Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Bloch raised the blade, trying to clear his vision. He saw his own halberd protrude from the monster’s flank like a mockery of his weakness. But there was no giving ground now, no escape.

  Feet apart, heart thudding, head low, he waited for the collision.

  The afternoon was waxing, and the last of the meagre light was fading. Heavier clouds rolled across the Cauldron from the north. Verstohlen stood with the company of knights at the very base of the Bastion where the rock surface gave way to the level surface of the Cauldron. Out on the plain he could see the hordes of beastmen charging from the tree cover. Closer to hand, he could also see the knot of fighting around the halberdiers. In moments they would be overwhelmed. Time was running out to effect any kind of rescue.

  As the knights did around him, he mounted expertly. His steed, a chestnut rider’s horse as opposed to the massive chargers of the Knights Panther, was agitated. They always were when the beastmen were present. The steeds seemed to recognise the unholy spoor of the twisted creatures. His mount whinnied nervously, shaking the bridle.

  “Easy,” whispered Verstohlen, bringing the nervous creature under control quickly. It was important the knights saw he could be relied on to master his steed. Schwarzhelm knew his quality, but the others didn’t. Anonymity had its price.

  The Emperor’s Champion said no more, snapped his visor shut and kicked his horse into a trot. The knights fell in behind him, a glittering column of dark metal in the rain. Verstohlen joined them at the rear, keeping one hand on the reins and one on his pistol. If he was lucky, he’d get two shots away before switching to a blade.

  The knights picked up speed. They left the defensive terraces behind. The hooves rang out against the stone. Verstohlen began to feel his pulse quicken. Out in the gathering darkness, the howling and drumming was getting wilder. Beasts were pouring into the Cauldron, drawn by the aroma of human fear. Soon the knights would be right in among them.

  “Merciful Verena, ward all harm,” he whispered devoutly.

  At the head of the column, Schwarzhelm reached the floor of the Cauldron and the pace rose again. Trots turned into a canter, and the canter into a thundering gallop. They headed straight for Bloch’s embattled halberdiers. Ahead of Verstohlen, the knights lowered their lances and adjusted their formation. With complete precision, moving at increasing speed, the charging formation extended into a line. Verstohlen manoeuvred himself behind the left flank. He’d be no good in the first clash, but his pistol would come into its own when the ranks were broken.

  Hooves hammering, Gruppen’s company flew towards the oncoming horde, the rain-driven wind rushing past their ears. The lance-tips lowered further, each knight picking his target. The seething mass of approaching beastmen neared. With every thrust of the horses’ powerful muscles, the enemy came into sharper relief.

  Verstohlen crouched in the saddle, peering out into the gloom. His heart raced. There they were, the halberdiers. Surrounded, overrun. He glanced down at his flintlock. The cool weight was reassuring.

  The knights needed no orders to engage. Gruppen was as silent as the rest of them. Like the dread wings of Morr, the mounted formation swept past the knot of beleaguered troops and into the horde of beasts beyond.

  The clash was sickening. Lances ran the creatures clean through, lifting them from the ground or shattering into wickedly sharp shards. The force of the charge knocked even the heavier gors backwards. Some were ridden down, others cut apart where they stood. The knights surged on, discarding their broken lances and pulling long broadswords from their scabbards for the return sweep.

  One of the monsters, a massive bull-creature with a halberd protruding from its flanks, stood its ground. Denied its prey by the sudden charge, it roared defiance at the charging knights. The halberdier captain, looking shaky on his feet, staggered out of harm’s way. Schwarzhelm, right at the apex of the charge, kicked his charger towards the gor. At the last moment, in a move of superlative horsemanship, he drew the head of his steed aside. The bull-creature lunged and missed. Schwarzhelm’s sword flashed, and the gor’s head slipped down its chest, severed clean from its shoulders. The mighty body toppled, crashing into the mud.

