‘He’ll be fine after some rest. Whatever that is.’ Adullam arched his back, the muscles cracking as he regarded a blue-black bruise on his shin. Beor rested himself slowly onto his bunk in the far corner, sighing deeply.
‘Don’t know about you two, but I’m sick of it out here. I can’t wait to get back home. A nice bit of ship-to-ship with some Elysian pirates – now that’s what I call...’
Zachariah was a master of self-control; he had the ability to slow down his pulse at will, reduce his breathing to a shallow whisper, remain completely still in the middle of an explosive maelstrom, but there was one, and only one thing that punched through all of his defences like no other. Any newcomer to the squad would have thought Beor’s comment had gone unheard by the veteran sergeant, but Adullam knew his friend far too well to miss the signs of his anger. The knuckles on his right hand had blanched, blood suddenly restricted by the vice-like grip currently transferred to the screwdriver being used on his lasgun.
It was at that exact moment Beor realised he’d said the wrong thing and met Adullam’s fiery glance; even the singing stopped from Sojack and Coarto in the shower. Everyone knew you didn’t talk about back home to Zachariah.
‘Sarge, I–’
Beor’s apology died in his throat as the tall, rangy form of Captain Makarah, a young but very effective officer from Third Platoon, appeared in the doorway. His darting glance finally rested on Zachariah, who looked up to meet his gaze with a neutral face. Adullam shook his head; he honestly didn’t know how his sergeant did it.
‘Sergeant, we need you in the briefing room right now. There’s a very nasty situation developed on Ophel Minoris – we’re nearest, so it’s up to us to sort it out.’
Placing his lasgun carefully on his bed and replacing his screwdriver on his opened repair kit roll, Zachariah rose to his feet and zipped up his jumpsuit. Without a word, he followed the captain out into the narrow corridor and disappeared from view, leaving Adullam and Beor in silence.
Adullam snorted air through his nose and, reaching under his bunk, pulled out his own lasgun. Beor followed suit, and shortly the only sounds that could be heard echoing off the thick metal bulkheads were the clinks and clacks of parts being dismantled, checked and cleaned.
The Butcher’s Beast
Jordan Ellinger
Men ran through the trees on the opposite river bank, giant men, swarthy men with tangled beards and blood on their lips. At the forest’s edge a regiment of swordsmen hastily assumed formation as screaming berserkers swept into their ranks, hewing about with blackened axes that glowed with savage runic light.
Knights in full armour, caught fording the Schilder, wrestled with their mounts as they tried to emerge from the churning froth and onto the rocky ground beyond. Somewhere close by a horse screamed as it was pulled under, the raging torrent swallowing it and its rider hungrily.
On a hill to the east, General Schalbourg’s fist tightened on the reins of his mount as he surveyed the scene in front of him.
‘The last reports we had were that the Skaelings were two days to the north.’
He kept his voice level, betraying none of the rage and helplessness that churned beneath his usually calm exterior. Men were dying in the valley below, and every moment he spared to indulge his anger meant another life lost. Several advisors sat impotently nearby on mountain ponies.
Only Knight Templar Keller of the Order of Sigmar dared to answer him. ‘The Skaelings aren’t known for their speed, my lord. We have reports that they are fleeing a much larger, unidentified force to the north. If you had allowed me the use of the brass bull when we captured those heretics two days ago, we would know for certain what drives them.’
Schalbourg masked his distaste for the witch hunter’s savagery. ‘Those “heretics” were women and children fleeing before this very horde,’ he muttered.
‘You saw women and children, my lord. I saw spies whose disguises were so cunningly woven that they might fool even a general.’
Schalbourg finally let some of his repressed anger free in the form of a snarl. ‘You tread dangerously close to insubordination, Keller. Knight Templar or not, this army is under my command.’
‘A witch hunter is forever treading on ground where other men fear to walk, for it is there that the enemy is most powerful,’ responded Keller piously.
Schalbourg glared at the man for a moment, trying to determine whether or not he was being insulted. At length, he gave up. While they bickered the Skaelings were tearing his army apart, and now they had word there was another army out there somewhere. Hopefully it was loyal to the Empire.
