Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Bloch felt disgust well up within him. Giving in before a blow had even been struck was spineless. That was the problem with the Empire of his time. If Magnus the Pious had had to work with such weaklings, Praag would never had been recovered.

  He turned to his men. They looked up at him expectantly, like children to their father. Some of them were barely more than boys. A few clasped their halberds in fear, their knuckles white. The scout’s mood was contagious.

  “Don’t listen to that filth, lads,” said Bloch, sweeping his gaze across them, daring any not to meet it. “He’s been out on his own for too long. We’re all in this together. Remember, no backward step. No surrender.”

  He lifted up his halberd and planted it firmly against the stone.

  “There are thousands of us here, all good men of the Reikland. They’ve no answer to honest courage, these beasts. And you know who’s leading us: The big man. He’ll see us—”

  His speech broke off. All around the Cauldron, a low drumming had started. Long, deep rolls began to thud out from the trees. It grew in volume. Across the Bastion, men halted their chatter, and fell silent. The drums were coming from everywhere. North, east, west. The Bastion was almost entirely encircled. The floor of the Cauldron seemed to resonate with the rhythm. Only from the south was there no noise. Where Grunwald had been stationed. The beastmen still hadn’t closed off those approaches. Perhaps the commander still held his position. He should have been called back. He was doomed.

  Despite himself, Bloch felt his nerve begin to go. How many must there be, to make that much noise? He remembered the ashen face of the scout.

  The forest is alive.

  He took a deep breath and clutched the shaft of his halberd.

  “Come and get it then, you bastards,” he hissed, flexing his arms in readiness. “Just come and get it.”

  Grunwald couldn’t even scream. He saw the blade descend, powerless to resist. Then there was a dark shape, tearing in from his left. A man slammed into the beast, knocking them both to the floor. Ackermann.

  Grunwald scrambled to his feet. All around him, there were cries of combat from the trees. His men were being slaughtered. He retrieved his blade from the undergrowth, hands slipping as he fumbled for it. The creature and Ackermann rolled through the bracken, each trying to gouge and throttle the other. Grunwald raced over to them. The shadows were heavy. It was hard to make out which was which. But then, from the north, a flicker of lightning penetrated the gloom. A twisted, tooth-filled face leered up at him from the forest floor, sneaked with blood and rain.

  Grunwald plunged his sword down. There was a scream, a twisted mockery of a man’s pain. Then a gurgling. Then limpness. Grunwald withdrew the blade and grabbed Ackermann’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he hissed. “They’re all around us!”

  Ackermann rolled over. Where his face had been, there was nothing but a pulpy mass. One of the creature’s teeth had broken off and gleamed within the exposed slick of muscle and sinew.

  Filled with horror, Grunwald let Ackermann’s body drop. He could hear more beasts coming up fast.

  He ran.

  On either side, the trees flitted passed him like shades of death. Grunwald didn’t dare look back, though he could hear the heavy panting of the creatures close by. They were on his heels, loping like wolves. He gritted his teeth, willing his legs to keep working. They were all around him. They’d got Ackermann, and now they were coming for him.

  He kept running. Ahead, there was nothing but shadow, nothing but more trees. He’d lost sight of his men. All those behind him were dead or scattered. He was prey, alone in the woods.

  Then, against all hope, he saw the break. It wasn’t over yet. He’d come further than he’d thought. There were only two places for miles around where the tree cover broke. One was the road. The other was the Cauldron.

  From behind him, he could hear howls of frustration rise. They knew he was close to evading them. With a final, agonising spurt, Grunwald picked up speed. He leapt over fallen branches, barged through whipping thickets. There was no point in being cautious. If he tripped or slowed again, he was dead.

  The light grew. All of a sudden, he broke out into the open.

