“Show yourself,” breathed Schwarzhelm, fingering the pommel of the Rechtstahl impatiently. “My lord?”
Gruppen was back, hovering at his shoulder. His blade was notched and his heavy breastplate had been scored with three great scratches. If their claws could do that to plate armour, then…
“Report,” said Schwarzhelm.
“Two terraces have been lost,” replied Gruppen. He was a military man and spoke dispassionately. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his voice, just realism. “We need more knights. The state troopers don’t have the armour for this fight.”
“Damn Helborg,” spat Schwarzhelm, giving away his exasperation.
He turned around slowly, letting his eyes take in the sweeping panorama of war. On every front, the beastmen were assaulting hard, scrabbling up the slope and throwing themselves at the defenders on the terraces. Despite the advantage of higher ground, the lines were being beaten back. Slowly, it was true, but his forces were being driven ever higher up the slopes. The beasts could afford to lose twice the number of fighters he could in every engagement, and still outnumber them for the final assault. All around the base of the Bastion, the landscape was lost in a seething maelstrom of monsters.
Tell the artillery captains to throw the last of the shot at them. “I don’t care if they run out. We need to blunt this thing now.”
Gruppen hesitated.
“Will you not descend, my lord? The men—” Schwarzhelm fixed the preceptor with a dark look.
Gruppen, who faced monstrous gors without a second thought, swallowed. “Do not question my judgement, master knight.”
warned Schwarzhelm. “I will descend when the time is right.”
As if to reinforce his words, a fresh chorus of Raaa-grmm echoed up from the battle below. The beasts could sense their master’s presence. Schwarzhelm could sense his presence. But, for the time being, he didn’t show himself.
Gruppen bowed and descended from the vantage point back to the fighting. Schwarzhelm listened to the clink of his armour against the stone. He wasn’t worried about being thought a coward. No one in the Empire would dare to make such a claim, and he had long stopped caring about what other men thought of him.
No. His place was here, marshalling his forces, squeezing out the last ounce of defence from his beleaguered men. They would stand their ground, grinding out every foot of surrendered stone with blood and steel. Not until the rock lay heavy with the corpses of beasts would his adversary be drawn out. And then the clash would come, the battle that would decide the fate of all of them.
“Show yourself,” hissed Schwarzhelm again, scouring the battlefield for the movement he yearned to see. “Face me.”
But the rain snatched his words away and the skirling wind mocked them. Across the plain, the beasts tore at the defences, their lust for human flesh unquenched.
Bloch arced his halberd downwards with a cry of exertion. The blade lodged deep in the neck of the gor scrabbling at his knees. The creature howled, shaking its head, spraying blood into the air. Bloch felt his grip come loose. The beast was powerful.
“Die, damn you!” he growled and twisted the halberd deeper. The struggles ebbed, and the gor tried to withdraw. From Bloch’s side, a second blade plunged into its flank. The growls were silenced and the beast slid back down the slope. Others leapt up to take its place immediately. Even with the advantage of the stone ridge, it was hard going keeping them out.
Bloch kept hacking, ignoring the protests from his gore-splattered arms. His round helmet was dented, his heavy leather jerkin ripped by claws and teeth. Dimly, he was aware that his wounded shoulder was throbbing again. The hot sensation of blood was creeping down his midriff. Something had come unstuck. Had that damned apothecary stitched him up cock-eyed?
A bull-headed gor, only slightly smaller than the one which had nearly killed him in the Cauldron, tried to leap on to the terrace. It took two arrows in the throat before its hooves touched the stone, and it was pushed back into the heaving press of bodies below. The halberdiers were holding their ground. Their fear had been replaced by a resigned, workmanlike determination. Every thrust was met with a counter-thrust, every strike with a determined parry.
“Herr Bloch,” came a familiar voice. Bloch felt his spirits sink. Not now.
He swiped the halberd back and forth, a difficult manoeuvre in the tight space. For the moment, the beasts before him withdrew. The foremost of them limped back down the slope. But already larger creatures were massing.
