Hundreds of arrows arced towards the orc line, most thudding into the thick wood of the chariots’ armour, or embedding themselves in heavy iron shields. Several chariots were smashed on the rocks as some arrows plunged home in the flesh of the boars and drove them mad with pain.
Most of the chariots survived the hail of arrows, however, and the orc crews drove their beasts to even greater speed with cracks of their whips. Where the Asoborns had mastered the use of the chariot throughout a battle, the orcs cared little for subtlety, and simply drove hard and fast for the enemy line.
The chariots smashed into King Siggurd’s warriors, ploughing through rank after rank of them. Blood sprayed as scythe blades severed limbs and the heavy chariots crushed men beneath them. Boars squealed and snapped, razor-sharp tusks goring men to death even as they bit and stamped through their enemies.
Shuddering like a wounded beast, the line of warriors folded in around the orc chariots, stabbing and cutting at the encircled orcs. Even as the chariots were surrounded and destroyed, the main strength of the orcs was advancing at a rapid pace. Before the Brigundian warriors could redress their lines, however, the latest orc weapon was brought to bear.
Enormous boulders sailed overhead and crashed into the earth with teeth-loosening force, crushing a dozen warriors beneath them and exploding into whistling fragments that killed a man as surely as any arrow. Huge holes were torn through King Siggurd’s men as orc catapults hurled more and more boulders through the air.
Terrified of these enormous missiles, some men turned and ran, and only the shouted cries of their king steeled their hearts once more.
The damage was done, however, and ragged holes opened up in the centre of Sigmar’s army.
King Kurgan Ironbeard was first to see the danger, and pushed his warriors forward beyond the battle line to cover the gap. On the other side of the Brigundian warriors, Sigmar shouted a command to King Wolfila, who marched his clansmen forward and planted his sword in the earth before him.
The king of the Udose spat on his hands and took his banner from the warrior next to him. He rammed it into the earth beside his sword, and the meaning of the gesture was clear.
This was where he would fight, and this was where he would stay.
No sooner had the king retrieved his sword than his warriors were embroiled in battle.
A swelling roar of hatred burst from the orcs as they charged the last gap between them and the combined line of dwarfs and Udose clansmen. The dwarfs were a dam of iron and courage, and the orcs broke against it like a green wave, hurled back again and again by the stoic resolve of the mountain folk.
No brute ferocity could compete with the bloody-minded determination of the dwarfs, their axes cutting through every green-skinned foe that came before them. Like one of the machines of the dwarf craftsmen, the warriors of King Kurgan slaughtered the foe mechanically, never tiring and never flagging in their killing.
In contrast, King Wolfila’s clan warriors battled with heart and fire, their war songs lusty and full of lurid tales of past heroes. The Udose king fought without care for his own defence, two kilted giants in black breastplates protecting him from his own reckless ferocity.
The two armies met in a heave of strength and iron, both charging in the last few moments before contact. The early stages of the battle had been move and countermove, but this was raw courage against hate and aggression. Swords stabbed and axes fell. Shields splintered and spears were thrust into gaps.
Both armies shuddered as their front ranks were killed almost to a man, the sheer ferocity of their meeting a killing ground where only the strongest or luckiest could possibly survive.
Howls of pain and hate. The screaming clash of handcrafted iron and crude pig iron. The grunts of men pushing shields and the bellows of unthinking brutality were all mingled into one almighty roar of battle, the like of which this world had never yet seen, nor would again for a thousand years.
As the centre of the army struggled, the flanks met, and the sound of tearing fangs added to the din of battle. Blood-maddened wolves charged into King Markus’s warriors, tearing, snapping and biting with animal ferocity. The king’s hunting hounds leapt to defend their master and dour Menogoth spearmen lowered their polearms and marched forward in solid lines. The handful of surviving wolves were impaled on iron speartips, and the Menogoths offered no quarter to their riders.
