by Warhammer
‘Cast off your worldly goods! Dispose of your chattels! They will profit you not! The end is coming!’ the flagellant ranted.
Felix inspected the zealot with some distaste. The flickering firelight revealed an appearance that was most disturbing. His scrawny body was naked except for a loincloth and the tattered remains of a jerkin. Old scars criss-crossed his chest and legs. Fresh red blood dripped from a weal on his shoulders. Festering open sores marred his face and abdomen. Mad blue eyes glared out from his starved fanatic’s face. In one bony hand he clutched an oak club driven through with rusty nails. Some of the puncture marks on his body were obviously self-inflicted.
‘Easy for you to say, father. You don’t have a copper pfennig to your name! Me – I’m well paid to fight,’ shouted Eusebio. His fine linen shirt lent an air of truth to his words. Felix had seen noblemen less well-dressed than the foppish young Tilean mercenary.
‘Too well paid,’ called Sergeant Lothar to loud laughter from the gathering crowd. ‘All you have to do is stand back and fire your crossbow at those green-skinned devils. It’s we halberdiers who’ll have to get to grips with them. Doubtless while our noble lords and masters stand back and applaud themselves for winning yet another battle.’
Eusebio gave an eloquent shrug. Obviously he thought that if Lothar wanted to risk his life in the press of the melee then more fool him.
‘Aye, laugh!’ thundered the flagellant. ‘Laugh while ye can. Smile as skulls smile! Tomorrow the grave yawns for you all!’
Felix shuddered and drew his tattered red cloak tighter about his body although it wasn’t cold. The hundreds of blazing campfires and the press of thousands of bodies kept the night chill at bay. All around the soldiers fell silent. They were a superstitious lot and tomorrow they would be fighting for their lives. The fanatic’s words held a harsh core of truth. Sensing that he had the attention of the warriors the flagellant pulled himself up to his full height. He pointed an accusing finger at Eusebio.
‘You, Tilean! You’re so proud of your appearance! How will that fine shirt look tomorrow all rent and stained with blood? Better to look like me. Prepare your body for the wounds of the morrow.’
Eusebio made the sign of the hammer across his chest like a peasant warding off the evil eye. The Tilean had obviously been in the Empire long enough to look to its patron deity, Sigmar of the Hammer, for protection. There was some muttering among the crowd now. An archer with the guttural accent of a native of Reikwald forest agreed with the fanatic. Felix heard a Stirlander Greatsword say that such words would bring ill-luck. The Stirlander fingered the hilt of his mighty blade meaningfully. A less religious or a more sane man than the fanatic would have shut up. That blade was almost as tall as Felix, and Felix was a tall man.
The flagellant warmed to his theme. A grinning young pistolier pulled faces behind his back and gestured to his fellows to indicate that the zealot was mad.
‘From the north, Chaos comes. The minions of the four Great Powers ride forth, clad in black and bronze. In their left hand is fire. In their right hand is the sword. Darkness is behind them. Destruction to the fore. Their castles are built of skulls! Their garments are woven from the flayed skins of women! They will trample the cities of men beneath iron-shod hooves. In the woods lurk beasts that walk like men. They gather now that the last days are near.’
He looked directly at Morrslieb, the lesser moon. ‘They have allies. Men who have sold their souls to the darkness. Mutants and foul creatures tainted by warpstone in their blood. Fat merchants who seek the meaningless trappings of power and wealth!’
There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. Felix could see a man in the shining armour and plumed helmet of a Reiksguard knight. He had come all the way from the silk pavilions of the nobility to investigate the disturbance. Sweat stood out on the flagellant’s brow now. His eyes were glazed. A fine trickle of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. His hands shook. Felix was reminded of a man in the grip of a terminal fever.
‘From the mountains of the east come the orcish hordes: green-skinned savages with the hearts of beasts and the fury of madmen. They will cast down the kingdoms of men and dwell in the ruins before the last day dawns and Chaos swallows the world. Tomorrow you will face them. Tomorrow Morr will reach out for you with his bony claw.’
‘You there, that’s enough of that talk!’ The powerful voice of the Reiksguard cut through the babble. ‘Tomorrow we will face the orcish scum and will triumph, as men have done since the time of Sigmar!’
