To his credit, Sergeant Isaak didn’t wilt, but his marksman looked a little peaked.
“My lord,” Isaak began, thumbs tucked into a thick weapons belt off which hung two large pistols, “Utz here,”—he nodded towards the marksman, who had his harquebus slung over his shoulder and was wringing a leather cap in his hands—“believes he has a way we can breach the gate.”
Stahler regarded the man at once, as did they all.
“Then speak, Utz, the enemy will be upon us in short order.”
“Grenades, m-milord,” Utz stammered in a thick accent, reminiscent of the Grünburg boatyards.
Stahler raised a questioning eyebrow at Isaak.
“His father is an engineer,” the sergeant explained. “Lad’s picked up a thing or two. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about blackpowder, sir.”
The hooting cries of the orcs and the bray of their boars was coming closer. Peeling off from the main horde, the wolf riders had already engaged the militia, circling the baggage train like predators circling their prey. Out of the corner of his eye, Stahler saw three men were dead with black-shafted arrows sticking out of their bodies.
“How quickly can you do it?” he put to Utz.
“We’ll need socks and caps for the powder, more than just the bags we carry,” Utz replied. “Then twine. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, my lord.”
“Get to it then.”
Utz and Isaak hurried off to the regiment, the sergeant already calling for every man to relinquish his socks or cap if he had them.
Left with the burly greatsworder, Stahler had one thing left to say before he ran back to the Grünburg spearmen, who were looking anxious in his absence.
“Keep them safe, Von Rauken. If we don’t break though that barricade—”
“Then you and I will be dining in Sigmar’s longhouse before the day is out,” the greatsworder replied.
As Stahler nodded and then went to his men, Von Rauken rejoined his own.
“Carroburg Few…” he called, taking his place between standard and drum, “we bloody few. Steep your blades this day. Steep them in the red of your tunics. Steep them in greenskin blood. Let all remember the Siege of Carroburg and how our courage was measured and made.”
A clash of blades, the slip of steel on leather greeted Von Rauken’s proclamation as the Carroburg Few drew swords and prepared to meet the enemy.
* * *
Thick, black smoke was visible from his vantage point on the hill. Karlich was familiar enough with Blosstadt’s layout to realise it was coming from the gate. He’d also heard the faint echo of horns—not the trumpets and clarions of the Empire, but the throaty, strident blaring of greenskin pipes—and knew that Stahler was cut off. It changed nothing, only his resolve to dig in harder and make the orcs pay for every inch they took.
“Hold together!” Karlich shouted, blocking the swipe of a rusty cleaver before stunning the orc he faced with a stiff punch to the nose. It was like striking granite but the beast felt it too and backed off just enough for Karlich to finish it with his sword. Respite was brief, more of the porcine brutes were clamouring to the battle.
The sheer swell of it was incredible, like the pitch and yaw of a ship in a stormy sea. With the initial charge, the halberdiers’ line bent, but then reasserted itself like steel flexing back after being tested. They braced hafts into the hill soil and levelled blades outwards in a dull, grey metal palisade. Orcs were skewered, goblins kicked and split by swords but still the greenskins came. Gazing through the gaps in the fighting, Karlich dared not make a headcount—beyond the Grimblades’ front rank, there appeared to be no end to the orcs.
Backing up the slope with the massive press of the horde, Keller slipped. Brand was beside him immediately and kept the soldier on his feet. Keller only had time to flash a brief glance in his direction. It was met with icy cold and if it wasn’t for the greenskins to his front, he’d have been reluctant to turn away.
“It won’t be in your back,” he heard Brand whisper, before he was lost from view in the melee.
Lenkmann and Rechts fought doggedly by Karlich’s side, protecting his flanks and hacking furiously with their blades. The drummer closed his ears to the sound of Masbrecht’s vocal devotions, concentrating on the scrape of metal, the grunts of the embattled and the cries of the dying.