“What is it?” snapped Bloch, made angry by fatigue and the pain in his shoulder.
“The companies on the terraces either side of us have withdrawn,” said Verstohlen. “We are exposed. I thought you should know.”
Bloch looked hurriedly either side of him. It was true. The beasts were forcing men back up the slopes of the Bastion, step by step. Two terraces had been abandoned and the defenders were digging in higher up. Soon his own flanks would be left open.
“Is that what you do with yourself all day, Verstohlen?” he asked. “Spot isolated command groups?”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
Bloch scowled. Who was this man? Why did he never get angry?
“Fall back, men,” he cried, pushing the counsellor out of the way. “Up to the next terrace!”
It was difficult work, made harder by the rain-washed stone. The halberdiers knew enough not to turn their backs to the enemy. Warily, they filed along the terrace, making for the paths at the end of the ridge, backing up carefully.
The beasts were slow to spot the movement, but when they did, the roars of attack started up again. The gors powered up the slope, heads low, cleavers swinging.
“Keep together!” roared Bloch, raising his halberd. He’d be the last to leave. Only when every man was up on the next level would he join them. They were almost there.
The beasts clambered up on the vacated terrace-end, howling with victory. One of them came straight at Bloch. He ducked under the wild cleaver swipe, and planted the tip of the halberd into the monster’s leg. A twist and the bone was broken. The beast staggered, but there was another behind it, horse-faced and crowned with stubby antlers. Bloch withdrew, swinging his blade defensively. Too many. He began to back up. From behind him, he could hear his men safely occupying the terrace above. That was good, disciplined work. He was proud of them. Now he needed a little support.
He began to pick up the pace, shuffling backwards, swinging the halberd deftly. Horse-face advanced slowly, but then sprang, launching itself right at Bloch’s face. The beast was quick, far quicker than it looked. Bloch parried a blow from the cleaver, but the force of the impact knocked the blade from his hands.
“Damn.”
Weaponless and isolated, there wasn’t much to do. Bloch scrabbled up the slope as fast as he could. Hands from the upper terrace reached down to pull him to safety. His hand grasped one of them and he felt himself hauled upward. His legs kicked at the slavering mass below. He felt his iron-tipped boot connect with something. A jawbone, maybe.
But horse-face was still after him. Springing powerfully, the creature launched itself up the incline, clawing at his legs. The beast’s cleaver swung down, just missing Bloch’s thigh as he scrabbled to get out of the way. The next blow wouldn’t miss. Bloch screwed his eyes up, waiting for the agonising blow.
A shot rang out. Horse-face spun back into the horde beyond. Its fall knocked several beasts from their feet, and the assault up to the terrace faltered. In the brief hiatus, fresh hands grabbed Bloch and pulled him over the lip of the higher ridge.
For a moment, he sat stupidly on the stone, catching his breath. That hadn’t been a good experience. Verstohlen came up to him, his pistol smoking.
“I could’ve handled it myself,” Bloch muttered.
Verstohlen smiled briefly.
“This is a common theme with you, I observe.”
The respite was brief. New, larger gors were making their way to the front. There were
no higher terraces left to withdraw to. The halberdiers took up their weapons again. Bloch clambered to his feet, seized a fresh blade and steadied himself. His shoulder was killing him, every inch of his body was bruised and the ice-cold rain was beginning to chill him to the core.
“Come on then!” he roared, baring his teeth and waving his halberd over his head like an ale-raddled savage. From either side of him, his men burst into foul-mouthed support, hurling defiant obscenities into the air. For a moment, they looked more bestial than the monsters that attacked them, a skill no doubt learned in the alehouses on a beer-soaked festival of Ranald.
Despite everything, Bloch felt a glow of pride. They were his lads. Rough as old leather, to be sure, but his lads all the same. Finest men in the Empire. The beasts would have to clamber over every last one of them to get where they wanted to go.
He lowered his blade, located his target and waited for it to come to him.