The fanatic stared at the knight. He looked as if he were about to argue but then he shrugged. ‘There are none so blind as those who will not see!’
He stalked off towards the camp’s edge where a huge band of his brothers waited. The crowd parted round him and no one would meet his gaze.
‘The rest of you get some sleep. You have to fight a battle tomorrow. The Empire needs you all well rested!’
The crowd dispersed. Felix threw himself down next to the nearest fire, and pulled his cloak tight about him. The frenzied wailing of the flagellants echoed through the night. Even as Felix drifted into sleep he thought it an evil omen.
With a clatter of armour the Knights Panther rode past. Felix stepped from the road and let them go by. Only a fool would have stood in the way of those massive armoured men on their mighty metal-clad steeds. From the helmtop of one knight the eyeless head of a great cat stared sightlessly toward the battlefield.
‘You there! What are you doing wandering about like a dazed half-wit. Get to your company!’
Felix looked around. A burly man with the bull-head insignia of Ostland on his shield was bellowing and gesturing furiously with his spear. It took Felix a moment to realise that the man was talking to him. He was tempted to tell the man to go to hell but he squared his shoulders and marched purposefully on, determined to find the Trollslayer before the battle began. He was bound by his oath to record the slayer’s doom in an epic poem so he felt he should at least be present to witness the conflict.
He walked to the brow of the hill near the Imperial guns. Everywhere artillery men and siege engineers were busy. A captain of cannon leaned on the barrel of his weapon measuring ranges and consulting a small book of charts. Muscular gunners, stripped to the waist, hastily piled cannonballs beside their massive cast-iron weapons. Small sweating lads puffed on firepots to keep them alight.
From this vantage point the entire field of battle was visible. In the distance Felix could see the green horde, a vast seething mass of scrawny hunchback goblin infantry and bellowing orcs. Great trolls loomed over the press of bodies. He saw the long skirmish line of wolf riders in the van of the enemy army. The blood-chilling howl of those giant beasts sent shivers down Felix’s spine. He had faced wolf riders before and it had not been a pleasant experience. On the far right flank orcs strained to pull back the arms of huge, crude catapults. Near them, strung out along a low narrow ridge, was a unit of orc crossbowmen. There were far too many greenskins to count.
Felix had heard dark rumours of the size of the orc horde. If anything, these had been an underestimation. The Imperial force was seriously outnumbered.
The soldiers of the Emperor were ranged between two small hills. On the the hill where Felix stood were two great cannon. On the other hilltop was the dread Helblaster volley gun and a third cannon. Both hills were protected by a screen of missile troops. On the slope below Felix were the Tilean crossbowmen. Eusebio turned and gave Felix a cheerful wave.
Reikland archers protected the volley gun. To the left, at the foot of the hill, was the great frenzied warband of the flagellants. They howled and lashed each other. Felix didn’t know whether the sound scared the enemy but it certainly frightened him.
Between the two hills lay the main body of the Imperial troops. They were laid out in a checkerboard pattern. The forward troops alternated between units of cavalry and units of infantry. Felix saw the Knights Panther take up position beside a block of Reiksguard foo
t knights. The Knights of the White Wolf brandished their great two-handed hammers and exchanged cheery insults with the Middenheim halberdiers. Behind them were spearmen from the provinces, the dark red tunics of Carroburg contrasting with the black tabards of Nuln. In front of the whole army was a long skirmish line of Kislevite horse archers.
Felix saw the proud figure of the young Emperor Karl-Franz himself. He had just finished addressing the troops of the centre. He leapt into the saddle of his pegasus, Northwind, and took to the sky in a sweep of white wings. A great roar of acclaim rose from the Imperial troops as his steed carried him cloudwards.
With a loud clanking of tracks and chuffing of pistons a steam tank rolled into position in the Imperial centre. The air vibrated with the thrum of its engine. The acrid smell of its smoke filled Felix’s nostrils.
