[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard

by Richard Williams - (ebook by Undead)

  He sat, cradling the squadron’s standard, and gasped to regain his breath. The ungainly Provincials were struggling up behind him, the intolerable Delmar in the lead. Some of them still had worth, that Alptraum, maybe Bohdan as well. They had shown proper deference and appreciation at the preceptor’s fire last night. Once Falkenhayn had planted the squadron’s banner upon this mountain’s peak, they would fall into line and join his Falcons. Even Gausser, perhaps, for though he was an ill-mannered brute, he was the grandson of an elector count, and so there must be something to him.

  Gausser, though, was following Delmar and Siebrecht like their shadow. The three of them were approaching now, and Siebrecht had raised his shield to ward away the missiles from above.

  “Cover! To cover!” Falkenhayn stood up and ordered them over. Delmar, the first to arrive, walked up to him. Falkenhayn pointed Delmar to a spot further down, but then Delmar strode past. He was heading straight to the rock barricade, even breaking into a run. Siebrecht was behind him.

  “Hey!” Falkenhayn panted after them, outraged, but then he felt a sudden tug as the standard was plucked from his hand.

  “Thank you, brother!” Gausser shouted, took a proper grip upon the standard, and then he followed the charge.

  Delmar held up his arm and the hastily aimed arrow stuck his gauntlet and skittered away. The pain of the impact flashed up his shoulder, but it was not enough to block out the rage within him. A goblin standing upon the barricade heaved a rock at him, but it flew wide and bounced off Siebrecht’s shield. It was not enough. He ran full-tilt at the boulders in his path; his chest burned, his legs ached. It was not enough. He drew his sword and cut the leg from that goblin even as it tried to jump away. Its blood spurted out. It was not enough. He smashed himself against the stone and heaved to shove them out of their way, straining every muscle with effort. It was not enough. His brothers were with him, Gausser pushing with him, Siebrecht protecting them both with sword and shield. They were not enough. The boulder shifted and the path was clear; the goblins ran from him, ran back up the slope towards that strange formation that resembled a greenskin face carved into the hillside. They had run from him. It was not enough.

  In the dim light of the throne room, Thorntoad levered a stone from the wall. Beneath it a narrow shaft went straight down. Rungs were hammered into the sides; it had taken him days, but no goblin was ever forced into a corner from which he could not escape. He tossed a few more toadstools to the shaman, lying dripping on the ground. He would provide a useful distraction. The great Warlord Thorntoad of the Ten Tribes lowered his spines and slid down into the bowels of the great stone goblin.

  Helborg’s experienced eye looked across the advancing goblin horde. In the tribes’ rush they had not had time to work any of their goblins up into the frothy-mouthed fanatics that had caused such carnage in the Dragon’s Jaw. It was only small relief, for each of the goblins within the horde strode towards the wagon fort with an intensity of purpose that Helborg had never seen in their kind before.

  Voll and the bergjaegers who had gone out to stall the horde were now running back again. Their shots were pinpricks to the goblin mass; they could not even slow them, let alone stop them.

  The bergjaegers ran into the fort and climbed up to their new firing posts on the roofs of the wagons of the central enclosure. Within that central enclosure, the longhorn cattle began to stamp, smelling the approach of the goblins. If all else failed, Helborg would stampede the longhorns into the goblins to cover a retreat up the mountainside. But all else would have to fail for a general such as he to fall back upon such an erratic and unpredictable ploy.

  As the horde drew closer, a ripple of unease went through the militiamen.

  “Stay in your ranks. Hold your lines and you will be victorious,” Helborg reassured them. His voice echoed with confidence, and in spite of the odds it gave the men hope. It was a hope that Helborg did not share.

  Once the ogres reached them, the wagons would be no defence at all.

  Siebrecht pulled himself over the ledge and tried not to throw up inside his helmet. In this brief moment of peace, he reflected unfavourably on his former confidence. It struck him that in the past, after he had drunk and danced for two days straight, he had tended to go and get some sleep. The one thing he did not do was try to run up a mountain after a doomseeking madman.