  The trees fell back. The vast plain of the Cauldron yawned away. It looked like a vision of some daemonic nightmare. Lightning licked the northern rim. Echoing drums rolled and boomed from all directions. The rain fell in sheets. In the centre of the depression, the dark form of the Bastion soared upwards. As he ran, Grunwald could see the detachments of men arrayed on its flanks, deployed just as his own regiment had been on the ridge. The entire army had been placed on the stone walls. There were rows and rows of halberdier companies arranged across the terraced flanks of the rock, all facing out across the plain. He could see artillery emplacements further up, dozens of them. He knew there were knightly companies among them too, as well as greatswords, handgunners, and all the troops that the Reikland could afford.

  But it was a time of war across the Empire. In years past, the army would have been even greater. There would have been battle wizards, great cannons and engines of war. Many of these were detained north of Middenheim or on the blasted fields of Ostland. In desperate times, the general made do with what he had to hand, even for a campaign as prestigious as this one.

  Ahead of him, out on the Cauldron floor, he caught sight of the broken remnants of his own forces. They were running, just like him. Like storm-tossed birds, they were fleeing before the deluge hit.

  Grunwald felt his vision begin to waver. He was exhausted. He could feel his final strength giving out. The hours of fighting had taken their toll.

  He risked a look backwards, expecting to see a few dozen beastmen pursuing him. But there were more. Many more. He was flying ahead of the horde itself. From left to right, his vision was filled with hollering, baying, snarling creatures. They had chosen their moment, and the woods were emptying. On all sides of the Cauldron, they poured towards the Imperial bulwark.

  Grunwald kept going. His fear was giving way to despair. He’d never reach the Bastion. Neither would his men. At the last, they’d be overtaken. So close.

  His features twisted in pain. His lungs felt fit to rupture, his legs ready to give out.

  So close.

  “Sir, there’s movement on the plain.”

  Bloch pushed the halberdier away irritably.

  “I can see that, lad. Stop waving that blade in my face.”

  He peered forward, shading his eyes from the rain. There were men running across the base of the Cauldron towards the Bastion. They looked like insects.

  “Grunwald,” he breathed. “Has to be.”

  Above them, a trumpet sounded. There was the clatter of arms. All the men on the south-facing flanks had seen it. A few hundred survivors. Half of Grunwald’s command, no more.

  Behind the running figures, towards the edge of the Cauldron, the beasts had broken cover. They poured from the trees in all directions. Tattered banners lurched along with them, daubed with crude figures. The eight-pointed star was on many of them. From others, mutilated human corpses hung. The drummers came out into the open. The noise rose even further. The Bastion felt like an island in a sea of madness. Soon the tide would be lapping at their feet.

  Bloch glanced back down at the fleeing men. His mind working quickly, he gauged the distance. They’d be overtaken. Unless something was done, he’d have to watch as his comrades were butchered before his eyes.

  Not on his command.

  “Fourth Company!” he cried, striding from his vantage point. “Form a detachment. We’re going down. Ninth Company, remain in reserve.”

  To their credit, the halberdiers of the Fourth got into position quickly. They could all see the beastman horde approach. Some, the less experienced, looked ready to vomit. Even the old dogs of war said nothing. This was dangerous. But Bloch didn’t ask the men to do anything he wouldn’t, and they knew it. At heart, he was one of them. The trappings of comm
and would never change that.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The company filed along their defensive terrace and down the slope towards the Cauldron’s floor. As they descended, the noise grew. At the base of the Bastion, it was deafening.

  “Keep tight,” warned Bloch. In the distance, he could see the first ranks of the beastmen. They weren’t far away. The remnants of Grunwald’s regiment were closer. They looked at the end of their strength. “Let’s get them home.”

  He broke into a run. Behind him, his men did the same. Halberds were lowered. Even in the driving rain, the sharpened steel glinted menacingly. Bloch trusted his men. He’d drilled them hard. They stayed together, running in close formation. The distance closed.

  Bloch felt his heart begin to thump harder. This was it. The first action. He gripped his halberd tightly, lowered the blade, and sought out his target. The rest was up to fate.

  Verstohlen ran along the southern terrace. They could all see what was happening. Grunwald’s men would be slaughtered. The halberdiers moving to intercept them were too few. No other commanders would leave their defensive positions. He had to find the general. Losing Grunwald would be a disaster. Losing Bloch would be, if anything, worse. He began to regret his intervention with the halberdier captain.

