Swords of the Emperor Read online

  He absently ran his finger along the blade of his halberd. It probably needed sharpening. Too late now. He’d have to test the edge on the necks of beastmen instead, and they’d be here soon enough. They’d been massing for months, raiding and pillaging. The decision had been taken to quash their menace in one massive, orchestrated campaign. As Bloch gazed across the hurriedly organising ranks, that decision didn’t look as good as it had done in Altdorf.

  He turned away from the vista and resumed his walk up the slope of the Bastion. Ahead of him, a familiar figure waited.

  “Herr Bloch,” said Verstohlen. “You’re getting wet.”

  Bloch never knew when Pieter Verstohlen was mocking him. It was always the same with the damned aristos. Their cut-glass accents were designed to make you feel inferior. Not that Verstohlen had ever explicitly said anything to slight his honour. He’d always been the soul of politeness. But Bloch didn’t like it. There was a place for smooth manners and cleverness, and it wasn’t on the battlefield.

  “That I am,” replied Bloch. “I see you’ve come prepared.”

  Verstohlen wore a wide-brimmed leather hat and a long coat. At his belt were two exquisite flintlocks. He wore a finely-tailored jacket and hardwearing boots. It was all plain, understated and utilitarian, but Bloch was enough of a man of the world to know how expensive it was. Unlike most of the men of the army, Verstohlen wore clothes that fitted him. They’d been tailored. It was unnerving. Unnatural.

  Verstohlen nodded, and the rainwater slewed from the brim of his hat.

  “As always,” he said. “No word of Commander Grunwald?”

  Bloch shook his head.

  “We got a message at dawn. He’s engaged them to the south. Nothing since then.”

  “Is it wise, to wait so long? I’m not a commander, but…”

  Bloch scowled. What was Verstohlen, exactly? He could almost have passed for a witch hunter, but the man was no Templar of Sigmar. He had the trust of the big man, that was certain, but why? It wasn’t like him to listen to a civilian.

  “He’ll hold the line,” snapped Bloch, unwilling to debate tactics with the man. “He knows what he has to do.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Herr Bloch. But, as I understand it, the support from Marshal Helborg was due to arrive last night. If he’s not here now, and there is no prospect of his appearance from the dispatches, then perhaps keeping the road open is an unnecessary risk. The beast-men are already massing. Herr Grunwald is exposed.”

  Bloch didn’t want to agree with him, but there was something in what he said. The big man was waiting too long. Helborg wouldn’t arrive. They all knew it. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

  “So what d’you want to do?” he asked, affecting a casual disdain. “Try to persuade the chief? Good luck.”

  Verstohlen remained impassive. He never seemed to react to anything. He had ice running through his veins. That was another thing Bloch didn’t like. A soldier should have some passion. Some spirit.

  “Where are you assigned?” asked Verstohlen.

  “On the west front of the Bastion with the Fourth and Ninth halberdiers. Why?”

  “Keep an eye on the southern approaches, will you? I will try to remedy this myself, but I may run out of time. Keep some good men about you. There may be a need to make adjustments. Grunwald is a good fighter. We can’t afford to lose him.”

  Bloch felt one of his fists balling, and unclenched it. Why did Verstohlen’s speech irritate him so much? It wasn’t even that the man was weak. Bloch knew that Verstohlen had killed plenty in his time. Those pistols weren’t for show, but there was something strange about him. He didn’t fit. And in an army, where you had to trust the man at your shoulder like no other, that was a problem.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Bloch, turning away. He could hear Verstohlen start to say something else, but he pretended not to hear, and the rain drowned it out.

  Bloch stalked over to his regiment. In the north, a low rumble of thunder echoed. The troops looked up nervously. At the edge of his vision, he was dimly aware of Verstohlen shrugging and walking off towards the command post. He took up his place beside the halberdiers.

  “All right, lads,” he said. “The waiting’s almost over.”