  Gausser, in little better shape, helped him up and the two knights struggled not to gasp at what they saw. It was a veritable city, a goblin shanty town of dens and burrows dug into the ground and roofed with moss and lichen. They bulged like spores so that the earth itself appeared diseased. The sprawling town lay concealed within the shade of the cliffs above, which arched overhead casting the dwellings in the creatures’ beloved shadow. It was as though the mountainside itself was split open with a leering goblin grin, the rocks its teeth and the shanty town its wide, sickly tongue.

  The remaining goblins had fled. They ran, not up the steep slopes either side of the giant mouth but instead into a wide cavern that lay at the base of the overhang: the mountain’s throat. Delmar, Siebrecht and Gausser paused there, while Alptraum and Bohdan caught up behind them. The knights had been told not to enter the tunnels; they had been warned of the devious traps the foe might lay. They were tired, but their blood was high. Surely only a coward would let his enemy flee without pursuit?

  Siebrecht wiped his bloodied sword blade on the roof of a goblin dirt-den, dislodging the toadstools growing there. Gausser leaned wearily on another and it moaned under his weight. Delmar just stood where he was, unmoving. Siebrecht saw Preceptor Jungingen crest the ledge. In spite of Jungingen’s hunger for glory, even he regarded the deep cavern with a wary eye. He called his second to him: “How many have we lost so far?”

  The preceptor’s gonfanonier picked his way through the greenskin corpses. “Four, I think, preceptor. Some of the sergeants are carrying them down now. Three, I believe, will recover, but I fear Brother Verlutz will not.”

  “The priests of Shallya will not fail him, brother,” Jungingen replied. The thought struck Siebrecht that the preceptor could have no knowledge of his brother’s injuries, could not know whether the injured man would live or not; yet Jungingen’s confidence was such that even the knights who had seen Verlutz’s death-white face half-believed that he would survive. Now was not the time to allow men to linger over the lost.

  Deep in the shadow cast by the wide overhang towering above them, Jungingen paused at the entrance to the mountain’s throat and peered inside. His brother-knights closed in behind him, staring into the depths. Nearly the whole banner had reformed here, waiting for their preceptor’s orders. Siebrecht could see Jungingen’s mind working, weighing the decision of whether to follow the goblins and enter the mountain or stay to their original course. Siebrecht could not decide himself what the right choice was; there was simply not enough information to be sure one made the right choice, and yet if one did not then the lives of all his brothers might be forfeit. This was what it was to be a leader, Siebrecht realised: to choose without fear, and then bear the consequences without regret.

  “Keep climbing, and we will not go wrong,” a knight announced.

  Jungingen looked around to see who had repeated his own words back to him.

  “Brother Reinhardt. You speak out of turn.” Jungingen paused for a moment. “But you speak well. Brothers, back to your squadrons. Look for paths on either side. The summit is our goal, remember. That is what we promised our Reiksmarshal.”

  The knights moved, following his orders.

  “And if they should return to retake their hovels, preceptor?” the gonfanonier asked.

  “Then we shall have the advantage of height over them. Or, over these stunted wretches, even greater height than we did before!”

  The knights who heard raised a low chuckle at that. But that brief merriment was cut short by an inhuman screech from above their heads. The savage noise began high, piercing, but then dropped low, and S
iebrecht felt it move down his chest, through his gut and lower still, until it burrowed deep into the ground at his feet. The sound became a rumble that raided the earth then rose again over their heads as it grew louder and louder. Siebrecht looked up and saw the rocks above them shake, then drop. The heavy overhang was falling down upon them all.

  The jaws of the great stone goblin of the mountainside closed shut and swallowed the knights whole.

  * * *

  The roar of the avalanche on the south side of the Karlkopf echoed around the armies. The militias in the valley and the knights of the other banners paused, their faces raised, fearful that the mountain would fall upon them all. Those goblin tribes advancing from the north fell back at the anger of their god and the dwarfs in their tunnels each whispered an oath. The thunder quietened and there was a moment’s hush across the battlefields, then sword and spear struck out once more and the struggle recommenced.

  Kurt Helborg swore by every god he knew, and then sent two of his riders to learn what had happened. He prayed for the best and prepared for the worst, for he knew his prayers were rarely answered.