‘Tell me about this larger force,’ he said. ‘Requests for reinforcements from the Elector Count of Middenland were rebuffed, but who else could it be so close to the Grey Mountains?’
His line of thought was cut off by a scream as a volley of black arrows scythed out of the trees and fell amongst Empire soldiers, killing men where they stood.
‘Never mind,’ he said, a sweep of his hand cutting Keller off before he could answer.
He quickly surveyed the battlefield. Though the bulk of his forces and the entirety of his artillery support were stuck on the wrong side of the river, four units had made it across. Three had broken almost the moment the northmen had hit them, but one had held its ground – a regiment of swordsmen had assumed a tight, square formation that had brought the enemy to a halt and they were now fighting furiously against increasingly desperate odds.
‘Get me Hesberger,’ Schalbourg barked.
An underling kicked the flanks of his mountain pony and darted towards a unit of mounted knights. Their leader separated from the group and galloped up to Schalbourg’s side.
‘My lord!’ he said, flipping up his visor. The man behind it displayed a lined, but honourable face punctuated with a silver moustache.
‘The Enderberg Narrows. Do you know them?’ asked Schalbourg.
‘My squire hails from these lands. He’ll be able to guide us to it.’
‘Go with all haste. We’ll hold until you return. May Sigmar’s grace speed your mounts.’ Schalbourg watched the knights peel away from the rest of the army and gallop downriver.
‘My lord,’ said Keller bitterly, ‘only a single unit of swordsmen still holds the opposite bank. If they fall before Hesberger returns he’ll be charging into the jaws of the Dark Gods.’
Schalbourg felt an icy chill settle into his veins. The witch hunter was right, but what other choice did he have? It was that or lose the battle and three-quarters of his army. All their hopes hinged on those swordsmen. Normally, the general could identify any unit under his command by sight, but the haze of battle had obscured their regimental colours. ‘Keller,’ he said tightly. ‘Which unit is that?’
The witch hunter squinted, and then shielded his eyes against the setting sun.
‘It’s the Carroburgs, my lord.’
Schalbourg felt his shoulders unknot. ‘Thank Sigmar. We have a chance.’
‘Don’t break formation! Don’t break forma–’ Commander Toft’s order was cut off by a grunt as a terrified rhinox, driven by northmen wielding cruel brands against its flanks, slammed into the unit. Three feet of ivory horn lashed out and impaled a swordsman, then hurled the body into Toft, knocking him into the mud.
Anton Erhardt charged the beast’s flanks, dancing on the balls of his feet to avoid its shifting bulk, then brought his sword in an underhand arc that glanced off the brute’s armoured jaw and into the soft flesh of its throat. Warm blood washed across his wrists and hands, making his grip on the weapon slick.
As the rhinox fell he spared a second to look for Toft, but the commander was nowhere in sight. Until he reappeared, Erhardt was in charge of the regiment.
Battle swirled around him, Greatswords wielding five-foot-long steel zweihanders with mastery that betrayed their elite training. Here, the fierce barbarians from the north were being driven back, their primitive fury no match for the precise manoeuvres and co
ordinated assault of the Empire’s most dedicated troops.
‘Push them back!’ he bellowed. ‘We need to clear space on the riverbank for reinforcements!’
‘Lieutenant!’
Erhardt peered through the melee and caught sight of Kord Gottswain, a massive Nordlander whose dwarf-forged breastplate was spattered by the dark, arterial blood of the men he’d killed.
‘Lieutenant, they’re after the commander!’
Suddenly, the ranks of northmen parted violently as several huge beastmen shouldered their way to the front, swatting at their own soldiers with their axes to make way for their leader. Eight feet tall at the shoulder with a mad tangle of horns curled around its goat-like head like a hellish crown, it held a tree-trunk-sized axe in an arm knotted with muscle. The stinking grey fur that carpeted its chest and back was matted with sweat and filth, and flecks of dried snot flew away from its muzzle as it panted. A necklace of human finger bones circled its neck, and upon this hung a mouldering skull. A broken lance jutted up from the creature’s back, flying a standard depicting a horrifying, fang-filled mouth swallowing a bleeding eyeball.