Volker felt the line thinning. The front rank was dug in hard, a core of strong men, he knew, that had fought many battles together and lived to tell of it. No doubt they missed Varveiter, the old soldier was the source of much inspiration, but they were holding. Volker’s keen eyes picked out goblins creeping through the orcish wall of muscle and fury. He’d slain two already, the corpses had rolled down the hill to be crushed underfoot. Another pair had dragged a Grimblade, Jorgs, to his death by first stabbing him in the legs when his attention was on the orcs. Once Jorgs was down the malicious creatures had gone to work with their knives. Volker had seen the man collapse and heard him screaming as the goblins took him. Keeping his eyes low and high at the same time was impossible, but the mastiff guarded his master’s legs, tearing out goblin throats and keeping them at bay with its frothing bark and bite.
The edges of the line were being hit hard. Eber felt it like a physical blow. Several men had lost their lives on the flanks as the greenskins levelled most of their strength at the “hinges” between the regiments. Though Eber couldn’t really see that well, he realised the Middenlanders were struggling to hold off the beasts just as they were. Cutting down another orc, splitting its skull with a roar, he vowed to make the greenskins fight for every step. Eber was strong and his harsh upbringing, first at his father’s hand and then as part of the circus troupe, had made him tough but the orcs were testing his limits. He buried his halberd into the face of one, imagining it was his abusive father and the killing came easier.
“Retreat two steps,” hollered Karlich. “In good order, Grimblades.”
Eber moved with the rest of the line. He could feel the summit of the hill getting closer.
A raking discharge from the Grünburg guns filled the air with a flurry of smoke. Another crack of flintlocks immediately followed it as the second of the handgunner regiments fired its weapons. This was a much lesser discharge, as a quarter of its number was preparing grenades under the tutelage of marksman Utz. Sergeant Isaak stayed with the greater regiment, unleashing his pistols one at a time to maintain a steady rate of fire.
The orcs bore the brunt of the fusillades on their shields. Powder and shot left wood chips and dented plate in its wake. Despite the heavy barrage—a fact made possible by firing in ranks, whereby rear rankers replaced front rankers with fuses primed in a constant cycle of powder, shot, ram, fire—the greenskins had lost few riders and fewer boars. They circled the Empire infantry squares like carrion choosing the tastiest morsels to descend upon. Several of the handgunners were dead already, slumped in the dirt with axe and spear wounds. Every death meant one less ball of shot to unleash at the orcs.
“Stay together!” shouted Stahler, as an orc bounced off his shield and nearly felled him as it careened past. “Maintain square,” he urged, once he’d righted himself.
Boar stink and foetid orc spore had turned the air around them into a febrile soup. Several spearmen gagged, but kept their polearms steady under the gaze of the captain.
Stahler wiped away the sweat streaking his face, sparing a glance towards the Carroburgers and Utz’s forlorn hope. The greatsworders were fighting hard and had yet to lose a man. Through the melee, the Empire captain couldn’t tell if the grenades were ready yet or not. He hoped it would be soon. They were holding right enough—even the militia were doing a satisfactory job of protecting the wagons—but holding was not enough. His instincts told him the orcs were merely toying with them and that a concerted push was coming.
It arrived sooner than Stahler thought.
From out of the boar riders’ ranks, which until then had been a blur of snorting, dark-furred hid
e and metal, emerged a massive creature too large and imposing to ever be called a mere boar. It was more like a hairy bull, thickly muscled and armoured like the caparisoned steed of a knight, albeit with crude plates and belts of chainmail. Its tiny eyes shimmered red and it snorted a long drizzle of mucus. It might have been a challenge, Stahler was unsure. The deep bellow from the dark-skinned orc upon the boar-beast’s back could be nothing other.
Digging its spiked heels into the boar’s flank, the greenskin chieftain drove at the greatsworders and Stahler saw the orc in its full terrifying aspect. Curled rams’ horns extended from a black iron helmet; chain-mail draped its obscenely muscular body like a second skin; fists the size of circus dumbbells gripped a pair of axes, notched from the kills it had made and dark with old blood. It was a monster, a thing of nightmares and it was coming for Von Rauken.
Stahler knew the strength and courage of the greatsworders, and Carroburgers were tough men. But their thin line could not stand against this beast and his entourage. They would stand but shatter soon after, driven under hooves or before rusty blades and then there would be nothing between Utz’s men and certain death. The death of Utz meant the death of them all, and the orcish chieftain was cunning enough to realise this.