  There were a few murmured responses, but no fancy words. These were his kind of men. Grim, stoic, simple. Good to have at your shoulder.

  He stared out westwards. The rain continued to drum on the rock. Far below the Bastion, at the edge of the Cauldron’s sheer sides, the trees were tossed about by the wind. In the far distance, right on the edge of hearing, there was a faint howling. The storm was coming. When it broke, the creatures of the forest would be hard on its heels.

  Back on the ridge, the beastmen had come again. This time there were more. They piled out from under the tree line, bellowing with a fresh fury. Huge creatures strode amongst them, towering over the scampering horrors at their feet. One had the shoulders of a giant bull, the colour of dried blood and scored with tattoos. When it roared, the earth shook.

  Grunwald hefted his broadsword with foreboding. So many.

  “Hold your fire,” he cried. “Wait for the signal!”

  All along the line, archers fitted their arrows to the string. They looked pale with fear. The constant attacks had got to them. Handgunners took aim, squatting amongst them, sheltering the matchcord against the rain. Pikemen fingered the poles of their weapons agitatedly, waiting for the horrendous clash of arms.

  The gap closed. The eyes of the beasts became visible. They were like burning coals. They tore up the ridge towards the defenders.

  “Helblasters!” shouted Grunwald.

  With a crack, the cannons ignited. Grape and shot spun into the oncoming tide, punching holes in the first rank. Squeals of agony mingled with the guttural baying.

  Still the beasts came.

  “Gunners!”

  The handgunners released their first volley. In the wake of their lead shot, arrows whined into the fray More beasts fell, clutching at their sides in pain. They were trampled by their fellows.

  Still the beasts came.

  “Blades!”

  The pikemen lowered their poles and thrust them forward. The front row of creatures slammed into them. Some were impaled, seemingly heedless of the pain. Others leapt over the steel tips, just as far as the waiting line of halberds. The blades whirled, and the beastmen were thrown back. As long as the ranks held, there was no way through.

  Grunwald sprang from his vantage point and entered the fray. There was no point standing back once battle had been joined. Now the assault was on them, and every sword was needed. With his last glance towards the forest edge, he saw the scale of the task. There were more beastmen then ever. The ground beneath the ridge boiled with grotesque bodies. They were clambering over one another to get at them. They only sensed one thing, only smelled one thing, only lusted for one thing. Blood. Their blood.

  “For Sigmar!” he shouted, and hurled himself into the assault.

  If they wanted his, they’d have to earn it.

  Verstohlen hurried through the ranks towards the command enclosure near the summit of the Bastion. On either side of him, close-knit detachments of troopers waited nervously. They had the advantage of high ground, but little else. The beastmen could scale the slopes with ease, and there would soon be scores of them. The Imperial advance into the forest had roused the whole Drakwald. Verstohlen was as versed in the lore of the wilderness as any seasoned general. When there was blood to be spilled, they would come.

  Ahead of him, the massed flags and standards marked out the general’s vantage point. Functionaries were scurrying around it, desperately conveying last-minute orders to the field captains. The ornate battle-standards flapped wildly, driven by the wind. There was no sign of the commander. Verstohlen looked around in vain, before catching sight of Tierhof, the Master of Ordnance.

  “Where’s the general?” asked Verstohlen. Tierhof looked at him coldl
y. They all did, these soldiers. For some reason, he seemed to repel them. One day he would have to work out why and do something about it.

  “With the Knights Panther,” said Tierhof. “What do you want him for? He’ll be riding to the front in moments.”

  Verstohlen sucked his teeth irritably.

  “Then I’m too late,” he said. “Have you had word from Herr Grunwald?”

  “Not since the morning.”

  “And from the Marshal?”

  Tierhof laughed. It was not a merry sound.

  “You’re still expecting him? We’re alone here, Verstohlen. You’d better get used to it.”

  The Master made to leave, but Verstohlen was insistent.