There were no cheers from the Menogoths, for they had suffered too much in the previous year to take any joy in slaughtering their foes, only grim revenge. Their vengeance was to be short-lived, however, for a hail of monstrous iron javelins, hurled from enormous war machines, slashed through the air to punch through their ranks. Each bolt killed a dozen men, skewered by the powerful barbs, and scores were hurled towards the Menogoths in every volley.
The carnage was terrible, and the Menogoth warriors fell back before this dreadful hail of spears, leaving the flanks of the Merogens unprotected. Orc warriors streamed forward, pouring into the gap the flight of the Menogoths had opened, and, though Sigmar had ensured that each sword band had a smaller group of warriors to protect its vulnerable flanks, these detachments were soon butchered and overrun.
Scenting victory, the orc advance was angled towards the open flank, and the shape of the battle began to change. Where before, two armies had faced each other in an unbroken line, the battle now swung like a gate, with the solid left flank as the hinge.
The Merogens were crumbling beneath attacks from the front and side, and it was only a matter of time before they broke.
Twenty-Two
The Death of Heroes
Sigmar saw the right flank collapsing, and raked his spurs back. Orcs were pouring into the gap created by the flight of the Menogoths, and fearful slaughter was being wreaked upon the Merogens. The great strength of this battleground was that the orcs could not bring the full force of their numbers to bear upon his army, but that advantage would be for nought if the greenskins were able to get behind them.
Thanks to the courage of the dwarfs and Udose warriors, the centre was holding, and the left flank of the army, held by King Adelhard’s warriors was untouched. The Ostagoth warriors were yet to fight, and Sigmar could see their eagerness to spill orc blood.
‘We have to get over there,’ said Sigmar. ‘If Henroth’s warriors break, we are lost.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Pendrag. ‘The Merogens have courage, but they won’t last long attacked on two fronts.’
‘Pendrag, you and I will plug the gap,’ ordered Sigmar. ‘Wolfgart, take five hundred men and reinforce the centre. Wolfila’s men cannot keep fighting as they are for long, and they will need the strength of our warriors to hold.’
Wolfgart nodded and ran over to gather his warriors as Sigmar and Pendrag dismounted and ran to join the nearest sword band. Sigmar quickly outlined his orders. The clarion’s war horn gave three short blasts followed by one long blast, and the Unberogen formed up around Sigmar’s banner, six hundred warriors in mail shirts, carrying wickedly sharp swords. Each warrior carried a kite-shaped shield and wore a helm of iron or bronze.
With all the discipline worked into them over the long years of campaigning, the Unberogen marched towards the collapsing flank with Sigmar’s banner rippling in the wind and their king at their head.
Sigmar could feel the pride these men had in him, and he returned that pride. They could not know the honour it was to lead them, and his heart swelled to see them marching towards battle with fire in their hearts.
‘King Henroth’s warriors have the hearts of heroes, but they need our help!’ cried Sigmar as the clarion blew the note for war pace. His warriors shouted, and broke into a steady jog.
Sigmar could see that the orcs were rolling up the flanks of the Merogen forces, butchering warriors who could not fight as they had trained. Menogoth warriors were re-forming further along the pass, under the wrathful cries of King Markus, but they would not return to battle in time to save the Merogens.
&
nbsp; Some of the orcs were turning to face the Unberogen, but most were too busy killing Merogens to bother with what was happening around them. The carnage was terrible, and Sigmar could only marvel at the courage of the Merogens to have kept fighting in the face of such horrendous butchery.
The clarion gave a last strident blast of his horn, and Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz for all his warriors to see as they broke into the charge. The orcs before Sigmar fell back, ancient fear of his weapon causing their hearts to quail before it.
With a cry of fury and pride, the Unberogen warriors smashed into the orcs, and great was the slaughter. Sigmar cleaved left and right, and no armour was proof against his blows. Plates of iron were sundered before his might, and blood spattered his armour and flesh as he killed orcs by the score. His warriors slammed into the orcs, shields battering their opponents to the ground with the momentum of their charge, and swords stabbing for throats and groins.