There was little time to act, and Stahler knew if he thought too hard about what he was going to do he might falter and it would be too late. So instead, he roared.
“Charge!”
Galvanised by the presence of their captain, the Bogenhafeners went from a steady jog to a run. They barrelled into the path of the boar riders, bellowing war cries to stump up their courage.
“Forward in the name of Prince Wilhelm,” shouted Stahler, “and for the glory of the Reiki.”
In the path of the charging boars, there was little time to set themselves and level spears. The men of Bogenhafen did what they could before a thundering wall of fur, fangs and tusks exploded into them. It was like being struck by a battering ram full in the chest, the earth trembling underfoot.
Stahler lost his helmet and very nearly his shield. He clung to it, this lifeline on a thread of leather, by sheer will alone. Spearmen were tossed into the air like dolls, limbs flailing. Others were ground under hoof or gored by tusks and blades. One man had his neck cleaved in twain, and the decapitated head bounced amongst his brethren like a grisly ball. Blood and screaming, the hoot of beasts and the desperate reek of combat filled the air around them. The standard almost fell, poor Heiflig gutted by an orc’s cleaver, before one of the rear rankers came forward to seize it. The war horn was forgotten, in favour of the grunts and cries of desperate battle. In the initial boar charge, the Bogenhafen spears had lost almost their entire front rank—only Stahler and the musician remained. And yet they held.
“Spears!” shouted Stahler, though he hardly needed to as the second rank thrust their polearms over the first who went down on bent knee to let the steel tips pass over their shoulders. Several orcs and boars were pinioned, two even fell to mortal wounds but the greenskins were not done.
After hacking off an orc’s hand at the wrist then ramming his shield into its boar’s snout, Stahler saw the chieftain a few paces down the line. Its axe blades were a crimson blur, reaping heads and limbs like a farmer reaps corn during harvest. Except this was a visceral, bloody yield.
“Fight me, pig-face!” shouted Stahler. He didn’t relish taking on the beast. It was almost twice his height without the mount; with it, the orc was utterly monstrous. Yet he couldn’t let it attack the spearmen. They would simply be butchered, and any hopes of survival with them.
“Come on, you stinking scum!” he roared, stabbing a boar rider in the gut as it leaned to strike at him and very nearly losing his head as it swung back.
A line of blood laced Stahler’s face, still warm on the orc’s blade, and he fought not to gag. A spear to the beast’s throat ended its life, but he couldn’t see who’d done it. It was impossible to discern anything in the madness. Stahler’s focus was just on the orc chieftain. “To me, you spineless bastard!”
At last the orc took notice, this squealing piece of manflesh rattling his puny shield with his tiny knife. Though man and orc did not speak the same language, understanding between them was absolute. Throwing back his head, the greenskin chieftain emitted an ululating cry that drove the warriors from its path.
Challenge accepted.
Stahler fought to quell his fear. The battle around him appeared to lull. The world slowed, but it was as if the orc chieftain were moving outside of time as it came on inexorably and at speed. The captain’s longsword was no ordinary weapon. Myrmidian priests had blessed it and a single rune was forged into the blade. Despite the keenness of its edge, the magical sharpness parted mail links like they were parchment, Stahler balked at the thickness of the orc’s armour, its flesh and brawn.
“Sigmar protect me…” he whispered, making the sign of the hammer with his shield arm then bringing it up to meet the charge of the beast.
“Last step!” cried Karlich as they reached the summit of the hill. Through the fog of battle, the Grimblade sergeant vaguely made out Sturnbled issuing a similar warning to his men. The Middenlander had given up on his pistol and fought with sword and buckler instead. Torveld fought beside him and, despite his disliking of the northerners, Karlich had to admit they were ferocious fighters.
Twenty minutes is a long time on the battlefield where seconds can stretch to lifetimes and every swing of your sword or sweep of your halberd feels like lifting a tree. Proud of them as he was, Karlich knew his men were flagging. Another of the Grimblades—Helmut?—was struck down, and the line thinned again. It had been some time since they’d had two full rear ranks and the gaps were telling. Three times Karlich had narrowed the formation already, the small circle of soldiers around the hill tightening as they ascended its rise, as if pulling their own noose. Occasional peals of Rechts’ drum relayed the command to close ranks, whilst Lenkmann hollered and cajoled them to maintain good order when they did.
