Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Drassler reached slowly for the sword at his back. At any moment he expected to hear the signal for withdrawal, closely followed by bellows of derision from the orcs locked up within. Then their own position would become precarious, and they’d have to get clear of the walls. A shambles. A bloody shambles. They were running out of time.

  Then came the first sound.

  A heavy clang of iron, as something was unhooked from within the gates. A fresh barrage cracked out from Bloch’s artillery, harmlessly smashing against the walls. Drassler felt his heart start to pound. At last. They were going for it.

  He turned to the nearest of his men. The sounds of more beams being flung to the ground came from the Keep. A thin line of daylight stretched down between the mighty iron-barred doors. From behind them, a rising tide of baying and bellowing came out. Against all hope, they were going for it.

  Drassler rose to a low crouch, ready for the breakneck sprint across the rock. This would all still unravel if the mountain guard couldn’t close in quickly enough. He saw the massive gates begin to swing open. The noise of the horde rose in volume, a terrifying roar of pent-up aggression and frustration. The orcs had been maddened, and the storm of their emergence would be terrible.

  Drassler’s hand was damp with sweat as he drew his sword, keeping it under his cloak as best he could. They’d be outnumbered badly until Bloch could get to them. Surprise was all they had.

  “On my mark, lads,” he hissed, knowing his men would be as taut as he, ready for the charge, knowing the danger. “On my mark…”

  There was a boom, a scrape of tortured metal, and the gates slammed back against the stone. With a torrent of bellows and roars, the orcs surged out, eyes blazing red, blades swinging, trampling over one another in their lust for combat.

  The pretence was over. Now the real fighting had begun.

  Volkmar walked up to the sarcophagus, the heel of the Staff of Command clanking on the stone floor. The other three men clustered around the tomb.

  “We don’t have long,” said Volkmar. “The army is gathering, but these things take time.”

  “What’s the state of it?” asked Maljdir.

  “Twenty thousand men promised. We need twice that.”

  Gruppen let slip a low whistle.

  “That’s big.”

  Volkmar nodded. “That it is, Herr Gruppen. I’d like it bigger. I’d like more warrior priests, and I’d like more wizards.”

  Roll shook his head, looking disgusted. “Spellcasters? Sigmar’s bones, surely we can do without them this time?”

  “We can’t, and we won’t. Most of the magisters are on duty in the north, but there are some stationed here and in Nuln. We’ll take as many as we can find.”

  “And the priests?”

  “We’ll empty the chapels here, and there’s a whole company of them in Nuln. They’ll all go.”

  Gruppen frowned. “Perhaps one of you would like to tell me why all this is needed?”

  Volkmar turned to the preceptor. “You served with Schwarzhelm, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What was he like?”

  Gruppen looked nonplussed.

  “Was his behaviour unusual? Any sickness evident?”

  “No. None at all. He slew the doombull.”

  “I’m not asking for evidence of his heroics, preceptor. I’m asking about his judgement.”

  Gruppen’s face flushed. He wasn’t used to being talked down to. “As sound as ever. Why are you asking me? Where is Schwarzhelm?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Roll. “We’d hoped you might.”

  “Though it’s not hard to guess where he’s headed,” said Volkmar. “He was sent to Averland soon after you were ordered to the northern front. Something happened to him there, and he made a serious mistake. He’s now been relieved of his office, and has disappeared.”

  Gruppen gripped the side of the tomb. He looked pale. “What kind of mistake?”

  “He cut down Kurt Helborg, possibly to the death. He installed a new elector whom we now believe is in league with the great enemy. He killed the swordmaster Heinrich Lassus and stole the Sword of Vengeance from the Chapel of the Fallen. That enough of a mistake for you?”

  “Sweet Myrmidia,” swore Gruppen, shaking his head. Then something seemed to occur to him. “I remember the name Lassus.”

  “He’s the one who ordered you north,” said Maljdir grimly. “We checked. He had no authority to do so, but the habit of command is strong and the orderlies followed instruction.”

