Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  Lady Halste bemoaned the growing number of flagellants that flocked to the caravan. Their presence unsettled everybody, but the company was powerless to stop their mad chanting and deranged wailing as they tagged along behind the wagons and carts, hurling abuse at all and sundry.

  Wildfather Taalstock caught up with Ursula as she solemnly watched a priest of Morr consecrating a mass grave to his god. Robed in black, the gaunt man looked like a raven as he picked his way through the corpses, muttering prayers and sprinkling the bodies with blessed water so that they would not rise from their graves.

  'Do you think they have found peace?' she asked Gerhardt as he jumped off his cart beside her. He eyed the grim ceremony and shook his head.

  'Perhaps, but I could not say for sure,' he told her. 'Their bodies will return to Taal, and Morr-willing their souls shall find rest. Yet they died in misery, and who knows what dark thoughts plagued them on their deaths, what unnatural bargains they pleaded for to save themselves? All things die, whether it be the greatest Emperor, or the lowliest insect.'

  'And you find comfort in that?' said Ursula.

  Gerhardt did not reply for a long while, and they stood there listening to the cries of the mourners and the bass chanting of the priest.

  'It is not the lot of the gods to give us comfort,' he finally said. 'The gods are what they are. They shape the world, but it is up to us to live in it, and find the ways and means to survive the trials they give us, and be thankful for the gifts they bestow upon us. Without death, there can be no life. Without the slaughtered cattle, the reaped wheat, there would be no food for us. Without the rabbit, the fox would starve. Some try to make sense of it, to divine a higher purpose in our lives, and they become philosophers and theologists. Others believe that we are mere playthings of the immortals, and it drives them mad, like our apocalyptic companions over there.'

  'And as a priest?' Ursula asked, turning and looking straight at him. 'How does a priest reconcile this with meaning or meaninglessness?'

  'As a priest,' the wildfather told her, leaning close, 'one accepts that it does not matter. The gods are what they are. We are what we are.'

  'Is that it?' Ursula said, laughing harshly. Gerhardt nodded once and turned away, pulling himself back onto the cart. With a spoken word, the mule pricked up his ears and broke into a canter, leaving Ursula standing amongst the moaning and the desperation, watching the bereaved as they filed away from their lost ones, following the tolling handbell of the priest of Morr.

  They made camp a few miles west of Wissenburg. The atmosphere even more subdued than ever. Ursula had tried to comfort some of those who had fled the fighting, urging them to take up arms, to battle against the enemy in the name of Sigmar. Mostly she had been met with indifference. On one occasion those who had listened to her had grown angry, hurling insults and driving her away with thrown stones and curses. That night, she wept as she lay in her blankets underneath Lady Halste's housewagon.

  When she woke, Ursula felt no sadness left. Instead, she felt a deep-rooted anger simmering inside. The Empire was a mockery of the great land created by Sigmar. As if in defiance of His great deeds, orcs were again laying waste to His people, and there seemed to be none who could stop them. Everything He had striven for, fought and bled for, had been cast down by the greed of petty, short-sighted men. Remembering the reactions to her impassioned speeches of the previous day, she realised that words were no longer enough. For centuries, priests and nobles had talked about the rebirth of the Empire. Yet none had managed it, none had shown the true way forward. It was not through words that the Empire had been forged, but in Sigmar's strength of arms and his deeds on the battlefield. He had not asked the tribes to follow him, he had demanded it of them, shown them what could be achieved if they stood together, bled together, and died together.

  Resolve burned like a flame in Ursula's heart as she rose from her rough bier, packed away her bedroll and stood watching the dawn rise. A summer storm, dark and terrible, loomed on the horizon, yet the rays of the sun found breaks to shine through, bathing the lands of Sigmar in a blood-red hue. Lady Halste's words came to Ursula as she watched the rising sun: 'There will still be fighting and dying to be done. But if nobody stands up and grasps the thorn, then nobody will be able to smell the rose.'