The troops parted to let the steam tank through. Its massive armoured bulk was an awesome sight. Felix had heard of these products of the Imperial School of Engineering but he had never seen one. Thinking that the cheer he had heard was for him the tank commander doffed his plumed hat in recognition of this tribute. A wave of catcalls was the soldier’s response.
Suddenly the Imperial army was silenced. From out of the orc ranks something huge emerged. With a flap of leathery pinions it pulled itself into the sky. Felix saw that it was a wyvern, and on its back was a huge orc. He tried to estimate the span of the creature’s wings but gave up. It was huge. The wyvern opened its draconic maw and let out a huge bellow. A hush fell on the Imperial soldiery. Every man present felt terror in his heart.
‘Send that big lizard over here!’ roared a voice that Felix recognised. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
Felix turned to look back down the hill. A group of dwarfs limped wearily up the slope. They looked a forbidding bunch: all had huge crests of dyed hair, all were covered in strange, intricate tattoos and all brandished mighty battle axes and warhammers. They were marked as members of the cult of Slayers, that strange band of doomed brethren sworn to seek death in battle. Their leader was an enormously muscular dwarf with one eye covered by a great black patch. It was he who shouted at the wyvern rider.
‘That’s Gotrek Gurnisson.’ Felix heard one of the gunners say. ‘He’s a nutter. I saw him drink a whole keg of ale last night.’
As if in answer to Gotrek’s challenge, the wyvern roared again. Its bestial call rolled over the battlefield. Once more the Imperial force fell silent.
‘Come down here and say that,’ shouted Gotrek. The flagellants let out a mighty wail.
‘And you lot shut up,’ bellowed the Trollslayer. ‘Can’t you see Snorri Nosebiter here has a hangover?’
If the flagellants heard the dwarf they chose to ignore him. In the distance the Orc army had begun to move.
‘Morning, manling,’ said Gotrek as the dwarfs made it to the crest of the hill. He took a deep breath and grinned to reveal his missing teeth. As he always did when the prospect of carnage beckoned he appeared obscenely cheerful. ‘Looks like a good day for it.’
‘For what?’ Felix asked. He was obscurely relieved to see the Trollslayer. He wasn’t sure why. There was nothing reassuring about a demented dwarf with a big axe.
‘For dying.’ Gotrek pointed a powerful stubby finger at the advancing horde. He looked like a child given a particularly good present on a high feast day. ‘Look Snorri, Trolls!’
The Slayer beside Gotrek shook his head and nodded blearily. Were those three studs really driven into his forehead, Felix wondered?
‘Snorri thinks you’re right, Gotrek,’ said Snorri, and he gestured towards the trolls with his huge warhammer. ‘Snorri thinks we should go and have a word with them.’
The dwarfs raced down the hill as fast as their short legs would carry them. Briefly Felix debated with himself as to whether he should follow. Then he heard the howl of dismay from the gunners. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of something huge hurtling towards him. He threw himself flat. The air was displaced by an enormous mass and the sudden breeze rippled his hair. The ground shook with a tremendous impact. Looking around Felix saw a massive boulder that hadn’t been there moments before. Two legs protruded from beneath it. Blood splattered the stone and a trickle of red leaked from below the giant rock.
The howling of the flagellants increased in volume, competing with the distant bestial grunting of the orcs. If Felix hadn’t known better he would have sworn the greenskins were counting down. That couldn’t be it... no orc could count past three.
Suddenly the orcs stopped chanting. The arm of the great catapult sprang forward. Another huge boulder arced towards the hill. Felix watched it come in. There was an appalling feeling of helplessness about the whole situation. He wanted to run and take cover but he had no idea what direction to run in. Perhaps if he moved he would simply position himself under the path of the boulder, like the poor devil behind him.
There were audible gasps of relief as the boulder swept on over the hill. Seeing the orcs hastening to reload their machines, Felix risked a glance at the battlefield. A horde of goblin archers had moved forward. They were small, stunted creatures garbed in black. Night goblins! He had heard dire rumours of their noxious drug-induced frenzies and the dread fanatic cultists they produced. The goblin archers opened fire but their missiles fell far short of the jeering Imperial line. The giant wolves loped forward easily despite the weight of the riders on their backs. Disciplined ranks of huge orc warriors marched forwards. The impression of an invincible host was only spoiled by the fact that two units in the rear had stopped to shout insults and catcalls at each other. Three huge trolls loomed over the squabble and watched the fracas with baffled bemusement.