Schwarzhelm narrowed his eyes. A change had taken place. Out on the plain, something was moving towards the Bastion. Hidden, to be sure. His eyes couldn’t quite focus on it. It wasn’t a shadow as such, more a slippery patch of nothingness. Whenever his gaze fell on it, it seemed to slide to one side. And it was picking up speed.
“Ah,” he said. He knew enough of dark magic to recognise it. The shamans were old, wily and powerful. Only a fool believed the beasts had no art of their own. Their ways were those of the forest, the dark places where the nightmares of men were given shape.
The path of no-vision crept closer. There were gors all around it, huge creatures, bull-horned and carrying massive spears of iron. Whatever was at the centre of that sphere of disruptive magic, it was greater than they were.
Schwarzhelm drew the Rechtstahl. In the rain, the steel shimmered. No dark magic would ever stain its flawless surface. Only the runefangs themselves were purer. He had carried his blade beside him for all the years he’d been Emperor’s Champion. His predecessor had done the same, as had his. For generations, the sacred sword had been borne into battle at the side of Ghal Maraz, and the departed souls of those great warriors who had wielded it in ages past were still present. At times, Schwarzhelm could sense their power imprinted on the cold metal. The best of humanity, forged in war, tempered by righteous wrath, locked into the spirit of the blade for eternity. In such things did true power lie.
He let the rainwater run down the edge, watching the liquid sheer from the flat and on to the stone. Was he worthy to carry it? He knew the doubt would never leave him, no matter how many horrors he slew. Only in death, the final tally reckoned up, would he have his answer.
Schwarzhelm turned from his vantage point to see Gruppen climbing up to meet him again. He looked as haggard as before. His helmet had been knocked from his head and an ugly weal ran across his brow.
“My lord,” he said, breathlessly. “We can withdraw no further. We are penned in on all sides. What are your orders?”
Schwarzhelm’s expression was wintry.
“He is here,” he said, watching the meagre light glint from the surface of the Rechtstahl. “His pride draws him on. Too early. By such misjudgements are battles lost.”
Gruppen looked perplexed.
“I do not—”
“Enough. Rally your knights. The doombull is approaching. I will contest him. Follow me.”
Grunwald fought on, though his strength was nearly spent. It felt like they’d been retreating from the very beginning of the engagement, step by bitter step. The Bastion was now entirely encircled. All ways down had long since been blocked by the horde. The lower terraces were gone, covered in swarming crowds of jubilant monsters and heaps of bodies. Amid them, the larger gors strode, lost in a fog of blood-drunkenness. The bodies of men lay trampled under their hooves. That sent them into still higher levels of fury. The stench of the creatures was as overpowering as their noise. Even above the blood, the aroma of death, the powerful musk of the wild forest rose in his nostrils.
He could no longer feel afraid. Nothing but a blank fatigue had taken over. His arms worked automatically, swinging the blade as heavily as he was able. By his side, his men were the same. Pale-faced, listless, driven into the ground by the remorseless advance. The beasts seemed to know no weariness. On they came, hammering at the lines of steel, desperate to sink their teeth into flesh and crush the hated trappings of the Empire into the mud.
Grunwald grasped his halberd and made ready for yet another charge. For all he knew, it would be his last. He didn’t know how many men had died. The army had been horribly diminished by the assault. Perhaps a third of those who had marched to the Bastion had made it their grave. Half of those left were barely able to wield a weapon. They remained, like Grunwald, trapped in the narrow terraces, fighting for their lives. The proud campaign to purge the forest was in tatters. He crouched low, trying to still the shaking in his hands. He was cold to the marrow, and his clothes hung from his exhausted frame in heavy, sodden bunches. This was it. The final assault.
But it never came. Against all hope, the gors withdrew. Grunting and shuffling, they pulled back down the slope. It was the same all along the front. Grunwald looked down the lines on either side of him. Men, all as weary as he, looked out across the seething mass of beastmen. None cheered. None rushed out to press home the advantage. They all knew that the movement presaged only some fresh horror. So they stayed where they were, hunched in the rain, leaning against their weapons.