  Verstohlen galloped along in Schwarzhelm’s wake. A second huge beast rose from the wreckage and made to leap on to the back of a passing knight. He took aim and sent a piece of shot between its eyes. The creature snapped back, rolling its death-throes across the mire. Verstohlen kicked his horse’s flanks, and it leapt smoothly over the writhing horror. He flicked the mechanism on the flintlock, bringing the second barrel into play. An ingenious device and one which had never let him down.

  He raised the pistol to fire again, but the beasts were fleeing, loping back the way they’d come, waiting for more of their kin to reach them. For the moment, the charge of the knights had broken them. Despite losses, the halberdier company had survived.

  Verstohlen looked about him. The halberdiers were taking their chance and were staggering back to the Bastion as fast as they could. Below him, the one Schwarzhelm had rescued was struggling to keep up. The face was familiar.

  “Herr Bloch!” Verstohlen yelled, pulling his steed around and shifting forward in the saddle. “Mount up behind me!”

  Bloch, looking up blearily, took a moment to recognise what was happening. He was wounded, and his eyes weren’t focussing properly.

  “What in the name of damnation are you doing here?” he said, his speech slurring.

  Verstohlen laughed, extended a hand and helped pull him up. The man was heavy, and the horse protested, but they managed it.

  “Don’t expect much respite when we get back to the rock,” said Verstohlen, following the knights as they regrouped and began to ride hard back to the Bastion. Already the gap they had cut was filling with beasts. “We’ve got you out of this mess, but the fighting has only just started.”

  With the retreat of the knights, the Cauldron was left to the beasts. Uncontested, the hordes swept across the open space. Viewed from the temporary safety of the Bastion, it seemed as if the entire bowl was filled with howling shapes. More and more emerged from the woods. Capering dog-faced creatures were pushed aside by heavy gors from the heart of the forest. They strode to the front of the crowd, lowing and growling as they came. More tattered standards were brought forth from the trees, each decorated with some rough image of Chaos. Some of the men unlucky enough to be caught out in the open now hung from the wooden frames, carried aloft by massive, hulking bearers. Even from the vantage point of the rock, it was clear that they were still alive.

  Back at the summit of the Bastion, still breathing heavily from his exertions, Ludwig Schwarzhelm stood on a slender outcrop, watching the enemy massing. The light was still bad, but he could see the thousands of beast-man warriors clearly enough. Many more than he’d been told would be there. The reports had been inaccurate. The campaign was in danger of becoming a massacre.

  Gruppen stood at his side, looking at the gathering horde through his eyeglass.

  “Even with the Reiksguard, we’d be pressed.”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He let his heart rate return to normal. Helborg’s absence had left them dangerously exposed. His forces were half as strong as they should have been. What had kept the Marshal? For all he admired the man’s martial qualities, Kurt could be dangerously unpredictable.

  Enough. He wasn’t coming. Even if he tried to, the road would be swarming with the enemy. He’d never get through.

  “We recovered Grunwald?” asked Schwarzhelm, watching the beastmen working themselves into a frenzy on the plain.

  “Yes,” replied Gruppen. “He’ll survive. Though half his command is gone.” Schwarzhelm nodded.

  “And what of that halberdier captain?”

  “He’s called Bloch. He’ll make it too.” Gruppen let a rare smile slip across his lips. “My men told me he wants to get back to the front.”

  “Let him, if he can still hold a blade. And if he survives, I’ll want to see h
im.”

  “Very well.”

  Out in the mass of churning, chanting bodies, something was crystallising. The random movements were beginning to coalesce into something more regular.

  “What are they doing?” asked Gruppen, a note of frustration entering his clipped voice. The man was eager to get back to work.

  Something was emerging, a sound. The undisciplined howling was turning into a new chant.

  Raaa-grmm.

  “They wait for their champion,” said Schwarzhelm. His eyes stayed flinty, his expression calm. The exertion of the ride had been replaced by a grim equanimity. “Do you think a horde such as this creates itself? He will come soon.”

  Across the Cauldron, the rolling of the drums grew even wilder. Fresh thunder growled across the northern rim and the lightning returned. Even the elements were preparing for the final onslaught. The rain poured in rivers from the rock, sluicing down into the ranks of the beasts below.

  Raaa-grmm.