  “If we no longer expect Helborg, then we must send word for Grunwald to withdraw. The forest is alive with beastmen. He cannot hold his position.”

  Tierhof gave him a disdainful look.

  “The plans have been drawn up. The southern flank is held by Grunwald. Whether or not Helborg arrives, he must hold the line until the deployment is complete. There’s no time to give you a lecture on tactics, Verstohlen, I’m needed with the gunnery crews.”

  Tierhof gave a brief nod, and was gone. Verstohlen stood alone, forgotten amongst the bustle of the senior officers. From far down below, cries of alarm rose into the air. The scouts had sighted something. Trumpets rang out across the bastion, and the clash and scrape of steel blades being raised echoed around the defensive lines.

  “So this is it,” said Verstohlen to himself, taking a flintlock from his holster and checking it over. “Too late for Helborg now. And maybe for all of us.”

  “Fall back! Fall back!”

  The beastmen had broken through the defenders and on to the ridge. The huge bull-like monsters, blood-red and rearing furiously, shattered the fragile defensive lines. Even as Grunwald raced towards it, he could see the defences around him disintegrate. As long as they maintained a solid line, backed up with artillery and archery, they could hold out. Once a melee had formed, there were too few of them. The beasts numbered in their thousands.

  The breach became a rout. Pikemen and halberdiers, hurrying to escape the swelling tide of beastmen, were trampled in their wake. The Helblasters roared a final time, and then the monsters were among them. Tusks gored with a blind fury. They hated the machines more than anything.

  “To me!” cried Grunwald, swinging his broadsword wildly over his head. They had to stay together. An orderly retreat could still be salvaged, but the moment was slipping.

  He stood at the summit of the ridge, eyes flickering as he assessed the situation. The regiment standard-bearer was soon beside him, sliding in the mud. All around, men toiled to escape the frenzy behind them. Some still fought. Ackermann was right in the thick of it, hammering away at the advancing beastmen with a fury nearly as savage as their own.

  “Retreat, Morr damn you!” bellowed Grunwald.

  The disengaged Imperial forces began to run down the far side of the ridge, down past the road and into the waiting maw of the forest below. There was no mad dash. Companies kept close together, their halberds and pikes in formation. They knew they’d have to cut their way out. Panic would finish them for good.

  Cursing, Grunwald ran over to Ackermann. The man was holding his ground, trying to give the breaking ranks behind him more time. A goat-faced monster towered over him, raining down blows with a cudgel. Ackermann raised his shield to parry, but it was knocked from his grasp. The goat-creature bared its yellow teeth and swooped for the kill.

  Grunwald barrelled into it, knocking it sideways. He felt his bones jar as the beastman reeled. It recovered quickly, whirling around. But Ackermann had recovered too. With a vicious slice, his blade took the creature’s distorted head clean off its shoulders. For a moment, that opened a gap. Grunwald grabbed Ackermann and pulled him from the fighting. The beasts were trampling the Helblasters in an orgy of rage. This was their opportunity. They had to withdraw.

  “I can hold them!” spat Ackermann, regaining his balance and running alongside Grunwald.

  “Use your eyes!” snapped Grunwald. There was no time to argue. As he ran, one of the swifter creatures, skinny with legs like a dog’s, tried to drag him down. He smashed his pommel into its face, barely breaking stride.

  Ahead of him, the bulk of the regiment was streaming down the far side of the ridge. The foremost were already in the trees beyond. Those too slow or unlucky were caught by the beastmen, now swarming over the defences. The sound of their flesh ripping was like a stab in Grunwald’s stomach. The vantage point had been lost. Their only hope was to keep ahead of the pursuing beasts. If they were surrounded in the deep forest, there was no hope.

  He and Ackermann reached the base of the ridge and plunged into the shadows of the trees. Grunwald’s earlier fatigue had left him. Now all that was left was the sharp fear that came from being hunted. They were at his heels. Even as he sped through the forest, leaping over fallen trunks in the semi-dark, he could hear them crashing through the undergrowth. The bellows had risen in ferocity. The Helblasters were forgotten. Now they were after human prey.

