Hammer and Bolter 17

by Christian Dunn

  The orc’s mouth gaped wide, its foul breath spill¬ing out from between a gate of yellowed tusks as the sword passed between its bulbous head and its sloped shoulders. The head, still mouthing now-silent curses, tumbled forward, striking Goetz’s shield and springing away into the depths of the melee.

  The body, its neck-stump spurting blood, was car¬ried in the opposite direction by the snorting, kicking boar its legs were still clamped around. Goetz hauled on his horse’s reins, forcing the trained destrier to side¬step the grunting beast. The horse bucked and kicked at the fleeing pig and then swung around at Goetz’s signal, lunging towards the next opponent with a sav¬age whinny.

  Goetz’s sword chopped down left and right until his arm began to ache from the strain. The orcs kept coming, treading on the bodies of their dead or dying fellows in their excitement as they fought to get to grips with the men who had crashed into their flank.

  It had been a bold move, and a necessary one, but Goetz wasn’t so sure that it had been a smart one. Fifty men, even fifty fully-armoured knights of the Order of the Blazing Sun, could not stand against the full weight of an orc horde, no matter how righteous their cause or how strong their sword-arms. Now, with their task accomplished, they found themselves surrounded by an army of angry berserkers as the rest of the elector’s forces attempted to reach them. It was not a position that Goetz enjoyed being in.

  A crude spear crashed against his thigh and skittered off his armour, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. Goetz swung his horse around and iron-shod hooves snapped out, pulping a malformed green skull with deadly efficiency. He brought his shield up instinc¬tively as a swift movement caught his eye. Arrows sprouted from the already battered face of the shield and Goetz chopped his sword down, slicing through the hafts as he whispered a quiet prayer to Myrmidia.

  ‘Hear me, Lady of Battle; keep me from harm and kill my enemy, if you please,’ he said as he took a moment to catch his breath. He looked around. The battle had devolved into a chaotic melee, with ranks and order forgotten in the heat of battle. A volley of handguns barked nearby; men screamed and died, their cries barely audible above the cacophony of the orcish battle-cries. He caught sight of Hertwig’s standard, waving above the battle.

  ‘Ware!’ someone yelled. Another knight, his armour flecked with gore, gestured wildly and Goetz twisted in his saddle, catching a gnaw-toothed axe on the edge of his sword. His arm went numb from the force of the blow and he was forced to bring his shield around to catch a second blow.

  The shield crumpled inward as the axe crashed against it. The orc who wielded it was as large a mon¬ster as Goetz had ever seen. It had a dull, dark hue to its thick hide and heavy armour decorating its mus¬cular limbs. The beast was large enough to attack a mounted man without difficulty and as Goetz’s horse shied away, the brute roared out a challenge in its own barbarous tongue.

  ‘Come on then!’ Goetz shouted back. He kneed his mount and the warhorse reared, lashing out. The orc howled as a knife-edged hoof plucked one of its bat-like ears from its head. It drove one massive shoulder into the horse’s belly, toppling it onto its side. Goetz rolled from the saddle as his horse fell, losing hold of his shield. He retained his sword however and man¬aged to block a blow that would have taken his head from his shoulders.

  The orc loomed over him, its teeth bared in a grin. The edge of the axe inched downwards towards Goetz’s face, despite the interposed sword blade. Muscles screaming, he drove a fist into the orc’s jaw, surprising it as well as numbing his hand in the process. It had been like punching a sack of granite.

  The beast stepped aside, more from shock than pain, but the hesitation was enough. Goetz swung around, chopping his sword into the orc’s side. It roared and backhanded him, denting his helm and sending it fly¬ing. He fell onto his back, skull ringing.

  Bellowing in agony, the orc jerked at the sword, trying to pull it free. It gave up after a moment and, bloody froth decorating its jaws, swung its axe up for a killing blow despite the presence of Goetz’s sword still buried hilt-deep in its side. Before the blow could land a lance point burst through the orc’s throat. It dropped its axe and grabbed at the jagged mass of wood, bending dou¬ble and nearly yanking its wielder from his saddle.

  ‘Are you just going to sit there all day, brother, or are you going to help me?’ the knight cried out as Goetz looked up at him. Goetz’s reply was to throw himself towards the hilt of his sword. The orc arched its back, gagging as it tried to remove the obstruction in its throat. Even now, nearly chopped in two and with a lance through the neck it was still fighting… and still more than capable of killing.