  “Their standards are close enough to hit,” said Schwarzhelm. “Tell the archers to aim for the men strung up on them. We can give them a quick death at least. Then instruct the captains to ready the stakefields. It will not be long now.”

  Gruppen saluted and left the outcrop. Alone, Schwarzhelm continued to observe, as still and silent as a statue in the halls of dead.

  Raaa-grmm. The massed chant was getting louder, drowning out all else but the drums.

  “You will come,” the Emperor’s Champion whispered. “You must face me. And then we will enter the test together.”

  Verstohlen pulled aside the entrance flaps to the apothecary’s tent, careful not to snag them with the halberd he carried for Bloch, and ducked inside. The place was almost deserted. A dozen wooden pallets lay inside, arranged in two neat rows. Not nearly enough for the wounded of an entire army, but this one was for the officers only. Only if a man like Gruppen or Tierhof were injured would the precious jars of salve and holy water be broken into. The others could take their chances in the less well-appointed medical tents. “Morr damn you, let me go!”

  Verstohlen smiled. Bloch had recovered his voice. And his temper. The man had been wounded by the gor, but Verstohlen had a feeling it wasn’t grave enough to keep him from the front.

  He walked down to the far end of the tent where the halberdier captain was struggling with a state-employed apothecary and two sisters of Shallya.

  “You can release this man,” said Verstohlen, showing the apothecary Schwarzhelm’s seal. They let him go immediately, and Bloch lurched to his feet unsteadily.

  The apothecary, a wizened man with a balding pate and snub nose, shook his head.

  “I was instructed to keep him here, counsellor. He’s been hit hard.”

  “Not as hard as I’ll hit you,” growled Bloch. The sisters took a step back.

  “Come,” said Verstohlen, handing Bloch the halberd. “Your place isn’t here.”

  With Bloch still grumbling, the two men turned and left the tent.

  “I could’ve handled those leeches,” he muttered. “You didn’t need to fetch me like a child.”

  “They would have given you sleepwort, and you’d have missed the whole thing,” said Verstohlen. “Besides, I feel responsible for you. I asked you to look out for Grunwald, and you’ve suffered for it.”

  Bloch grunted. He still looked groggy and his face was pale.

  “How’re things looking?”

  The apothecary’s tent was near the summit of the Bastion, shielded by high rock walls and far from the front. As they rounded a column of basalt, shining in the rain, the scene below them unfolded in all its full drama and horror.

  The Cauldron was full with rank upon rank of beasts. There were at least thousands of them out there. Perhaps tens of thousands. The drums beat in unison, hammering out a steady, baleful rhythm. It wasn’t the mindless thumping of hides that it had been. Some sense of purpose had gripped the entire horde, and Verstohlen could see them swaying in time with the booming rolls. They were surrounded. Besieged.

  Then there was the chant, endlessly repeated, throbbing through the rock beneath their feet, filling the air.

  Raaa-grmm. Raaa-grmm.

  Despite the man’s gruff exterior, Verstohlen could see that Bloch was shaken. There was no let up, no respite. The Cauldron had been turned into a seamless fabric of rage.

  “What d’you think that means?” Bloch asked.

  “The name of their champion,” replied Verstohlen, looking over the scene calmly. “We can’t see them, but there will be shamans in the forest. They’re working on something. All will become clear soon enough.”

  Bloch shook his head.

  “Well, that’s good then.”

  Then, down below, there was sudden movement. The front ranks of beasts, which had been milling around the base of the Bastion without advancing, began to swarm up the lower slopes. Their stamping, bellowing and chanting was replaced by a massed roar of aggression. The tide, which had been lapping at the defences, surged and broke its bonds.

  “I need to be with my men,” said Bloch, grasping the halberd with both hands. At the prospect of fresh fighting, his vision seemed to clear. “Where do you have to be?”

  Verstohlen reloaded his pistol coolly.

  “I thought I might tag along with you, if that’s acceptable.”

