04 - Grimblades

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  It was hard fighting, some of the toughest Brand had faced. The noise was intense and blended together into a hellish sort of din. Some men, if they survived, would not get over it. It would likely drive them mad. Brand had known soldiers, harder men than those around him, who had taken their own lives because of it.

  Pressure could be felt on both sides, ever pressing. It was a task just to keep the goblins back, let alone defeat them. As he killed another wolfrider, Brand heard a man farther down the flank gurgle a death cry as one of the mounts ripped his throat out. Greiss still refused to yield. For Brand, it was like looking into a mirror, a cracked and slightly dirty mirror.

  Karlich disliked the Middenlanders almost as much as he hated the goblin hordes trying to kill them. After hacking apart a goblin’s skull with his sword, he spared a glance at Vanhans’ men. They were true butchers. The ruthless mercenaries and insane flagellants laid into a band of orcs with bloody abandon. Like madmen, they died in droves but fought without fear. The paid mercenaries were more careful but equally brutal. A promise of further coin was all that kept them in the fight, though. Karlich only glimpsed the witch hunter, a sliver of black, a flash of silver, but his voice was wholly apparent. Every cut came with a curse, a hateful catechism spat with phlegmy vitriol. If animus was a weapon then Vanhans’ blade was sharper than the keenest diamond.

  Ahead was no better. After plunging forward heedlessly, the Steel Swords had now stalled, forming a shieldwall against a mob of heavily-armoured orcs. Trying to stay alive and kill his enemies at the same time, meant Karlich couldn’t see how they were faring. He cursed the Middenlanders all the same for having left his own regiment vulnerable, goaded by the promise of glory denied them at the Brigund Bridge. He only regretted he wouldn’t get to pay them back for their dissension.

  Just as Karlich was preparing to make a last stand, to be reunited with his wife and daughter in Morr’s afterlife, the pressure on the flank lifted. Looking out the corner of his eye for as long as he dared, he saw the telltale black and red of Carroburg.

  Sigmar bless his blade, Von Rauken had come to their aid.

  With greatsworders cleaving into them mercilessly from behind and the halberdiers giving them hell from the front, the goblin wolfriders scattered and fled. The few that weren’t slain in the retreat barrelled southward for the Black Mountains. Karlich fancied even Grom could not get them to turn, so badly had the Carroburg Few mauled them.

  The goblin horde fighting to the Grimblades’ front capitulated soon after. Worn down by Vanhans on one side, and the greatsworders on the other, Karlich and his men were at last able to overwhelm them and put the creatures to flight.

  Several still lived, eighty or more goblins from the same tribe, but their will was broken. Their retreat left a short spurt of open ground before them. Karlich used the time marching into it to catch a breath and share a word with Von Rauken.

  “A good time, to repay a debt of honour,” he said.

  The greatsworder champion merely grinned, showing a lost tooth.

  “There’s more blood to be shed still. Don’t thank us yet,” growled the Carroburger.

  Karlich’s reply was arrested by the storm cracking above. He looked up and saw the Celestial wizard and the shaman duelling inside a massive thunderhead. Lit from behind by lightning, they appeared as frozen silhouettes. Every flash revealed a new vista, as if held in transparent amber, only for it to fade and reappear a moment later in a different duelling pose. Wizard and shaman were just ephemeral shadows painted on the underside of clouds, so high, so far away. It was impossible to tell who was winning.

  Respite was brief. More orcs and goblins were coming.

  Karlich cast a glance over his shoulder. Smoke was wreathing the embankment, spilling down onto the battlefield in a creeping, grey veil. Something was happening up there but he couldn’t tell what. From the sound of the explosion he heard earlier, it couldn’t be good. Peering through the smog he noticed that the back line had moved up and a good hundred feet or so now separated them. In the tight confines of the battlefield ahead, it felt like a gulf.