  Goetz caught the hilt with his palms and shoulder and thrust forward with all of his weight. The orc’s roar turned shrill as the sword resumed its path through the beast’s midsection. Goetz stumbled as dark blood sprayed him. The orc fell in two directions, fists and heels thumping the ground spasmodically.

  Rising, Goetz caught his horse’s bridle. ‘Easy, Kaspar, easy,’ he murmured, knuckling the horse at the base of its jaw as it nuzzled him. He hauled himself awk¬wardly up into the saddle. Muscles aching, he turned to his rescuer.

  ‘My thanks, brother,’ he said, jerking on his mount’s reins and turning it. The other man raised his visor and snorted. Goetz recognised the fine-boned features as those of the man who had taken offence at Berlich’s comments earlier. Velk, he thought the man was called.

  ‘Save your thanks, Talabeclander,’ Velk said. ‘If I’d known it was one of you lot, I might have let the brute finish you off.’

  Goetz spat out a mouthful of dust and shook his head. ‘I see the hospitality of the Mark is as generous as ever.’

  Velk glared at him and opened his mouth to reply when a sharp voice interrupted. ‘Brothers! Cease this nonsense. There are still orcs to kill.’ Goetz turned and saw Wiscard, riding towards them, a blood-stained warhammer dangling loosely from his hand. Three other knights trailed after him, including Berlich, who looked as cheerful as ever despite the blood matting his beard.

  As Wiscard drew close, he motioned with the ham¬mer and said, ‘Look!’ Goetz followed the gesture and saw a crude standard rising above a cloud of dust. The tattered remnants of a number of banners, some from regiments native to the Empire, others from Bre¬tonnia and one or two from places that Goetz didn’t recognise, hung from the crossbeam of the standard, flapping amidst an assortment of skulls and gewgaws. As they watched, the elector’s standard, gleaming gold and purple, hurtled towards the other.

  ‘Must be their warlord,’ Berlich said, setting his horse into motion with a swift kick. ‘Having fun, Brother Goetz?’ he said, grinning at the younger knight.

  ‘More than is decent, hochmeister,’ Goetz said. The knights began to trot forward as a solid wedge, resting their horses for a moment. Even the strongest animal could only do so much carrying the weight of a fully armoured knight.

  Berlich laughed and slapped Goetz a ringing blow on the shoulder. He looked at Wiscard. ‘Didn’t I tell you the boy had spirit?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ Wiscard said. ‘Then, I rarely pay attention to your blathering, Tancred.’

  ‘Blathering?’ Berlich said with a guffaw. ‘Do I blather, Brother Goetz?’

  ‘Incessantly, Hochmeister Berlich,’ Goetz said, rec¬ognising the game. Berlich liked to pretend he was nothing more than a common soldier, despite having more titles than fingers. The Kappelburg Komturie was a place of little truck with authority or discipline.

  Berlich clutched his chest. ‘Cut to the quick! And by a fellow knight… the ignominy of it all.’

  ‘From what I know of Talabeclanders, you should have expected as much,’ Velk interjected. ‘Traitorous pack of killers, the lot of you.’

  Berlich ignored him. ‘What say we introduce our¬selves to yon beastie, Wiscard you old stick?’ he said, gesturing with his sword to the warlord’s standard.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Wiscard said. He slapped his visor down and the other
knights did the same. ‘Velk, Goetz, form up on me.’

  As one, they charged. They crashed into the orcs from behind, bowling several over. Goetz leaned over his horse’s neck, chopping down on those orcs not quick enough to get out of the way. Surprised, several of the creatures ran, and those that didn’t fell soon enough.

  One of the creatures, however, spun and chopped down on Velk’s horse with a vicious looking double-bladed axe. The horse fell squealing and rolled over its rider, leaving him in the dust. Goetz yanked hard on the reins and sent his own horse leaping between the downed knight and his would-be slayer. ‘Haro Talabe¬cland!’ he roared, shouting the battle-cry of his home province. ‘Up, Talabheim!’

  The orc yowled as Goetz’s sword took its hands off at the wrists. His second blow cracked its skull. Velk was on his feet by then, his face tight with pain. One arm hung at an awkward angle, and he grudgingly nodded at Goetz. A moment later, his eyes widened as a mas¬sive shape loomed up out of the dust.

