to save us, then,’ Sturnbled replied, as if unaccustomed to the concept of being saved and not being the one doing the saving.
‘Yes.’
Sturnbled didn’t like it, but knew enough to realise they were out of options. He hastily organised his men and ordered them to lock shields. Just over twenty Middenland Steel Swords and maybe thirty-five Reikland Grimblades opposed the greenskin hordes swarming
Blösstadt – less than sixty men against twice that number or more in orcs and goblins.
Keller returned to the ranks and hurriedly found his position alongside Rechts. They were strung out in a long file of twelve men, just three ranks deep with some stragglers. It meant Keller was pushed up to the front.
‘Where’s Varveiter?’ asked Lenkmann, starting to raise the banner.
Keller’s face darkened. He couldn’t help but glance in Brand’s direction, who was also in the front rank but on the opposite side of the command section.
‘He’s dead then,’ said Karlich bitterly, not feeling patient enough to wait for Keller to find the courage to spit out his words.
‘I was looking for Rechts and Brand when I found him,’ Keller said. His gaze went involuntarily to Brand again.
The other Reiklander gave away nothing – the whitening in his knuckles could just be tension before battle. Brand’s expression was cold, but he saw what the others did not. He saw the finger marks around Keller’s throat where someone had tried to throttle him; too large for goblins, too thin for orcs. He knew the truth and if they survived this, knew what he was going to do to Keller.
‘The old man was bound to get himself killed someday,’ muttered Volker, wiping away a tear. Behind him, Masbrecht intoned a quiet litany that made Rechts stiffen in anger despite its intent. Eber was dumbstruck and hung his head a little, as a dog might when it loses its master.
The Empire Omnibus Page 39