The beast reached down and almost casually threw aside the massive rhinox carcass, forcing Erhardt to leap back to avoid being crushed, then plucked Toft’s unconscious body off the ground. Sniffing in disgust, it handed the commander to a smaller beast who bellowed in triumph before disappearing back into the throng.
Erhardt swore. Toft was like a father to him, but the only thing keeping the Carroburgs alive was the tight square of their formation. If the beasts broke through the lines, every one of them would die. ‘Hold formation. That’s an order!’ he barked.
‘Chaos take your orders!’ shouted Kord over the sounds of battle. ‘They’ll kill him.’ Ignoring Erhardt, he lunged out of the battle-line, hewing about himself with his blade, carving through ranks of northmen in an effort to engage the beastmen directly.
The surrounding Greatswords couldn’t close the gap in the lines fast enough and a dozen beasts thrust their way past swinging blades and clawed into the men beyond. The lines buckled under their assault, and then slowly dissolved. In mere minutes, it was every man for himself as clusters of Greatswords battled furiously in a sea of northmen.
Before Erhardt could rally his men, a Skaeling berserker loomed in his vision, his mouth a circle of screaming darkness. Erhardt shattered his bone club with a swipe of his zweihander then used the momentum to bury his blade in the man’s guts. He twisted, ensuring the tribesman’s death would be quick enough that he wouldn’t have to worry about a blade in the back, and then kicked him to the ground.
Another northman, dressed in furs and reeking of rancid bear grease, lunged head first at Erhardt, trying to gore him upon a crude helmet of deer antlers, but the Greatsword merely stepped aside and beheaded the fool as he went past.
He caught occasional flashes of Gottswain through the melee. The Nordlander had ducked under the swinging axe of the massive beastman and now faced the monster directly. Though Gottswain was nearly a head taller than Erhardt, he looked like a child next to the creature he faced. Somehow, he had cut down the creature that had taken Toft, and now the commander lay prone at his feet.
Before Erhardt could join him, he spun and came face-to-face with an enemy champion; one of the northmen lords from the look of him, dressed in black plate inscribed with Chaos runes invoking their Dark Gods. He stood silently before Erhardt. Two red points behind the slit in his visor seemed to bore right into the Greatsword’s chest, and the warrior cursed him in some hissing, bestial language before bringing its sword and shield to bear.
The men didn’t talk much about Chaos champions, but many believed that their armour protected them absolutely against ordinary blades. If that was true, Erhardt was a dead man. Still, he raised his blade, unwilling to stand back and let another man take his place.
A distant horn sounded from the left flank.
Mobs of Skaelings cast away their weapons and fled for their lives. Panic spread amongst the Chaosmen as the ground began to shake under the weight of a hundred charging knights. Hesberger had returned from the second ford and caught the enemy force in its unguarded flank. Soon even the black champion was swept away, hissing as he was swallowed up by the tangle of fleeing soldiers.
Erhardt allowed his men a moment’s rest, before smiling grimly.
‘What are we waiting for?’ he bellowed. ‘After them!’
Night crept in slowly over the battlefield. From atop long stakes that had been thrust into the ground, dozens of torches cast ruddy light on a nightmarish scene. The river bank was littered with bodies, and the Order of Sigmar had conscripted teams of donkey handlers – usually used to haul cannon – to pull wagons loaded with enemy dead to massive funeral pyres. The air was heavy with smoke and the stench of burning flesh.
But amidst the horrors of the grim twilight, comradely laughter echoed. While the rest of the army chased small bands of Skaelings through the woodland, Erhardt’s men had been treated like heroes. Schalbourg had ordered for kegs of fine Middenland ale to be brought up from the supply wagons and tapped. In the time it took for the regiment to drain them, patriotic songs of celebration had given way to bawdy tavern tunes.