  He caught sight of Morgan, the captain of the Fifth Company of handgunners. He was standing with his men, watching. It was like some grim kind of spectator sport.

  “Where’s the general?” Verstohlen snapped.

  Morgan shrugged.

  “You tell me,” he said. “If he’s got any sense, on the road back to Altdorf.”

  Verstohlen shot him a contemptuous look.

  “Watch your tongue,” he said. “If you knew him, you’d never say such a thing.”

  Morgan was about to reply, but there was a commotion on the terraces above. Men were moving down to the lower slopes. Hooves clattered on the rock. Horses were being led down the winding paths from the summit. The Knights Panther. In the incessant rain their elaborate heraldry was soaked and sodden, but they still looked formidable in their plate armour and exotic hides. Their massive horses, enclosed in heavy banding, trod proudly. There was a whole company, nearly a hundred knights.

  Verstohlen felt his heart leap. He rushed over to the preceptor, a tall, grim man with a hooked nose and scarred cheek. He knew him by reputation only. Leonidas Gruppen, scourge of the lower Drakwald.

  “Preceptor, you’re riding out?” he asked.

  Gruppen looked down at Verstohlen warily. They all did, these soldiers.

  “Those are my orders,” he said. His voice was as hard as the rain-beaten rock beneath them.

  “Wait for me to join you,” urged Verstohlen. “You could use a good shot.”

  Gruppen kept walking.

  “This is a time for warriors, counsellor,” he said. All around him, his knights were preparing to mount up. Squires hurried to their sides with lances. Helmets were donned, and the visors snapped shut. They were calm. Icy, even. The soldiers clustered around gazed at them in awe.

  “You dare to speak to me thus?” said Verstohlen, his impatience rising. “I have the ear of the general. Has he ordered this? Where is he?”

  Then, from the midst of the knights, a new figure emerged. He was clad in full plate armour, heavy and ornate. His horse was a sable charger, a hand taller than the others, led by a squire in the livery of the Emperor. Imperial emblems had been draped across its flanks. Foremost among them was the Imperial Seal, flanked by griffons rampant, the personal device of the Emperor. A laurel wreath crowned with an iron skull encircled his helm, and a pendant in the form of Ghal Maraz hung from his neck. His visor was raised, exposing his war-battered face. A voluminous beard hung from the close helm. Under the raised visor, his eyes glittered darkly. He carried himself with the utter assurance of command. Old scars covered the little skin that was exposed. Beside him, the formidable warrior Gruppen looked as callow as a milkmaid.

  As he approached, the knights withdrew respectfully. Even against the towering pinnacle of the Bastion, wreathed in wind and lashed by rain, he seemed the most immovable object in the whole landscape.

  “He is here,” said Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the Emperor’s Champion. At his side the Rechtstahl, the famed Sword of Justice, glinted. The blade was naked and rainwater ran down the steel. “Give Verstohlen a horse. Then we ride.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bloch felt a lurch in his guts. Out on the Cauldron floor, mere yards ahead of his position, the beastmen had caught up with Grunwald’s men. He saw some of them get taken down, dragged to the rock floor. It looked like there were less than three hundred of them, a poor return for those who had set off towards the ridge.

  “Faster!” he bellowed to his own men, and squeezed a dram more effort from his labouring thighs. All around him, the halberdiers responded. They were closing in on the slaughter, coming closer with every footfall.

  A few heartbeats more and they were in amongst them. Some of Grunwald’s men, seeing the halberdiers arrive, tried to turn and fight. They looked near death from exhaustion.

  “Get to the Bastion!” roared Bloch, pushing them back towards the pinnacle. “You’re no good here.”

  The beastman vanguard was made up of their faster creatures, not the heavy gors. They were slim-limbed and flighty, bizarre amalgams of deer, dog and man. Already Bloch’s troops were in the thick of them. They’d kept close formation on the run. Now they sliced through the beast attack, forming a cordon around Grunwald’s stumbling troops, giving them the time to get back to the Bastion.