  Bloch thought for a moment, clearly in doubt. The sounds of combat rose from the terraces below. Verstohlen couldn’t blame him for his hesitation. Bloch didn’t know who he was, nor why Schwarzhelm gave him the licence to do the things he did. None of the soldiers did, though some guessed. To most of them, he must have seemed like a strange hanger-on, dragged into the serious business of war on a whim.

  “Do as you please,” Bloch said, striding off to where his company were positioned. “Just don’t get in the way.”

  Verstohlen followed him silently, his long coat streaming with rain. His blood was still pumping from the ride out on to the Cauldron floor, and he made a conscious effort to calm his emotions. He’d need a steady hand, and an unwavering eye. The beastmen were hunting, and they were the prey.

  Grunwald limped along the terrace, still feeling the effects of his flight from the ridge. He hadn’t seen Schwarzhelm since his return. All the other commanders were busy with their own units. He felt curiously bereft, cast adrift. Now that the assault had begun, there was no time to seek new orders or plan some new tactics. He’d rounded up all of his men who could still walk and carry a weapon, and taken them back to the defensive front. They may have failed to hold the ridge, but there was still service they could render.

  The Bastion looked like it had been designed for war. Above the smooth lower slopes, the rock rose up in a series of steps. Schwarzhelm had arranged his forces in long ranks along these natural terraces. An invading force would have to come at them from below, suffering all the disadvantages of having to clamber upwards while under attack. Between the twisting rock ledges, paths had been worn. Some were natural, others the product of centuries of human footfalls. These were the weak points. If the invaders managed to force their way up the paths, then they could get on to the level of the terraces and cause havoc.

  All across the lower reaches of the Bastion, commanders had deployed their forces to prevent this. The terraces were crammed with troops capable of dealing death from afar: handgunners, archers and pikemen. At the crucial intersections where the rock offered less protection, the heavy infantry had been stationed, halberdiers mostly, drawn from the Reikland regiments. In the places of most danger, squadrons of Knights Panther were deployed, grim and immoveable in their heavy plate armour. Clusters of greatswords were there too, grizzled warriors bearing the huge, two-handed blades of their forefathers in gnarled fists. Across the most accessible routes up the rock, wooden stakes had been driven into cracks in the stone. Behind these fragile-looking barriers, the troops stood ready, watching impassively as the beasts tore up the slope towards them.

  “Stand your
ground,” roared Grunwald. He knew his men were in a bad way. They’d already been driven from one battle. Some had been fighting for hours with no respite, and they all looked drained. “This is where we make amends! Give no quarter!”

  The beasts surged towards the lines, hollering and whooping in their bloodlust. Grunwald felt the sweat start on his palms. On either side of him, rows of steel blades glinted in the low light. The beasts had followed his men all the way from the ridge, thirsting for their blood still.

  The feeling was mutual. Grunwald watched as his first target, a shaggy behemoth with a tusked face, lumbered up the incline towards him. Its flanks were streaked with entrails and its maw dripped with gore. So, it had recently feasted.

  “Your last victim,” hissed Grunwald, lowering his blade, fixing the beast with a look of unwavering hate and standing his ground.

  Schwarzhelm looked down from his vantage point. He held an ancient-looking spyglass to one eye, sweeping across the grim vista below. His expression was unreadable. As he had done countless times before, he studied the enemy onslaught, watching for weakness, scouring for opportunities. As the battle intensified, functionaries hovered on the edge of his vision. Every so often, men would come running up with reports from the front. He responded with terse instructions.

  “Redeploy the Third Halberdiers.”

  “Instruct Herr Morgan to withdraw to the upper terrace.”

  “The Helblasters are angled too high. And Jerroff’s rate of fire is poor.”

  The officials would then scurry away into the rain, shepherded by Ferren, his aide de camp. A few moments later, Schwarzhelm would observe the adjustment in the response of the army. From his position, he could see across the entire rock. The army was like an extension of his will. When he uttered an order, the shape of the defence shifted. Somewhere, he knew that his adversary was doing the same. The beastmen may have appeared crude and barbaric, but they had their own ways of directing their horde. There was an intelligence out there, guiding the assault, apportioning its resources at the points of greatest weakness.