  She pulled herself up to the door of the housewagon and quietly let herself in, creeping across the boards so as not to wake Lady Halste. Opening the single chest that contained her belongings - many of them gifted to her by the lady before they set out so that she might be dressed as befitted the maid of a noble - she delved to the bottom of the delicate dresses, blouses and skirts and pulled out a bundle wrapped in an old travel-stained cloak. Unrolling it, she pulled free her scabbard and the curved Kislevite blade held within, and strapped it around her waist.

  Sigmar was a god of warriors, Ruprecht had reminded her, worshipped on the field of battle. Ursula sensed that there would be bloodshed ahead, and she would let her sword pray for her now. No more words, she reminded herself, deeds counted for more. Touching the hilt for self-assurance, she opened the door and stepped back outside. Thunder rumbled in the distance, flickers of lightning playing across the sky a few miles ahead. The air was close and humid, pressure building as the storm front came closer. Wind tugged at Ursula's hair and fanned the flames of the breakfast cooking fires.

  A few of the mercenaries saw her walking through the camp, looking up from their repast. A couple made jokes that fell flat when their companions saw her grim expression. Ursula walked to the edge of the camp and watched the storm approach, her hand on the sword's hilt.

  Let it come, she told herself.

  For two days the storm raged, keeping all but the most foolish or hardy to their encampment. The ashen field in which they camped had quickly turned into mire, and with the rain had come hailstones that had fallen like bullets, stinging flesh and ripping tent-cloth. Some of the horses had panicked and bolted for shelter, kicking down the rough rope corral they were kept in and starting a stampede. One of the farriers, a man named Dieter Veist, had been killed as he tried to stop the beasts, trampled under their hooves, his bloodied body found the next morning buried deep in the sucking mud.

  Its rage vented, the storm had become a steady drizzle of rain, not unpleasant in the warm summer air. Slowly the convoy organised itself again, as the horses were tracked down and brought back, broken axles were mended, and cartwheels dug out of the sodden ground.

  They set off under the watery mid-morning sun, a bright rainbow stretching across the sky behind them. Gerhardt was riding a little way ahead on his small mulecart, singing a mellow song in his low voice, the verses drifting down the convoy. It struck Ursula as particularly melancholic, but she listened harder and realised that it was not a lament.

  He sung of the ancient, wild places of the world. The tune swept on through the eyes of an eagle soaring over the mountain tops, the woodland glade where the stags matched antler to antler, and the burrows beneath the earth where the mole and the beetle matched their wits against each other. In his lilting voice, he sang about the joy of the hare as it raced free from the fox, and the gruff woes of the wild boar as he stared down the wolf. Gerhardt's voice rose in triumph to tell of the osprey as he hunted the salmon, and dropped deep and slow to sing the tale of the black bear fishing for salmon. His voice conjured up vistas of babbling mountain streams and deep green forest dells hidden from the great eye of the sun. The wildfather sang of the strange, sightless world of the bat, and the daily toil of the dormouse to feed its family.

  The song brought an air of peace over the expedition, soothing woes, making the petty problems of day-to-day life seem insignificant against the great sweeping majesty of nature. When he finished, quiet descended on the column as it wound its way up a rutted track into the foothills of the Grey Mountains, and the drizzling rain stopped for a while.

  Ursula ran ahead and leapt up onto the cart beside the wildfather. Beside his mule walked Ruprecht,
and a freelance called Johannes rode his horse on the other side.

  'Where did you learn that?' Ursula asked, her earlier anger replaced with wonder. No hymn to Sigmar had ever sounded so beautiful, or so old.

  'It is the Lay of Taal,' Ruprecht said. It was then that Ursula saw that the wildfather's head was nodding against his chest, his eyes closed. Louda sat on his shoulder, his eyes alert. He jumped over to Ursula's lap and sat there, still watchful.

  'It is sung in Talabheim on the feast days of Taal,' Johannes said. 'Offerings to the god of the wild are laid on the Talabec, his sacred river, and we sing of the things he watches over and brings to us.'

  'You learned it as children?' Ursula asked, looking from Johannes to Ruprecht.