  Bloch ploughed on. A fawn-coloured monstrosity, more whippet than man, leapt up at him. Three rows of teeth snapped at his face. Bloch’s halberd flashed, and the creature span into the mud, whimpering. A sharp downward blow and it was silenced. These frontrunners were easy to dispatch. When the gors caught up, then things would get interesting.

  “Captain!” came a weary voice. Grunwald.

  The commander limped towards him. His face was grey, his uniform caked in blood and grime. Beyond him, Bloch’s halberdiers rushed to hold the oncoming beasts back. Cries of battle, human and inhuman, rose into the gathering dark.

  Bloch rushed over to him, catching him just as he stumbled to the ground.

  “Are you the last?”

  Grunwald nodded breathlessly.

  “Anyone behind has been taken,” he panted. “The forest is alive.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Grunwald looked up at him, his breath gradually equalising.

  “You must pull back! They’re all over the Cauldron.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” muttered Bloch, looking up to appraise the situation. It was getting difficult. The greater mass of beastmen had caught up with the outrunners. The line of halberdiers held against them, but they’d soon be overwhelmed.

  “Get back to the rock,” said Bloch, pushing Grunwald roughly to his feet. “We’ll manage the retreat.”

  Grunwald, his face drawn with fatigue, began to run again, limping after the straggling remnants of his command as they staggered towards the rock. Bloch turned away from him. Now his own detachment was the priority.

  “Fall back!” he shouted, joining them at the front line. “Keep your face to the enemy. Run, and you’ll never see home again.”

  He hefted his halberd, pushed his way past one of his own men, and brought it tearing downwards. With a satisfying crunch, it pierced the skull of a roaring horror on the beasts’ frontline. On either side of him, his troops worked their own blades skilfully. They struck in sequence, guarding each others’ flanks, maintaining the curtain of steel. After each offensive stroke, every successful rebuttal, they fell back in unison, letting the beasts come after them.

  Bloch began to work up a sweat. He felt his muscles bunch in his arms. The stench of the beasts was everywhere, and their dark blood splattered against his face and chest. As his blade worked, he began to sense the strange, feral enjoyment
that always accompanied the thick of battle. The line was holding, his company was maintaining its shape, and the Sigmar-forsaken beasts were falling under the blade. This was battle as he liked it.

  Then the gors arrived.

  With a horrifying roar, two massive beasts powered their way through the ranks, pushing their squealing kin aside. Their skin was black and their squat bull-faces burned with feral malice. The eight-pointed star had been scored into their chests and old blood laced their thick hides. When they bellowed, the pools of rainwater shivered. Heedless of anything but their battle-lust, they hurled themselves at the fragile halberdier lines.

  Bloch manoeuvred himself into the path of the biggest, holding his halberd tightly in both hands. The angle would have to be just right. He felt his mouth go dry.

  The bull lurched towards him, roaring some obscene mockery of language. One of Bloch’s men, knocked off-balance by an unlucky stroke, blundered into its path. The bull swatted him aside casually with a vast clenched fist. Bloch heard the spine snap cleanly. The monster launched itself at Bloch. Spittle flew into his face, thick and stinking.

  Bloch roared his defiance in turn. He thrust his blade at the creature’s chest. The aim was good, angled upwards and left. The bull leapt to one side, evading the tip. Bloch had been expecting the feint, and twisted the shaft to match. The blade struck the creature’s flank below its enormous rib cage.

  The bull bellowed. Ignoring the wound, it ground onwards, churning the earth with its cloven hooves. Bloch was pushed back, his halberd still in his hands. It was wrenched free. He grasped for the sword at his belt. Too late. The hammer-fist struck him on the shoulder.

  Bloch flew back, landing heavily a yard distant. His vision swam. He could feel hot blood trickle down his stomach. The earth under him swayed. The bull, now just a blurred mass, charged him again. He tried to rise to his feet, but his legs felt like congealed fat. The ground drummed, as if a whole herd of horses was thundering across it. His shaking fingers found the pommel of his sword and he drew it from the scabbard. The bull came on.