  A stone-headed maul crashed against the armoured head of Goetz’s horse, killing the animal instantly and throwing Goetz to the ground for a second time. He skidded across the rocky ground, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the other combatants. His eyes wid¬ened as he looked up at what had to be the leader of the orc horde.

  The creature was far larger than the dark-skinned brute from earlier, and its skin gleamed like polished obsidian. A horned, crimson-crested helmet rode on its square head and made it look even taller as it spread its ape-like arms and bellowed. The motion and the sound caused the oddments of plate and mail that it wore to clatter loudly. With a start, Goetz realised that the beast had its standard strapped to its back, as well as a basket full of smaller, vicious looking creatures, all clad in black cloaks and hoods and armed with crude bows. Goblins, he realised, as he rolled out of the way of a spatter of arrows.

  ‘Myrmidia’s oath,’ Velk said, stumbling back. ‘It’s huge!’

  ‘That just means it’s easier to hit!’ Berlich roared, swooping past them towards the warlord. Whooping, the hochmeister swung his sword overhand, shearing off one of the horns on the orc’s helmet. The monster howled in outrage and spun much more quickly than Goetz thought possible for a creature that size.

  Berlich grunted as the stone maul rose up and rang down on his shield, shattering both it and the arm it had been strapped to. Goetz watched in horror as Berlich’s horse sank to its knees from the force of the impact and a second blow swept the knight from his saddle and sent him sailing. Berlich landed with a sick¬ening thump several dozen yards away and did not move.

  ‘No!’ Goetz surged to his feet and brought his sword down on the side of the orc warlord’s head, cutting a divot out of its helmet and its face. The maul swung out at him and he leapt back, ignoring the weight of his armour and the growing ache in his limbs.

  ‘The Mark! The Mark!’ Velk shouted, sounding his own province’s battle-cry and stumbling towards the creature from the other side. His sword struck sparks off the orc’s mail, but did little else. An almost casual jab of a titanic elbow sent him tumbling.

  The orc made to finish Velk off and Goetz hacked through the haft of its weapon, more through luck than intention. He swung again, slicing links from the brute’s rusty suit of mail. The creature’s spade-sized hands crashed against his shoulders and he was hoisted into the air. As it opened its mouth, he realised that in absence of its weapon it intended to bite his head off.

  ‘Myrmidia make me lucky rather than stupid,’ he hissed as he kicked out, driving a foot into its teeth. The blow shattered several tusks. Squirming, Goetz freed his sword-arm and stabbed clumsily at the orc’s face. Most of the blows landed on its helmet, but one found a yellow eye, popping it like a blister. Yellow pus erupted from the creature’s socket and it shrieked and dropped Goetz.

  ‘Ha!’ Gripping his sword with both hands, he rammed it into the creature’s belly and cut upwards. The orc’s shriek grew louder as Goetz dug the blade in, trying to pierce its heart. Great fists crashed down on him, snapping off a pauldron and cracking his shoulder.

  Goetz ignored the pain and forced the blade in deeper, until, at last, the brute’s cries faded and it went limp. He staggered back as it fell, its remaining eye glazed over and its jaws wide. One hand clawed momentarily at the earth but then splayed flat.

  Somewhere a cheer went up. Goetz turned, exhausted, and raised his sword over his head. A moment later a sharp pain flared through him and he grunted. He stumbled forward, reaching towards his back.

  A thin shaft had sprouted from a gap in his armour. A second shaft, and then a third and a fourth thud¬ded home. A burning sensation erupted from the points of impact and slithered through him. He wob¬bled around, body going numb. His sword slid from nerveless fingers and he sank to his knees. He saw the goblins clamber out of the crumpled basket on the warlord’s back. He clawed awkwardly for his sword.

  Evil green faces glared at him in malicious glee as sev¬eral dark shapes darted forward, crude blades drawn. As the goblins closed in, chuckling and slinking, Goetz collapsed, his world melting into fire.

  Conrad Balk, Hochmeister of the Svunum Komturie and knight of the Order of the Blazing Sun, shivered as the chill of the sea wrapped around him. He clutched his axe more tightly and kept his eyes on the horizon. It was not meet to watch the goddess’s representative when she was about her business. Nor was it particu¬larly conducive to a restful night’s sleep. The first time he had seen the twitching, spasming ordeal of a trance, he had been horrified. But age and familiarity had brought the reassurance that the priestess could not – would not – harm herself. Still, it always raised his hackles.