Smoke was still rising from the gatehouse. If Stahler didn’t make it through soon, this would be one of the shortest Imperial campaigns in history.
The world was drenched red before Stahler’s eyes as the blow against his shield forced him back. He staggered with the sheer strength behind the attack. Putting his weight on his back foot, he lashed out wildly with his blade. Laughing—a deep, throaty noise full of malice—the orc chieftain merely swatted the sword aside with the flat of its axe. It sported long cuts, the odd gouge in its skin and armour, but these small blows Stahler had inflicted only enraged and empowered the beast.
Blood was leaking into Stahler’s eyes from a cut on his forehead that he couldn’t see or feel. A deep throbbing in his head dulled the battle noise, but he thought he heard the final pulses of his heart in this world as the orc came again.
Stahler lunged in an effort to maybe put the orc off balance, salvage a little more time for Utz, but the beast swatted the weapon away again. Leaning down from its mount, the chieftain seized Stahler by his tunic. Snarling stinking spittle into the man’s face, the orc butted him hard.
The red world turned black. It was like being hit by granite. Stahler felt his nose break. He became vaguely aware of being spun around, his shield fleeing from his grasp, sword slipping from his nerveless fingers.
“Wilhelm…”
The words brushed past his lips like a death rattle as the long well came for him. It was cool in its shadowy depths and the water was dank. Old things lingered in it: old unquiet things that he would soon be joining. Earth came up to meet him, the bloody mire embracing Stahler’s body like he was a babe in arms. For he was a child of war and she, the battlefield, was his dark mother.
Thunder boomed above, and with the last of his fading sight Stahler saw dead, bloody faces staring back at him, welcoming him.
Join us…
An almighty crack announced the destruction of the gates. Karlich saw it happen as surely as he felt the green
skins falter. Flaming debris and smoke plumed fifty feet high in an orange, grey bloom that expanded into the orcs around the gates. The greenskins were engulfed, riddled by wood splinters the size of swords, burned to death in the booming conflagration.
Some of the orcs and goblins fighting the Grimblades were looking over their shoulders. Confidence that had been so abundant moments ago ebbed like water in a punctured skin.
Something else was happening too. There was thunder, only not from the heavens. This thunder shook the earth and sent it trembling all the way up to the summit of the hill.
“Wilhelm…” breathed Karlich, in revered thanks for their deliverance. Having planned to join his armies on the road to Averheim, the Prince of Reikland had come. He had come and they were saved, but only if they were still willing to save themselves.
Karlich saw his chance.
“Grimblades! Push them back!”
As one the halberdiers thrust forward, leading with spikes and cleaving with blades as they surged down the hill, scattering the greenskins before them. There came the sound of powder cracks from a fusillade as beautiful and welcome as an orchestral chorus. Smoke plumed the air like grey pennants billowing on the breeze, announcing the arrival of salvation.
No longer pressed from all sides, greatsworders, handgunners and spearmen spilling into Blosstadt to leaven the intense pressure, Grimblades and Steel Swords reforming their ranks in a thick, narrow fighting block. Shields and blades went deep, as deep as they could. The greenskins were broken, all sense of purpose and coherency lost in a moment. The men of the Empire were merciless as they routed them.
Outside it was a similar glorious story. Karlich and the others would not get to see the magnificent charge of Prince Wilhelm and his knights, nor would they witness the efforts of the regiments from Kemperbad, Auerswald and Ubersreik. There were scores of militia soldiers too, drawn from the surrounding Reikland villages, all impassioned by a prince’s cause and a desire to protect their borders and the borders of their neighbours. If they did not look to the defence of their Empire, then who would? It was a rare moment of solidarity in a land rife with internal strife and politicking, but then Wilhelm was an inspirational man and ruler. He spoke to men’s hearts, not their heads or their coffers.
04 - Grimblades Page 9