What was that over there? Surely it couldn’t be! It was. Felix shuddered. Way off on the left he could see a huge spider scuttle forward. On its back was a gibbering goblin shaman. The goblin mage brandished a staff of bone around which played a glowing nimbus of light. The shaman pointed the staff at the hill on which Felix stood and the hair on the nape of Felix’s neck stood on end. He felt a strange tingling on his skin. No, he thought. Not vile sorcery too. He was going to die.
Before anything more could happen Felix heard the sound of a spell being recited nearby. A tall man in a grey cloak raised his hands and made a short chopping gesture with the flat of his hand. The surge of mystical energy around him subsided as quickly as it had come into being.
With a roar the Imperial army surged forward. Kislevite horse archers raced towards the night goblins. Slightly behind them trotted the Knights Panther and the White Wolves. The steam tank rumbled toward the enemy, juddering slightly on the uneven ground. With disciplined precision the formations of halberdiers and spearmen marched forward ready to close any gaps in the Imperial line. The proud banner of the Empire fluttered right in the middle of the force.
‘Quickly, silence those catapults,’ shouted the captain of artillery. The ground shook and a great cloud of black smoke billowed forth. The air within Felix’s lungs seemed to vibrate and the sound of the blast temporarily deafened him. The whistle of a cannon shot filled the air. The ground near the orc chukkas erupted. Clods of dirt were thrown twenty feet into the air.
‘Not a bad shot, commander of the second cannon. But this is how it’s done. Hans – alter the angle to the right by two degrees!’
‘Two degrees right. Yes, sir.’ After the sweating gunners had heaved the cannon round the captain took a lighted taper from the boy with the firepot and touched it to the fuse. The fuse fizzed and sputtered and then went out.
‘Yes, that’s the way it’s done alright. Brilliant,’ said the first gun’s commander.
On the far hill the cannon roared. Smoke billowed down and obscured the Tileans from sight. In the distance a catapult flew to pieces, timbers splintered by the impact. Felix saw the orc who had been loading the thing hurled into the air as the arm was suddenly unleashed.
‘Good shot,’ said one of the gunners nonchalantly. The archers and the cr
ossbowmen opened fire. A hail of arrows and bolts rained down on the foe. Orcs fell clutching wooden stalks that had suddenly sprouted in their chests like obscene plants. The air shimmered now as spell and counterspell flickered between the two armies. A hail of iron bolts leapt from the brow of the grey-cloaked mage and pierced several wolf riders, the rest fell back towards their own line while their leaders frantically tried to rally them.
A giant boulder landed in the middle of the Knights Panther. Two brave men died instantly. The knights’ banner was snapped like a twig. The hideous whickering of broken-backed horses filled the air. The rest of the knights continued stalwartly forward towards the jeering orcs and goblins. A shattering wave of crossbow bolts fell onto them from the orcs. One rider went down with an arrow through the eyeslit of his helm. With a bolt through its chest, one of the steeds rolled over, trapping another rider beneath its thrashing bulk. Foam spewing from its mouth, the terrified last steed fled the battlefield, taking its rider with it.
The Kislevites raced forward at the night goblins. From the midst of the black-garbed mob three figures emerged, whirling frantically. They all carried great ball and chains. Swiftly their whirling achieved near unstoppable momentum and the weight of the balls dragged them towards the horse archers.
The riders frantically stopped short, horses rearing as they tried to avoid whirling steel doom. Two fanatics ploughed by them but one made it right into the middle of the cavalry. The great ball wreaked terrible havoc. Blood and brains splattered everywhere. Men and horses fell, bones shattered and flesh pulped. Felix averted his eyes from the destruction.
The cannons spoke once more. This time their shots tore right through the second stone thrower, smashing it utterly. The gunners cheered excitedly. The captain of the first gun punched his fist into the air in triumph. Felix felt a little like cheering himself, he was so relieved at the prospect of not having rocks fall on his head.