  * * *

  Gaps were forming in the battle. Whereas before it was clogged without room to manoeuvre, fleeing regiments and mobs had pulled at both armies. Formations and battle lines were breaking down. Together with the natural ebb and flow of combat, discrete masses were slowly emerging. A regiment from Grünburg and another from Streissen fought a savage orc mob and a horde of forest goblins. A stolid wedge of halberdiers struggled against a smaller band of trolls, their numbers dwindling. A force of pike and swordsmen clashed with a grunting tribe of orc boar riders, keeping the beasts at bay with a wall of shields and polearms. Each fought their own personal battle. Suddenly the wider war had become less important and immediate than merely living out the next minute.

  Stahler knew how to read an engagement as easily as he discerned the palm of his own hand. The struggle for Averheim was reaching a crucial stage.

  Between the fighting, patches of open ground strangled with the dead and dying were revealed. Like pulling back a dirty curtain, broken blades and shields, bloodied leather and mail was found cluttering the earth like scrap. From every struggle, fresh horrors emerged from underfoot as man and orc jostled for superiority.

  The Imperial infantry was pressing ahead. Stahler knew it was important to maintain momentum, especially with such a large army arrayed against them, but he was weary about leaving the rear line and their support so far behind. Soon the men would tire too. Nothing could be worse than being stranded beyond help, surrounded by foes and with a heavy sword arm. They had to press on, though. If they could hold, even break through to Averheim, then the two armies would surely crush the greenskins. Perhaps the war could be won here after all.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man. Damn fine way to get killed.

  A wry smile turned to a grimace on Stahler’s face when a jab of pain shot up his arm and side. Clutching his chest, he gasped. It was like breathing piping hot cinders. A clatter of metal announced he’d dropped his sword. Stahler watched it hit the ground. Sagging in the saddle, he almost followed it. Seizing the reins with his other hand, he tried to hold on.

  Can’t… see me… like this; even the voice in his head sounded agonised. He needed to get up. He thought about reaching for his blade.

  Forget it, there’s no way.

  Stahler realised if he dismounted or leaned down to retrieve it, he might never get back up again.

  “Merciful Shallya,” he rasped. The sound was wet and ragged. Stahler tasted copper in his mouth.

  Darkness blinded him for a split second before he blinked it away. Tremors of mild panic went with it. The soldiers’ backs were still hazy. It might have been because of the smoke. He wasn’t sure.

  Blackpowder smoke was creeping down the embankment. It swept the field in a dark grey fog from the constant discharge of harquebus, mortar and cannon. The rear echelons of the army were smothered and it was slowly layering the entire plain. Still groggy but mastering the pain, Stahler saw a scattered band of goblins approaching him through the murk. Some of the greenskin mobs had overshot or been left behind in the massive push by the Imperial infantry. Crossbowmen and handgunners were picking them off with isolated clacks of their weapons, but some were still getting through. Most of the greenskin remnants fled but some were prowling the dead and dying, stealing and murdering as they went. They wouldn’t tackle a regiment, but a lone rider would be fair game.

  Stahler realised abruptly that he was separated from the line, in a sort of grey no-man’s land. Mist and gun-smoke coalesced into a dark fug that made it hard to see. The goblins were coming for him. He sneered, annoyed with himself.

  Easy meat.

  Stahler drew a pistol from his belt. He had already dropped his shield when he went for the reins. With both hands free, he wrenched a short sword from its scabbard on his steed’s barded flank.

  Something told him he was dying, that the wound h
e’d received at Blosstadt was mortal, only he hadn’t known it. Until now.

  By the gods, he’d take some more of the bastards with him before he fell.

  Six against one.

  The first of the goblins emerged from the smoke and mist, its pointy nose cutting through it like a knife. Stahler levelled his pistol and fired. Make that five.

  Kogswald was dead. Bludgeoned by a huge iron ball, the spikes upon it had ripped his armour apart. The preceptor was lying on his slain horse with a chain wrapped around his crushed neck and torso. He hadn’t even lifted his sword. It was an ignoble end for a noble warrior.

  Several other knights, both Griffonkorps and Order of the Fiery Comet, joined him in grim repose. Their limbs were twisted, tangled together with one another and their horses, mashed beyond recognition by the deadly goblin weapons.