  'Yes and no,' Ruprecht said, and he smiled when Ursula scowled at this unsatisfactory answer. 'There is no song to learn except the song that Taal puts in your heart. There are uncounted creatures upon the face of the world, and unnumbered places where Taal's spirit dwells. Each wildfather sings a different song, of the things he has seen and the animals he has conversed with. Over the centuries, over thousands of years, the Lay of Taal teaches us what has changed in the world and what has remained the same.'

  'The wildfather here is very gifted.' added Johannes, nodding towards Gerhardt. 'He has sung this many times, and has been to many places.'

  Overhead, a flock of ravens whirled in the air, their cries echoing on the damp wind. Louda leapt from Ursula back to Gerhardt's shoulder and nuzzled at his ear. The wildfather awoke immediately, eyes sparkling with moisture, and turned to Johannes.

  'Something is wrong!' Gerhardt said to the knight. 'Where are the scouts?'

  'They have not returned yet.' Johannes said. 'The road ahead was clear for several miles when they reported an hour ago.'

  'And when are they due back again?' said Gerhardt, rising on the board and casting his gaze around. 'The ravens do not lie!'

  'Halt the wagons!' Ruprecht bellowed, pulling his large warhammer from his belt and striding back down the line. 'Johannes, ride ahead.'

  Casting a glance at Gerhardt's fearful expression, Johannes dug in his spurs and his horse galloped forward in a spray of water and mud. Ursula jumped down from the cart and jogged after Ruprecht, who was calling the soldiers to arms.

  'What is the meaning of this delay?' said Lady Halste, standing at the open door of her caravan. 'And why do you have a sword in your hand, girl?'

  Ursula had not realised she had drawn the weapon and stared at it for a moment before coming to her senses.

  'The wildfather fears danger.' she said. 'Perhaps an attack is imminent.'

  'But the scouts saw nothing, I spoke to them myself.' said the lady.

  'Better to delay and be prepared than continue and be taken unawares, my lady.' Ruprecht said.

  'Of course.' Lady Halste said with a nod. 'I leave our safety in the capable hands of yourself and the other soldiers. Ursula, my sweet, come here where we will be safe.'

  'This sword is not just for show.' Ursula said, holding it up. As droplets gathered on the blade she realised that it had begun to rain once more, and she looked up to see low grey clouds.

  Lady Halste seemed about to argue when there was a great shout from the head of the wagon line. Johannes came galloping along the road, his sword in his hand. As he neared, Ursula saw that his left shoulder was pierced with a black-shafted arrow.

  'Orcs, a mile ahead, mayhap less!' he said, almost falling from his saddle. 'They have boar cavalry with them.'

  The convoy was in uproar as the soldiers busied themselves getting ready. As they ran to and fro, jostling with each other, the mercenary captains arguing amongst themselves, Ursula realised that there was no real organisation. There was no commander to order the line and prepare the defence.

  'We'll be cut to pieces if we're not ready.' said Ruprecht, reaching the same conclusion. 'We have to gather the wagons together, form a defensive perimeter. Johannes, get the other knights, ride along the line and take control.'

  'Damn that treacherous Schwartzhelm.' said Lady Halste.

  'Save your damnations for later and hide yourself away!' Ruprecht said. For a moment she bristled at his impudence and was about to remonstrate with him, but he had already turned away and was running down the line towards a company of handgunners. She looked plaintively at Ursula, who gave her an encouraging nod and then also set off at a run. Her shoulders sagging, the lady turned away and closed the heavy door of the housewagon.

  Ruprecht was sure he was no strategist, but in consultation with the captains of the dogs of war, they hastily put a rough plan in place. They had only a few minutes, if Johannes had seen right, before the greenskins would be upon them. The wagons and carts were drawn into a rough square across the road, which had followed a great loop and was running to the northwest into the Grey Mountains. Those wagons that could be emptied quickly were turned on their sides to form barricades. The high-sided housewagon of Lady Halste was at the centre and the best marksmen with gun, crossbow or bow were positioned on top, eight men in total.