The orcs turned to face their new enemy, and great axes smashed Unberogen shields and bore their bearers to the ground. The charge slowed, and, for one terrible moment, Sigmar feared that the orcs would not break.
Roaring with anger, Sigmar hurled himself forward into the mass of orcs, punching deep into the packed mass of enemy warriors. His warhammer was a blur of striking iron, the rune-forged head breaking open skulls and chests in equal number. Swords and spears stabbed at him, and his shoulder guard was torn away by a stray axe blow.
Orcs fell back around him, and Unberogen fighters poured into the space he had created. Sigmar fought onwards, driving the wedge deeper into the orcs, heedless of the fact that he was pushing ahead of his warriors.
A spear stabbed into his unprotected shoulder, and Sigmar grunted in pain as the orcs pressed in around him. His pace faltered, and a looping club slammed into his helmet, driving him to his knees as starbursts exploded behind his eyes.
Blood streamed down the side of his head, and dizziness swamped him.
The metal of his helmet was buckled across his eyes, and he dragged it clear, hurling it into the face of a charging orc. The beast smacked it aside with its fist, but then Pendrag was beside him, his sword plunging into the orc’s throat. The crimson of Sigmar’s banner caught the light, and Pendrag held it high in his silver grip as he stood over his king.
‘Sigmar!’ cried Pendrag, leading the Unberogen onwards. ‘For Sigmar and the empire!’
Bloody warriors pushed past Sigmar, cleaving into the orcs, the pace of their charge unrelenting. Brutal momentum carried them onwards, and within moments the greenskin attack on the Merogens was all but destroyed.
Sigmar pushed to his feet and wiped blood from his eyes.
The Unberogen were pushing ever forward, chasing down the fleeing orcs with great fury, but even as Sigmar exulted in the victory, he saw the danger.
Thousands more orcs were charging towards the right flank of his army, and his warriors would soon find themselves isolated and alone, crushed as they had crushed the orcs.
‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘Hold! Hold!’
The noise of the battle was overwhelming, and his cries fell on deaf ears. Sigmar looked for the clarion, desperate to call his warriors back from their peril, but he saw the crushed and broken form of the horn blower lying in the dirt. The man’s war horn was shattered, and nothing Sigmar could do would quell his warriors’ battle fury.
King Marbad of the Endals rode as though the daemons of the mist were at his heels, his black horse lathered with sweat as he whipped it to greater speed. His son, Aldred, rode at his side, and eight hundred Raven Helms galloped across the plain behind their king.
Many years had passed since he had ridden to battle, and it felt magnificent to have so great a steed beneath him and the curved blade of Ulfshard in his hand.
Only fighting beside his old friend, King Björn, could have made this moment more perfect, but then without Sigmar, this battle would not have been fought at all.
The ebb and flow of the battle had changed dramatically in the last few moments, and, with the arrival of Wolfgart’s warriors, the centre was still holding. The Ostagoths and surviving Thuringians were hooking around the centre to relieve the pressure there, but orc boar riders were even now moving to counter them. Every manoeuvre made by Sigmar’s army could be met with vast hordes of orcs and bludgeoned into submission.
Courage and iron could only hold the line for so long.
Eventually, the brutal arithmetic of war would see the army of men destroyed.
Clouds of dust were thrown up around them, and Marbad desperately sought out the banner of the Unberogen king amid the swirling melee before the cliff face.
He and his Raven Helms had been searching for a gap in the enemy lines to exploit when Marbad had seen the crimson banner raised high by Sigmar’s silver handed standard bearer.
No sooner had Marbad seen the banner than he had ordered his warriors to follow him. Aldred had protested, but the word of his father was law, and Marbad had ridden with his finest warriors towards the embattled right flank.
When you see the silver hand lift the crimson banner high.
He had been dreaming, or so he had thought, when he had seen the vision of the crone in black beside his bed in the Raven Hall twenty years ago. How she had come to be in his chambers was a mystery to him, yet here she was, perched on the end of his bed.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘And how did you get here?’