  At his side, Ackermann laboured. He was a thick-set man clad in chainmail. Already his face was red and streaming with sweat. Ahead of him, he could see the rearmost ranks of the halberdiers. To their credit, they were still holding together. Maybe half of them had made it down, perhaps more.

  “How far?” gasped Ackermann.

  “A mile to the Cauldron’s edge, then more to the Bastion. But we’ll be seen by the sentries.” Ackermann spat as he ran. “If they’re still there.”

  Grunwald felt the creepers snag at his feet. His heart hammered. One false step, and he’d be down amongst the briars. The light was poor. Little rain penetrated the thick canopy above, but the ground was a treacherous mire. He could hear his own breathing, heavy and thick. His muscles protested. His legs felt as heavy as lead. But he had to keep going. “Commander!”

  The voice rang out through the trees. Grunwald spun round. A detachment of troopers had lagged behind. They were in the very jaws of the pursuit. Even as he watched, two of them were cut down by the lumbering beasts behind. They would never make it.

  Ackermann responded instantly. He abandoned the flight, and ran back to their aid.

  “Morr damn his eyes,” muttered Grunwald, struggling to stay with him. He knew he should keep going, marshal the retreat. But he couldn’t leave a man behind. Ackermann would be the death of him.

  Then he fell. Something twisted round his feet in the murk, and he staggered forward. He landed heavily in the stinking gunge, his sword spinning into the gloom. He rolled over quickly, only to see the towering shape of a beastman above him. It whinnied with triumph, and raised its blade.

  “Merciful Sigmar…” whispered Grunwald, scrabbling backwards. Too slow. He’d never make it.

  The blade fell.

  The full force of the storm hit the Cauldron. All across the northern horizon, thunder rumbled. Forks of lightning lit up the trees in savage relief and insubstantial, bestial shapes seemed to march across the heavens. It was barely after noon, but already as dark as dusk. The sun, ever the friend of man, was hidden. In its absence, the horrors of the forest would come out to play.

  Bloch peered down from the Bastion. The beasts had not made themselves known yet. The expanse below them was still empty and howling with wind, but he knew they were there, just on the edge of sight, sheltering in the eaves. As he watched, the last of the scouts rode hard across the Cauldron’s base, anxious to get back to the safety of the rock before the beasts came after them.

  One of them made it to safety and rode up towards Bloch’s position. As the incline became too steep, he dismounted and walked the horse up through the defensive lines.

  “How many?” demanded Bloch as the man passed him.

  The scout looked back blankly for a moment before answering. His steed’s flanks were coated with sweat and rainwater, and it shivered as it stood. The man’s c
loak was sodden, and his face was grey. Bloch noticed that his hands shook too as they held the reins.

  “More than I’ve ever seen,” he said weakly. He looked resigned. “Thousands. Thousands.”

  Bloch looked uneasily over at his men. He didn’t want to get them more scared than they were already. He laughed casually, hoping it sounded convincing.

  “Lots of them, eh?” he said, and gave his halberdiers a knowing look. “Just like at Kreigschelff, I’ll warrant. And they ran back into the woods with their tails between their legs, then. It won’t be any different this time.”

  The scout didn’t respond to the bravado. His long dark hair hung slick against his face. He was still shaking, and it wasn’t from the cold.

  “The whole forest’s alive,” the scout murmured, not really looking at anything in particular, lost in his own private horror. “D’you hear me? They’re coming for us. They’re numberless. The forest is alive.”

  Bloch wanted to respond, but something in the scout’s expression stopped him dead. The man had lost it. He’d stared into the abyss, and it had got to him.

  “Go on,” he snapped. “Get up to the command post. They’ll want your report, if you’ve the stomach to deliver it.”

  The man didn’t reply, but turned back to his horse and trudged up the slope towards the limp row of standards at the summit.