  Leonard and his Black Company of swordsmen were positioned to the north, and stood ready with their pistols, their long zweihanders hung from loops across their backs. They were flanked by Hurlitzon's Handgunners to their right, and to the left by the crossbowmen of Dulciatta Vianda, a swarthy Tilean. Longbowmen lined the wagons across the road, with Ursula, Ruprecht and Gerhardt in front of them. Though Ruprecht had urged him to seek shelter, the wildfather had insisted that his place was at the front, and that he was more than capable of handling himself. Ursula had looked at the elderly priest with disbelief, and he had turned and winked at her.

  'Trust me, young lady, you don't live out in the wilds to my age if you can't handle yourself in a fight,' he said. Louda was sitting on his shoulder, bobbing excitedly and making odd hisses and squeaks.

  With them stood a few others who had gained employment individually. To Ruprecht's right was the lean swordsman, Carsten ven Boer, a tarnished circle of gold riveted into his face over the empty socket of his left eye. He was grinning toothlessly at Louda's antics, a heavy-bladed falchion in his hand. Just to Ursula's left was the short, wiry figure of Keiner Soval, a notched single-bladed axe in each hand. He stood joking with the broad-shouldered ex-sailor called Vorst, who was busily loading and priming one of the twelve pistols he carried on his belt with two long bandoleers across his chest.

  To their left were the men of the Red Spear Company, their crimson-shafted demi-pikes held ready, their leader at the front, a porcine man with a quick wit who had given his name as Swinefever. The smell from the spearmen, whose personal hygiene had been a constant source of complaint from Lady Halste, wafted over Ursula and she turned her head away. Despite their ragged appearance, their spear tips were clean and sharp, and they moved with discipline and determination.

  Further up the road, the flagellants had gathered, now three times their original number after the misery of Wissenburg. They stripped the skin from their brethren with whips, and ripped at their long unkempt hair with broken fingernails. They gave up a great clamour, ringing brass bells and banging tin drums with their hands and heads, shrieking and bellowing to the sky and to each other. They capered around in their bare feet, picking up pointed stones and dug them into their flesh. Some had long matted beards woven with pieces of masonry and wood that they had taken from the shattered ruins of the temples in Wissenburg, and one carried the stone hammer from a statue of Sigmar strapped across his back, its weight bending him almost double.

  It had been decided that the freelances should be held in reserve, and were hidden out of sight beyond the carts, further to the southeast. A brazier had been lit behind the barricade and the bowmen each carried an arrow soaked in pitch. Should the enemy break through, it was their job to fire an arrow into the air in the direction of the problem and the freelances would come forward and fill any gap that the greenskins managed to make in the line.

  That was as far as the
y had planned, and it was up to each soldier to look after himself and, if possible, look to his neighbour for support or to lend help. If the fighting went poorly, Ruprecht knew, the sellswords would soon scatter and take their chances on their own. They were paid to fight, and had been given a considerable retainer to do so, but a man who fought for money would always prefer to live and earn money again than die for a cause he did not necessarily believe in.

  There was movement up ahead, and a few ragged banners appeared over the crest of the hill that the road passed over some three hundred yards away. Skulls daubed in black paint hung from crude crosspoles, accompanied by bones and scraps of armour. Over a dozen rotten heads were hung by their hair on the largest banner, which was topped by a large icon shaped from iron, roughly beaten into a fanged face.

  A discordant banging of drums heralded the orc advance, as the greenskins strode forward over the hill. They were split into roughly three groups, each clustered about a banner and a drummer, and they clattered their axes and maces against the bare wood of their shields as they marched. A space at the centre opened, and through the gap came their warlord.

  Seated astride a gigantic warboar, itself the height of a man, the orc towered over his minions. Behind him, the toughest fighters rode on lesser boars, their tusks tipped with iron blades, their hooves studded with bloodstained nails. The warlord was clad in greasy iron armour, his arms protected by overlapping plates, a round breastplate strapped to his chest. His massive, bucket-jawed head was guarded by a helmet that was pierced by two long antlers, from which hung severed hands of varying sizes, some of them clawed and twisted, and obviously not human.