  One wish, though, the gods had granted him. The ogres were not to be seen.

  The goblin scavenger skittered down the talus slope left by the rockfall, a curved skinning knife in his hand. The humans in their metal skin had thought themselves invulnerable to the goblin weapons, had grown complacent, but they had not counted on the power of the greenskin gods and their shaman. The scavenger grinned; he would unearth one of these humans and take himself a nice trophy, and a good meal into the bargain. He scrambled to the edge of the scree; the humans there were less buried and easier to reach. He chose his prize and landed on its chest. He put the tip of his blade into a gap between the armour plate at the neck and made ready to take the kill.

  A gauntleted fist burst up through the dirt beside him and grabbed the hand with the knife. The scavenger shrieked and jumped away, but the hand would not let go. The scavenger tried to pull himself free and, with a jerk, the knife came back up, guided by the gauntlet, straight into the goblin’s chest.

  Delmar threw the dying goblin to one side, pulled himself out from under the loose rocks and clambered unsteadily to his feet. The goblin’s cry had alerted its kin, and a dozen more scavengers started scrabbling towards him. He looked for his sword; his scabbard had been ripped from his belt. He dug down into the dirt. The first goblin had already reached him, charging with its weapon raised. Delmar’s questing hand felt a hilt, took hold and pulled hard. His sword came free and he whipped it round, slicing the top of the goblin’s head clean off. The other goblins saw their comrade’s fate and caught their step, wanting to be sure they could strike all together. Delmar saw them begin to gather and, without a moment’s hesitation, he attacked.

  He ran at them, his sword high, held double-handed, ready to smash down with a crushing blow. The first goblin hissed in defiance and raised its spear to knock the sword away. Delmar shifted his grip and instead swung his sword back and around like a windmill’s sail, cutting up below the goblin’s guard and embedding itself between the goblin’s legs. The greenskin howled and Delmar shoved it back, cutting the blade free. He spun his sword back around again and cleaved the goblin’s head straight down the middle. Without pause, he struck left and right, knocking another goblin back with the pommel and running a third through.

  The other goblins began to scramble away, up the slope, back towards their line of archers, unwilling to face this crazed warrior. As they turned, two more fell, their backs cut through by Delmar’s sword; but his blood-rage was interrupted by the sound of shifting rock beside him. Another gauntlet broke free. Delmar stared at it for an instant, then dropped his sword, fell to his knees and dug with both hands. He pushed the rocks aside and pulled Siebrecht free.

  “Brother? Brother? Can you hear me?” Delmar gasped.

  Siebrecht spluttered. “Aye.”

  “Then dig!”

  The distinctive form of Gausser staggered over, supported by Bohdan. The big Nordlander had taken a nasty blow and was leaning heavily on the Ostermarker.

  “By my heart,” Siebrecht gasped when he looked about him. Where Jungingen’s banner had been scant moments before was now just another slope upon the mountainside. Siebrecht counted three dozen knights or so who were struggling back to their feet. The rest were trapped beneath the rocks.

  Beside him, Delmar uncovered Alptraum. The Averlander squirmed and pushed as Delmar pulled him clear. Alptraum struggled to his feet, breath rasping, chest heaving. He grabbed at the straps of his helmet; he had to get it off. He had to breathe.

  “No, Alptraum, keep it on!”

  Alptraum tore the imprisoning armour off and took a great freeing breath.

  “Get down, brother!” Delmar cried, then ducked on instinct as he heard the flurry of arrows fly over. He felt a couple bounce off his plate, but all thoughts of his own safety were as naught when he heard Alptraum’s scream.

  “Gods! Gods! Gods!” was all Alptraum could gasp with the agony of the black-shafted arrow embedded in his cheek.

  “Get your head down, I say!” Delmar ordered, and tackled the shocked knight to the ground, covering the wounded man with his own body.

  “Sergeants! Sergeants!” Delmar called, but there were no sergeants to come. Those who had been digging the knights out had run into cover from the goblins’ shots. Delmar dragged Alptraum into the lee of one of the hovels still standing and sat him there. Siebrecht, aiding Gausser and Bohdan, followed.