  Swallowing his nervousness, he draped his fingers over the head of his axe and leaned forward, peering out of the mouth of the cavern. The mist that clung to the surface of the Sea of Claws was as thick as stone, but Balk knew where the southern coast of Norsca was. In his head, a map unfolded and he saw the scars of memory. He saw the place where his predecessor Hochmeister Greisen had died, the place Greisen’s own predecessor, Kluger, had fallen; in both cases, the Norscans were to blame.

  In his darker moments, Balk supposed that they would be responsible for his own death as well. He took a breath and pushed the thought aside. Death was unavoidable. Better to think about what could be accomplished before that moment, whenever it came.

  Better to think about what could yet be built.

  A crow swooped into the cavern and hopped onto a rock near Balk. It cocked its head and croaked. Balk nodded and stepped aside. The crow flew past him and a few moments later he heard the priestess stand.

  ‘Well, Lady Myrma?’ he said, not turning. He knew what he would see… a young woman, lithe and limber, shrouded in a feathered cloak with her face covered in tribal tattoos. As she moved into the light, the tat¬toos briefly seemed to writhe into a different pattern, though he knew that was impossible. Lady Myrma, the latest in a long line of priestesses and the third by that name known to the men of his Order.

  ‘Dead,’ she said, her youthful timbre touched with an inhuman resonance.

  Balk closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. Then he said, ‘How?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes. Did he die well?’ Balk said intently.

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ the priestess said, pull¬ing the edges of her cloak more tightly about her. She tapped two fingers against her temple. ‘He felt nothing.’

  Balk sighed and kissed the flat of his axe. ‘Good.’

  ‘Do not indulge in guilt, Master Balk. It is a use¬less thing and self-indulgent.’ She looked at him and stroked the crow that sat on her shoulder. ‘Besides, it will be forgotten soon enough. The Enemy is at our gate.’

  ‘The–’ Balk’s eyes widened. ‘You felt something? Learned something?’

  ‘Felt, tasted and chased,’ Myrma purred, licking her fingers. She frowned. ‘Unfortunately, I did not catch him. He is cunning and cruel, that one.’

  ‘A
shame,’ Balk said. He looked out at the sea and gestured with his axe. ‘Well, he will be waiting on us, I suppose. Whoever he is.’ He pulled the axe back and let it rest on his shoulder. ‘They all will. Goddess pity them…’

  ‘For we will not,’ Myrma said, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Norsca will be burned clean in the fires of her wrath, Master Balk. It will be your hand that sets those fires alight come the Witching Night.’

  Balk hesitated. ‘I still dislike that aspect of it. As nights go, that’s not an auspicious one…’

  ‘Is it not? A night where the winds of magic roar and where the gods themselves can step onto the skin of the world?’ Myrma said. ‘What other night could it be?’

  Balk grunted and made his way towards the roughly hewn stone steps that led upwards to the komturie. The woman watched him go, her dark eyes consider¬ing. Then, as if coming to a decision, she shook her head.

  ‘No. He is not the one, is he?’

  She cocked her head, as if listening to the roar of the surf as it thundered against the rock. Beneath her feet, the bedrock of the island trembled slightly. ‘No, you are right as ever, Mistress,’ she said, stroking the crow. It croaked in pleasure and flapped its wings. Myrma looked at it and smiled.

  ‘But the one is coming, eh?’ Her smile split, reveal¬ing cruelly filed teeth in a carnivorous grin. ‘Yes. He is coming.’

  THE LION

  Part One

  ‘There is but one reason and one reason alone in the exercise of power: to further one’s agenda. Be it selfish or altruistic, such agenda should be the whole of one’s concern without distraction if power is to be expended to its benefit. One need only look to the example of the Emperor’s Great Crusade for proof of this eternal truth; when distraction came it was to the ruin of all.’

  – Lyaedes, Intermissions, M31

  I

  The lord of the First Legion sat as he so often sat these nights, leaning back in his ornate throne of ivory and obsidian. His elbows rested upon the throne’s sculpted arms, while his fingers were steepled before his face, just barely touching his lips. Unblinking eyes, the brutal green of Caliban’s forests, stared dead ahead, watching the flickering hololith of embattled stars.