Then the reason became apparent. The chanting started out again.
Raaa-grmm. There was no fervour in it this time, just a low, mournful dirge. Grunwald listened carefully. A name? Raghram? That sounded as close to a name as a beastman ever got. He peered into the gloom. Something was approaching.
Far down the dark slopes of the Bastion, a shifting cloud of shadow drew near. It hurt the eyes to look at it. It wasn’t dark exactly, just an absence of anything. To stare into such a thing was to look into one of the aspects of Chaos. It had no place in the world of matter. It was an aberration, a cloak of madness. All along the crowded terraces, men drew back slowly. There were muffled cries of dismay from further up, quickly stifled.
On either side of the approaching terror, ranks of bull-horned gors strode in silence. They made no noise. No bellows of rage, no earth-shaking growls of menace. In silence they swung their iron spears. In silence they stared up at the fragile rows of human defenders. In silence they marched in unison, their knotted muscles evident under thick coats of twisted hair.
Behind them, the beasts fell into a trance-like state, chanting their endless mantra. The stone beneath Grunwald’s feet began to reverberate from the dull, repetitious sound. Even the rain seemed to lessen in the face of the grinding aural assault. When the water impacted against the swirling no-vision, it bounced off in steaming gouts. The very elements were horrified by the approaching outrage.
With a terrible certainty, Grunwald knew he was staring at defeat. No human could stand against such a creature. He felt his skin begin to crawl with sweat. His men were succumbing to panic. So this was the end. The battle had all been about this. With the defences strung out, weary, ready to crumble, Raghram had come. As the unholy vision drew nearer, he grasped his halberd with unsteady fingers. Though he knew it was hopeless, he prepared to leave the terrace and charge the monster. At least he would atone for his failure at the ridge.
“No further!” came a voice. It was as clear as a great bronze bell. Grunwald spun round.
Further up the slope of the Bastion, men still stood their ground. The Knights Panther, dismounted, naked broadswords in hand, barred the way. Their numbers had been thinned by the fighting, but Leonidas Gruppen was still among them, his uncovered face savage in the failing light. The preceptor was surrounded by his brothers in arms, all still encased in their dark, battle-ravaged armour.
At their head was Schwarzhelm. The wind whipped his cloak about him as he stood, feet planted heavily, sword resting on the stone.
“You have
come too soon, beast of Chaos,” he said. His deep voice seemed to come from the heart of the Bastion itself. Even the gors halted, gazing at the human with a sudden doubt. “This blade has drunk deep of your kin’s blood before. It will do so again. You know its power. Look on it, horror of the void, and know despair.”
A sudden thrill ran through Grunwald’s body. On every side, halberds were raised into the air. Schwarzhelm was with them! Despair was replaced by a wild, desperate hope.
But then Raghram unveiled himself. The shroud of nothingness slipped from his shoulders, dissolving against the stone like smoke. He rose to his full height, towering over even Schwarzhelm’s mighty frame. He was vast and old, reeking of death and corruption. His eyes blazed blood-red and his leathery fingers clasped an axe the size of a man. Cruel horns, four of them, rose like a crown over his heavy brow and tusks hung from his ruined face. He wore twisted iron armour over his shoulders and breast, crudely hammered into place and daubed with the foul devices of the Dark Gods.
In that face there was malice, ancient malice, the long, slow bitterness of the deep wood. To gaze into that expression was to see the tortured, endless hatred of the primal world for all the doings of man. Nothing existed there but loathing. Nothing would quench its fury but death.
With a thunderous roar, Raghram cast off the last of his unnatural cloak and charged. The gors fell in beside him. Under the lowering sky, desperate and valiant, the knights stood to counter the assault. Schwarzhelm threw his cloak back and his blade flashed silver. Then all was lost in shadow.
CHAPTER THREE
Crouched in his terrace, Bloch saw the change coming, felt it in the stone beneath his feet.
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