  “Get it out, brother!” Alptraum shouted, but then he yanked at it himself, breaking the flimsy shaft and leaving the arrowhead embedded still. Alptraum gritted his teeth against the pain.

  “Ah, Shallya’s mercy,” Siebrecht said as he saw the metal barb in Alptraum’s cheek.

  “Cannot push it through,” Bohdan spoke dourly. “He shall need a surgeon to dig that out.”

  “You take him then,” Delmar declared, “I shall put an end to those that did this.”

  Delmar was already rising, sword ready, when Siebrecht caught him. Sigmar’s breath, Siebrecht thought, he was going to charge up that slope against those goblins single-handed. He really did wish to die.

  “Wait. Wait! Delmar!” Siebrecht shouted. “Wait ’til we are all ready. Wait “til we can go together.”

  Through his visor, Siebrecht saw that his words had impact: the wild look in Delmar’s eyes dimmed and he gave a curt nod of agreement.

  Siebrecht relaxed a fraction. “Finally, some sense,” he muttered. “And it only took a half a mountain to knock it back into you.”

  If Delmar heard him he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he peered over the fungoid roof of the hovel. “We go together,” Delmar repeated Siebrecht’s words. The others are still dragging themselves out. “We must clear those goblins from over our heads or we will never get the rest of our brothers free. There’s a path up the rockfall to the goblins’ position. It is narrow and steep, but it will serve.

  “Two men in front, shields high. No swords, for we shall need the spare hand for climbing.” Delmar pulled his shield from his back; there was no doubt he would be one of the two. As to the second: “Gausser?” Siebrecht asked the injured Nordlander. “Are you recovered? Can you do it?”

  “That is certain!” Gausser declared, swaying only slightly.

  “No, Gausser, not you,” Delmar countermanded. “Bohdan, you are with me.” The Ostermarker looked up, thick eyebrow raised. “Gausser is too big. They will focus their fire upon us and the shield will cover you better. Siebrecht, Gausser, you follow with your swords. We shall need you right behind us or when we reach the top we shall be slaughtered. Ready?”

  His brothers nodded their assent.

  “Then, brothers, advance!”

  * * *

  Delmar smashed his shield into the goblin’s face, the arrow barbs embedded within it merely adding to its potency. The goblin, its bow broken, was knocked bodily off the cliff and the black-robed c
reature slipped down into the waiting arms of the knights climbing below.

  They had begun their charge with four knights; they had finished it with forty. Each one of Jungingen’s banner who could still walk had seen them run, had heard their calls to battle and had followed.

  “Your sword, Delmar! Don’t forget your sword,” Siebrecht reminded him, his own blade flashing out, cutting one goblin down and sending another scrambling away. Delmar hurled his shield at a knot of the greenskins huddled together in defiance, then drew his sword and set about them with Bohdan.

  “Reiksguard!” Gausser bellowed beside them, flying the squadron’s banner. Ignoring his weapon, Gausser simply plunged the pole forwards with such force as to impale the evil creatures.

  “Falcons!” Falkenhayn called as he, Proktor and Hardenburg struck together.

  The goblins were breaking in front of them, Delmar saw, and they were not retreating up the mountain back to another defensive line. They were running left and right, fleeing to the Karlkopf’s other faces in hopes of escape. Throntoad’s lair had to be close.

  The goblins fled, but the knights did not pursue. They had thrown back the immediate threat, and now their concern returned to their squadron-brothers still struggling from the avalanche. First, the walking wounded turned, then a few of their brothers to aid them. Then a few more to aid the sergeants desperately clearing the rubble. In the face of such disaster, the battle could wait a few moments. Their brothers needed them and their brotherhood called them back.

  Thanks to their actions, sixteen more brothers were saved from the rockfall than would otherwise have been found in time. Five knights who had survived the fall had died, trapped and waiting for rescue. Twenty-nine knights were already dead, crushed in the first few seconds. Amongst their number, the banner’s gonfanonier, his blood seeping from his armour and staining the banner’s standard, and Preceptor Jungingen himself, his fast-rising career within the order cut short along with his life, buried under a ton of rock. Of all his knights, only one squadron obeyed his final order, to climb and keep on climbing.