  “I never understood why my assignment changed.”

  “To keep you away from your master,” said Volkmar. “Lassus knew Schwarzhelm trusted you. When the Emperor’s Champion left for Averland, his army was commanded by Andreas Grunwald, a man whose command ability was known to be suspect.”

  “He was a good soldier.”

  “No doubt. Not good enough.”

  Gruppen took the information in quickly. It was a lot to digest, and Volkmar saw him struggling to absorb it. To his credit, the man stayed focussed.

  “So how stands the province?”

  “We don’t know that either,” said Roll dryly.

  “Very little has come in or out of Averland since the election of Grosslich,” said Volkmar. “We believe the new elector is training an army, and that he has gold and weapons. For the time being, his allegiance is still for the Empire, at least in public, but we can be sure that won’t last.”

  “How?”

  “Schwarzhelm wrote a letter before he disappeared, detailing all he’d done and what it meant. We now know the great enemy is active in the city, and Grosslich’s actions have left the Emperor in no doubt that we have a rogue elector.”

  Gruppen leaned heavily against the cold stone. For an elector to turn traitor was almost unheard of. Minor nobles, yes, even dukes and barons, but the holders of the runefangs were different. All the resources of the province were theirs. The consequences were too dreadful to contemplate.

  “And there’s been no uprising in Averland?” he asked, obviously clutching for some sign of hope. “Why have the Estates tolerated it?”

  Maljdir gave a snorting laugh. “That’s the problem, preceptor. They don’t know. If Lassus hadn’t given his role in this away to Schwarzhelm, we wouldn’t either.”

  “Such is the beauty of the scheme,” said Roll. “They didn’t just seize power. They were given it. As far as anyone in Averland knows, Grosslich is the duly appointed master of the province and all that lies within it.”

  “He’ll play for time,” added Volkmar, “building up his forces, keeping the cloak of respectability for as long as he can. We know he’s arming, and there are reports of men being drafted from as far afield as Tilea. We have to act now.”

  Gruppen nodded. “I can see that, but what do you want from me? I’m not Schwarzhelm’s physician, and I can’t tell you why he did it.”

  “You’re coming with us,” said Volkmar. “Schwarzhelm will be there somewhere, and I want your counsel.” He leaned forwards, and his dark eyes glittered. “You’ll bring your company of knights too, preceptor. Their swords will be needed. This is no minor insurrection. This is a new war.”

  “Then you’ll have them, Theogonist,” said Gruppen without hesitation. “And as many more as I can muster.” He paused, and his eyes slipped down to the face of the tomb.

  “But why Averland?” he asked.

  Volkmar’s face remained as grim as his appellation.

  “We don’t know,” he said. “Yet.”

  The gates had opened. With a mighty torrent of screams and whoops, Black Fire Keep began to disgorge its contents. The surging mass of greenskins charged straight towards the waiting ranks of Bloch’s army. With frightening speed they closed the gap, loping across the uneven ground like wolves hungry for the kill.

  Bloch strode forwards, heart thumping in his breast. This was what he’d prepared for, what he’d wanted, but unleashing the fury of the greenskins was perilous
.

  “Bring that artillery round!” he yelled, knowing the gunnery captains would already be working. All of this had been prepared, the army knew it was coming, but the impression of disarray would take time to correct. He hoped Drassler was still in position. This all depended on him. “Archers withdraw! Get back here, you dogs!”

  Trumpets blared out, giving the signal over the rising roar of the orcs. The gap between the armies shrank. Rank after rank of orcs thundered from the Keep, swinging their straight swords with furious abandon.

  Bloch had fought many orcs over the long years, and he’d always hated their feral enjoyment in bloodshed. They seemed to treat battle as a sport, like a man would enjoy drinking or bear-baiting. These ones, however, had been tipped over into a blind fury. The tactic of mutilating their kin had done the work.

  “Halberdiers! Form up!” All around him, slovenly looking groups of men rushed into formation, taking up their spears and halberds and assuming their positions.