Erhardt watched them cavort for a while, and then slowly made his way towards the centre of the camp where drovers from the baggage trains had parked their wagons. While the army celebrated, here squires still sweated as they hauled supplies back to their master’s tents. Erhardt passed by stacks of supplies and hastily constructed corrals where wagon horses grazed on small piles of hay. Even though the army had only made camp that evening, the place already stank of offal and horse dung.
Two men bearing a stretcher passed Erhardt, sweating and swearing about the weight of the injured man they carried. He followed them to the edge of the supply area where they set down their charge in a field of many more. The moans of the wounded cut through the night as a fine drizzle washed ooze from suppurated wounds into the muddy soil. Shrouded priests of Morr walked up and down their ranks, tall men with hunched backs who hovered over the dying like ravens at a feast. Erhardt made the sign of the hammer over his chest as he passed them on his way. Not that the priests didn’t serve a valuable purpose in guiding the dying into Morr’s embrace, but he’d just as soon his own journey be delayed as long as possible.
He resisted the temptation to peer amongst the litters to see if he could recognise anyone, and instead made his way to the surgeons’ tents beyond. Once, they’d been pristine white cotton, but months of hard travel had stained them muddy brown and grey, the heart-and-teardrop stencilled in iron gall ink barely visible beneath the grime. It was fitting that the tent he sought lay behind them, as if its occupants were beyond even the powers of Shallya to save. He ducked under the flap and entered.
The air inside reeked of the sickly sweet scent of rot. Woodchips had been scattered on the floor to absorb some of the blood, but these were now foul and damp and added to the miasma. A few anatomical texts lay on a small wooden writing table at the side of the enclosed area, one of them sporting a bloody thumbprint on a page displaying a woodcut of a human cadaver.
Commander Toft lay on a wooden table in the centre of the room. Doktor Prolmann, a small man, almost the size of a child, but with wrinkled skin and a balding pate, carefully cut away Toft’s padded under-armour with a pair of large shears.
Erhardt let the tent flap close behind him and stood nervously to one side. After a moment, Prolmann spoke without looking up.
‘When the time comes, I’m going to need you to hold him down.’
Commander Toft groaned and shifted, trying feebly to fend off the doktor with his one good hand. ‘Erhardt...? Is that you? What... what’s he saying?’
Erhardt approached until he was standing across from the doktor. It was difficult to see Toft in such a state. The man was a hero of countless battles – he’d served as one of the elector count’s household guard before asking to be reassigned t
o a unit more likely to see combat. Now it appeared he’d gotten more than he bargained for, as commander of the prestigious Carroburg Greatswords. His face was battered and his eyes were stained with blood, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his brow. A trail of crusted blood ran up his forehead, past his hairline to where a patch of scalp hung loose. Prolmann had smeared a greasy substance on it that smelled of mint, but left it otherwise untreated, preferring to focus on the commander’s right arm. It was broken in at least four places and the skin was striped with purpling bruises. Erhardt knew, even without seeing the wicked, crescent-moon-shaped blade on a nearby table, what Prolmann meant.
‘You’re going to lose that arm, old friend.’
Toft grimaced. ‘It’s that bad?’
‘You’re alive.’
‘There’s that, I suppose...’
Prolmann slipped a leather belt over Toft’s bicep and tightened it, bracing a foot on the side of the operating table as leverage. Toft’s eyes widened in pain, and then closed. Erhardt imagined he could hear the commander’s teeth grinding.
‘By Sigmar, man,’ he said angrily. ‘Are you trying to make it drop off on its own?’
‘We need to restrict his humours or he’ll bleed to death,’ said Prolmann with a shrug.
Erhardt scowled. He disliked the mechanical way Prolmann went about his job, as if Toft were a ham that needed to be carved and not a living, breathing human whose career was about to end. There was no way Toft would ever wield a zweihander again and without it, how could he be a Greatsword?
‘Can we have a moment?’ he asked abruptly, not caring if he was being rude.
Prolmann scowled, his fingers tapping against the side of the operating table as he weighed Erhardt’s request. ‘One moment only. The longer we wait, the worse his chances are.’
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