‘How I got here is unimportant, Marbad,’ said the white-haired crone, ‘but I am sometimes known as the hag woman of the Brackenwalsch. An ugly name, but one I am forced to bear for this age of men.’
‘I have heard of you,’ said Marbad. ‘Your name is a curse to the Unberogen. They say you practise the dark arts.’
‘The dark arts?’ laughed the hag woman. ‘No, Marbad, if I practised the dark arts then Sigmar would already be dead.’
‘Sigmar? What has Björn’s son to do with anything?’
‘To some, maybe I am a curse,’ continued the hag woman as though he had not spoken, ‘but when men are desperate, you would be surprised how swiftly they seek my aid.’
‘I require nothing of you,’ answered Marbad.
‘No,’ agreed the hag woman, ‘but I require something of you.’
‘What could one such as you want of me?’
‘A sacred vow, Marbad,’ said the hag woman, ‘that when you see the silver hand lift the crimson banner high, you will ride with all your strength to Sigmar’s side and grant him your most precious possession.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘I do not require your understanding, Marbad, just your sacred vow.’
‘And if I do not give it?’
‘Then the race of men will die, and the world will end in blood.’
Marbad paused to see if the woman was joking, but when she remained silent he knew she was not. ‘And if I give you this vow?’
‘Then the world will endure a little longer, and you will have changed the course of history. What man could ask for more?’
Marbad smiled, recognising the flattery for what it was, but sensing no lie in the hag woman’s words. ‘For this, I will earn glory?’
‘You will earn glory,’ agreed the hag woman.
‘I have the feeling you are not telling me something,’ said Marbad.
‘True, but you will not want to hear it.’
‘I will be the judge of that, woman! Tell me.’
‘Very well,’ said the crone. ‘Yes, if you honour your vow you will earn glory, but you will be choosing a path that leads to your death.’
Marbad swallowed, making the sign of the horns. ‘They are right to call you a curse.’
‘I am all things to all men.’
Marbad chuckled. ‘Glory and a chance to save the world,’ he said. ‘Death seems like such a small price for that.’
‘Do I have your oath?’ pressed the hag woman.
‘Yes, damn you. I give you my oath. When I see the silver hand lift the cri
mson banner high, whatever that means, I will ride with all my strength to Sigmar’s side.’
The following morning he had awoken refreshed and with only a fleeting recollection of the encounter with the hag woman, but as he had seen Pendrag raise Sigmar’s banner, the memory of two decades ago had returned with incredible clarity.
Marbad sat tall in the saddle as he rode with all his strength to Sigmar’s side.
Glory and a chance to save the world… not bad for an old man, eh?
The fighting swirled around Sigmar like a living thing, pulsing and flowing to unseen rhythms that were invisible to a normal man, but which were as plain as day to him. The charge of his Unberogen warriors had been magnificent and glorious, headstrong and courageous, but ultimately foolhardy.
Blades rose and fell, but the sword arms of the Unberogen were tired, their weapons seeming to have gained ten pounds in weight. The charge to rescue the Merogens would be a tale to tell in years to come, but first they had to survive the fight.
The Unberogen had hacked down many of the fleeing orcs, and then run into a solid wall of iron and green flesh. Orcs as hard as the mountains, and with as little give in them, cut men down with ruthless ferocity, and Sigmar saw that these darker-skinned orcs were larger and more heavily muscled than any they had fought thus far.
Where once his warriors had marched to the rescue of their fellows, they now fought for their lives. Pendrag still held the banner high, but he bled from a wound to the head, and the great standard wavered in his grip.
Sigmar hammered a shield from a snarling orc’s grip, and slammed a fist into its porcine face. He grunted at the impact, for it was like punching stone. The orc roared and lashed out with its axe, and Sigmar ducked, slamming his hammer into the beast’s groin. It dropped, and Sigmar drove his shield into its face, snapping its tusks and sending it reeling backwards.
The Legend of Sigmar Page 34