  The gap closed further. The orcs were tearing towards them. Bloch found himself itching to get stuck in, to tear his blade through the flesh of the scum, but he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. This army needed its commander.

  The archers rushed back behind the lines of infantry like birds before the storm, leaving their gear on the ground and hurrying to take up heavier weapons. As they did so, the first round shot out from the Helblasters on the left flank. Their ammunition was much more effective against infantry than walls, and the front row of orc berserkers stumbled.

  It hardly dented the force of the assault. Huge warriors, roaring with incoherent fury, leapt over their fallen kin, desperate to tear into the waiting human soldiers. Ever more of them poured from the gates. The Keep was emptying.

  “Hold your ground!” roared Bloch, seeing the last few yards between the armies dwindle to nothing. “By Sigmar, hold your ground!”

  Then the horde crashed into the halberdiers.

  The lines slammed together with a sickening crunch. The first line of defenders buckled, driven back by the force of the assault. Behind them, the second rank was smashed apart in turn, knocked back and hurled into disarray.

  The third barely held. Orcs rampaged through the broken human lines, wading into battle and plunging their weapons with abandon. The fighting spread down the long crescent of the besieging army, and soon the entire southern face of the Keep approach was engulfed in desperate combat. There must have been over a thousand orcs in the sortie, all frantically trying to get to the action, all lusting after the blood of the humans who’d taunted them for so long. The greenskins were outnumbered, but they had the initiative and plenty of anger to fuel them.

  “Reserves!” cried Bloch, seeing his plans ripping away under the sudden onslaught.

  The trumpet blared out and the extra men piled in to staunch the onslaught, desperately trying to blunt the force of the orc charge.

  Bloch whirled around, letting his eye sweep across the battlefield. Both armies were fully committed. Fighting was heavy at every point across his long deployment. None of his detachments had broken, but several were close to it. They had to hang on, to weather the storm until they could douse its initial fury.

  He turned to Kraus, who was looking over the scene with his habitual bleak expression.

  “I’m going in,” he said, buckling his helmet. “The men have their orders.”

  The honour guard captain nodded, unsheathing his own sword and preparing for the melee. “What about Drassler?”

  “Give him the signal. This is when we find out what he’s made of.”

  Drassler sprang to his feet, casting his cloak aside and taking up his sword. The blade flashed silver in the sunlight. All around him his men did likewise, emerging from the rock like ghosts. Some carried handguns, most swords. They immediately formed up into two companies, one led by Drassler, the other by his lieutenant, Hochmann.

  “That’s the signal!” he cried, as the trumpets blared out from the rear of the main army. “Sigmar guide your blades!”

  The mountain guard sprinted hard towards the gates. A few hundred yards to their left, the column of orcs had slammed into Bloch’s position, no doubt aiming to drive them back so hard they’d be unable to respond. The greenskins had left almost nothing in reserve, as was their wont. The few orcs that remained in the rearguard were clearly itching to pile into combat, and saw Drassler’s men coming at them far too late.

  The gap closed.

  “Fire!” Drassler roared, and a ripple of blackpowder detonations ran across the front rank of his men. With a confused bellow, a dozen orcs at the gate fell, tumbling down onto the rock as they clutched their eyes and midriffs.

  Fifty yards to go. Drassler picked up the pace, feeling the weight of his sword as he ran, revelling in the blood pumping round his body. For too long he’d had to creep and scuttle in his own land, prevented by his paltry numbers from striking back at the orcs who’d ripped through his comrades. Now revenge had come, and it felt good.

  Twenty yards. The orcs at the gate were trying to form up into some kind of defence. Some called frantically to their kin who’d rushed out to engage Bloch’s men, beckoning them back. There couldn’t have been more than two dozen ready to meet Drassler’s assault, and it looked like there were barely more than that emerging from the interior of the fortress.

  Ten yards. Drassler stole a glance to his right, seeing the mountain guard around him surge as one towards the Keep. They cried out curses in the old tongue of the mountains as they came, ancient smiting words that had echoed down the glens since before the time of the Emperors. All of them had hatred in their faces, the kind of naked anger that made a man deadly. Drassler felt pride. They were his kindred, and this was their moment.