  Cavalry killers. Wilhelm had heard of goblin fanatics before. Intoxicated on cave fungus, they were insane and utterly immune to fear and doubt. He had never fought against them, though.

  “Ride through!” urged the prince. What was left of the knights charged on. Babbled hooting from the whirling goblins assailed them through their battle-helms as they thundered past.

  In the frantic dash to escape, Wilhelm noticed one of the demented greenskins spin off wildly and into a patch of rock. It left a messy stain against the grey stone as it died. Another collided with one of its comrades and the two wrapped around each other in a fatal embrace. A fourth ran out of fervour and collapsed, its overworked heart giving out convulsively.

  That left only two. The gauntlet was at least now runnable. Hot air whipped past the prince’s face, displaced by a heavy ball and chain. Shards of debris carried along in its wake stung at his skin. He resisted the temptation to lash out. If he did, he’d lose his arm to one swing of the deadly weapon.

  Despite the damage inflicted by the fanatics, Wilhelm and his charges cut through the night goblins that had harboured the fanatics with relative ease. Ploughing through the greenskin ranks was akin to butchery, not battle. By the time they’d reached the other side, the knights were less than half their original strength. Around fifty remained and even they were bruised and battered. Cracking flintlocks erupted from the few surviving pistoliers. Tiny plumes of blackpowder smoke erupted from their firearms before the last of the fanatics were shot and killed.

  Relieved, Wilhelm turned to look at Kogswald. Lifting his visor, he gasped for breath. He’d known the man all of his life. He’d been his retainer and protector for almost thirty years. The sight of him so cruelly slain, bereft of glory, was almost too much.

  “He’s gone,” Ledner’s snake-rasp banished the prince’s nostalgia. Nothing could be done for the preceptor. Ledner’s pragmatism outweighed sentiment every time. There was no love lost between the two men. Neither, to their credit, had pretended otherwise. But Ledner recognised the great shame in what had happened to his sparring partner.

  Ledner was wounded too. He held his reins gingerly with one hand, the other clutching his sword. His arm was either twisted or broken, possibly at the shoulder. Ledner didn’t let it show, despite his bloodied face. A cut above his right eye drooled gorily, but he was defiant as ever.

  When the prince didn’t reply, Ledner rode up alongside him and leaned in close so he could whisper. “Marshal your knights!” he hissed between clenched teeth.

  They’d stalled a little, the impetus of their charge faltering once free and clear of the night goblins. “They need you to lead them. Do it!”

  As if waking from a dream, Wilhelm came around. The knights were milling around, lacking in purpose. The prince reined his horse about, facing the enemy ahead. The briefest of nods in Ledner’s direction acknowledged the service he’d just performed for his master.

  “Onward,” cried Wilhelm, raising his sword. “The gates of Averheim are close. We’re nearly there. For Kogswald and our slain brothers!”

  The knights cheered, though it was a dark and vengeful cry. Even in the face of death, their spirit was indomitable. It was what made them better than ordinary men.

  Under fifty knights, just two and a half lances, to take the gate and release the Averheim army—Wilhelm had Sigmar’s name upon his lips as they charged again.

  His steed had saved his life, or at least prolonged it for another, perhaps more peaceful death. Unlike most soldiers, Stahler had no wish to die on the battlefield. It was a lonesome, depressing place. Death and death alone belonged there, not glory. He wanted to meet his end in the arms of a beautiful woman; or in a tavern, surrounded by friends and comrades; or old aged before a slow burning hearth, a smouldering pipe in his hand and a contented smile on his face that said: I’m ready now, I’ve lived.

  Even as his warhorse had staved in the skull of the last goblin, the other four dispatched between them, Stahler knew that was not his fate. He’d die here in the mire, alone yet surrounded by his men. As if to punish him for his killing efforts, the pain in Stahler’s arm and side returned. He stifled a cry. The tears in his eyes were from agony, not anguish.

  Stay alive, he kept repeating to himself. Stay alive and make it count for something.