  Then he was amongst the orcs, slashing, hacking and heaving with his blade. At his shoulder, mountain guard soldiers piled in, bearing down orcs twice their size with the force of the charge and their numbers. Drassler took apart his first victim with a vicious two-handed slash, watching with satisfaction as the mighty figure bent double across the sword-edge before it was finished off by another charging member of his company.

  They made the gates. The few remaining orcs broke and fled into the courtyard beyond. Some of his men rushed to follow them, consumed by the need for vengeance.

  “Hold fast!” cried Drassler, seeing the danger. The mountain guard were only two hundred strong and there were five times that many orcs on the field. He whirled around, looking back over to where the greenskin column had charged out. He expected to see a morass of entangled combat, with Bloch’s men holding the sortie and turning it back on itself.

  What he saw was a wall of greenskins charging right back at him, their faces contorted with fury. There was no time to organise a defence. The greenskins had realised their mistake and were coming back to correct it. From inside the Keep came the noise of fresh troops arriving to bolster them. Drassler had taken the gates, but he was caught between the returning sortie and the mustering Keep defenders.

  “You take the ones inside, I’ll handle the rest!” snapped Drassler to Hochmann, and braced himself for the coming impact.

  Around him, his men did their best to form into some kind of defensive arrangement. Under the shadow of the open gates they clustered together, watching as the horde rushed back towards them. There was no escape, and no chance of surrender. If Bloch got his timing wrong, they were all dead men.

  “We’ve done our part,” he muttered, watching as the nearest orc warriors thundered into range. “Now damn well do yours.”

  Bloch charged into the fray, his halberd held low, his throat hoarse from hurling invective at the enemy. He had his men around him, the Reiklanders who’d stood at his side since the march from Altdorf. All did the same, barrelling into the charge, levering the long halberds with expert hands.

  There were few armies across the wide earth that could cope with a massed charge of close-serried infantry, and the orcs before them were no different. The
steel sliced through them, tearing apart leather, ripping sinew and breaking bones.

  “Onward!” Bloch cried, his blood hot with the exhilaration of battle. “Tear them apart!”

  Drassler’s charge had done it. The orcs had seen the mountain guard spring up as if from the stone itself, and the force of their assault had wavered. Now Bloch had to press home the advantage, pile on the pressure before they could regroup and take back the gates.

  “No mercy!” he bellowed, breaking into a run. All along the lines, his men were doing likewise, striking back at the greenskins and turning the counter-assault into a rout.

  Even as he went after them Bloch could see the indecision in the orcs’ inhuman faces. Some opted to stay and fight, while others had broken from the horde and were racing back to the Keep. Speed was of the essence now. If Drassler’s men were left isolated for too long then all they’d achieved would fall apart.

  A hulking warrior loomed up before him. It crouched down low and let fly with a spittle-laced roar of defiance.

  “To me!” cried Bloch, calling to the two halberdiers on either side of him. As one, they charged the greenskin, blades aimed for ribcage, legs and face. The orc was big, clad in plate armour and swinging a mighty warhammer around its head, beckoning the charge with wild-eyed relish.

  The halberdier on Bloch’s right plunged his blade in high, aiming to catch the shoulder. The orc whirled around, smashing him aside with the hammer, before lurching back to counter the thrust of the other blades.

  Bloch ducked low, feeling the hammer-head whistle above his ears, before stabbing the shaft of the halberd up. The blade struck true, halfway up the orc’s torso, but deflected from the armour and left nothing but a long scratch on the metal. Bloch staggered back, arms jarred from the impact.

  The halberdier on his left had better luck, and his blade bit deep into the orc’s muscle-bound arm. The creature roared in pain, shaking off the fragile shaft and swinging the warhammer round in response. Bloch’s companion sprang back, but too late. The iron head crunched into his ribcage, crushing the bone and sending him sprawling in agony across the ground.