  The rain brought him around. It tinkled against his armour. Rivulets inveigled their way down his back, chilling him. The effect was mildly reviving. It wasn’t to last.

  Only shortly after it had begun, the rainstorm stopped abruptly. The clouds persisted but they no longer shed their tears. Mist followed in its wake, rising swiftly like an ethereal tide, smothering the battlefield. The smoke from the hillside rolled into it, turning it into dense smog. He’d experienced foggy nights in Altdorf, the mist creeping off the Reik, when you could only just see the hand before your face, where visibility had been better than this. The battle had just become many times more treacherous.

  It was as the grey smog clawed its way across the plain that everything began to go wrong.

  An almighty flash ignited the heavens just as the Grimblades were about to engage yet another greenskin mob. Something plummeted from the sky, blazing like a falling comet.

  Whether it was denial or the simple fact of distance, it took Karlich a few seconds to realise it was Sirrius Cloudcaller.

  Blacktooth had won. The Celestial wizard was dead.

  A bizarre after-flare was frozen against Karlich’s eye. As he blinked he again saw Sirrius etched upon the clouds in agonised silhouette.

  “Fight on, fight on for the Empire!” Von Rauken had seen it too and was doing his best to rally them.

  Without the wizard… Karlich dare not contemplate further. The crash of blades was coming fast, so he bellowed as hard as his lungs would allow and lost himself to the madness.

  * * *

  Wilhelm’s knights were riding at the orcs’ backs now. Charging along the rear of the greenskins engaged with the Empire troops, it was tempting to wheel off and gut a mob from behind. Wilhelm felt sure even the hardest orcs would crumple beneath their lances and their righteous anger. Part of him wanted to, needed to, vent his frustration at the death of noble Kogswald. It would be an outpouring of grief. Averheim demanded his attention, though. He would be its saviour. He would save the Empire and take Dieter to account for his lassitude, feathering his nest as he brokered deals with greedy Marienburgers and the rest of the Empire burned. It made the prince’s blood hot that an Emperor could abandon his lands to despoliation. If he survived this, there would a reckoning. All the mercenaries and sell-swords in Tilea couldn’t prevent it.

  With thoughts of vengeance plaguing his mind, the prince failed to notice the shadow in the clouds growing above them. It wasn’t until Ledner cried out, an oddly strangled shriek due to his old neck wound, that Wilhelm knew of the danger in their midst.

  “My lord, get down!” Ledner threw himself at the prince, leaping off his own steed to do it. The two men slammed into the earth and rolled as something large and scaly raked overhead, a pair of screaming knights gripped in its clutches. It was a miracle they weren’t killed or seriously
injured in the fall. Several more knights were scattered across the ground, their bodies and their horses broken. Trying to heave the air back into his chest, the ache of sudden bruises from the fall muddying his senses, Wilhelm looked into the sky and saw the wyvern turn. It tossed a dangling figure from its mouth as it dove for them.

  The prince rose unsteadily before Ledner tackled him again, grunting as he jarred his injured arm. Warm air and the foetid stink of the beast washed over them. Ledner yelped in pain as a talon clipped him, tearing a bloody gash in his wounded shoulder.

  “It wants you,” he snarled from the agony. “Get your wits first then face it.”

  He rolled off from where he’d pinned the prince. Wilhelm nodded curtly, found his breath at last and got to his feet.

  The wyvern was circling around for another pass. The shaman on its back cackled wildly, enjoying the spectacle.

  Dragontooth was in the prince’s hand as he took up a sword fighting stance. Since he’d been a boy, Kogswald had taught him how to fight. As the wyvern knifed through the clouds at him, Wilhelm recalled a lesson where the preceptor had tutored him in the art of engaging a horseman on foot. It required balance and timing. The prince adopted those sage tactics now.

  “See this blade,” he muttered to the beast as it grew in his eye line, “do you remember it?” They were just moments away from impact. “It remembers you…”

  Dragontooth caught an errant shaft of sunlight and flashed in agreement.