by Warhammer
'Could you help me with this, I'm supposed to have a squire to do this sort of thing.' he said, looking at Ruprecht.
The big man sighed and walked over to stand behind the knight, unbuckling the straps on the armoured skirt protecting his lower back.
'You've traded your armour for our escape?' Ursula said. 'That's too much; I couldn't ask you to do that. What is a knight without his armour?'
'A common squire who stole armour from his master when he ran away from one too many beatings?' suggested Johannes.
'Oh...' Ursula said, the word drowned out by a clatter and a yell as the shocked Ruprecht dropped a shoulder plate on his foot.
CHAPTER FOUR
Battle
The Chaos Wastes
The sky was swollen, almost bruised, and hung heavily over the land, though Kurt was sure that it was not long past midday. Time had become meaningless lately, as each day had merged into the next in a never-ending cycle of sleeping and toil. A snowfield unbroken by any peak or valley stretched out to the dark horizon, a stark contrast to the glowering clouds overhead. Here and there a small upthrust of rock pierced the flat plain of ice, but that was all. For many days Kurt and his followers had traversed this wasted land without sight of life, intelligent or otherwise.
Their journey through the mountains had been arduous, but guided by Orst they had made good time. The twisted, bestial warrior had led them away from the few settlements that could be found in the depths of the inhospitable peaks, but still they had twice chanced upon Norse warbands, both also heading north. Kurt and his men had slain many of them, including their leaders, and the survivors had sworn allegiance to Kurt in return for him sparing their lives. Thus his warband was now some twenty strong, and he was confident that any foe, beast or otherwise, would think twice about attacking the well-armed party.
That did not help with the task ahead though, as they stood on a plateau of dark exposed rock, looking out over the wastes. Kurt knew there was life here, that there were tribes that lived this far north; he just wasn't sure how they survived in such an unforgiving landscape. There was no fertile land to till, no rivers to fish, no woods to hunt, but the people of the north must eat and drink, he consoled himself.
Orst snuffled impatiently and lumbered along the cliff edge to the right. Seeing the others following him, he settled into his loping stride, leading them towards a way down onto the plains beneath. Kurt walked beside Undar and Jakob, the others following behind.
'Can you feel how strong the breath of the gods blows?' said Jakob, walking along with a thick, twisted branch as a staff to aid him. 'It burns my veins.'
'I can feel it too,' said Undar, taking a deep breath as if to inhale the magical energy that poured around them from the north. 'I can feel it in my bones and in my blood. We should be wary of anyone we meet, for if they have been born and raised with this power around them, there is no saying how powerful they might be.'
'I'm not afraid,' said Kurt, turning his head to look at Undar. 'We are truly in the lands of the gods now. If we do not fight under their gaze here, then nowhere will they see our endeavours. I can feel their power, and it is there for us all, whether we were born in these barren lands or not. It is they who will decide who triumphs and who fails.'
'I admire your confidence.' replied Undar with a grin. 'If it was the gods who crossed out paths together, then I thank them.'
Jakob merely grunted and slowed his pace, waiting for the others to pass him by. When the rest of the warband were some way ahead, he stopped and pulled a pouch from his belt. Inside, his rune-stones clattered heavily. Opening the pouch he pulled one out. Once it had been the size of his thumbnail, and he could have held them all in one hand. Now it was a pebble the size of an eyeball, and it almost throbbed with power as he held it on his upraised palm. He could see blood-red veins on its surface, and striations of gold and silver that he had never noticed before.
With another glance to make sure he was unobserved by the others, he sat down, cross-legged, and placed the rune-stone in front of him on the hard rock. Closing his eyes, he held his hands a finger's breadth above the stone and breathed in, calming his mind. Focussing his thoughts, he began a mumbled chant, one that he had first heard many years ago as he had lain hidden at the back of the old shaman's tent, silently mouthing the words he overheard. Now the enchantment was simple, and it took him barely a few minutes to absorb the power of the rune-stone into himself, feeling its burning energy coursing through his body, almost painful in its potency.
Opening his eyes, he saw that the stone was perhaps half the size it had been. With a smile, he placed the stone back in the pouch and pulled out another. Yes, the breath of the gods blew strongly, and Jakob knew just how to use it.
Orst had led them to a winding gulley, and as they made their way down the narrow defile, Kurt noticed the man-beast sniffing the air suspiciously. He seemed agitated, and often paused, cocking his head to one side and listening. Orst's tension began to seep into the thoughts of the others, and the quiet chatter that had echoed from the walls of the thin canyon had ceased. Kurt caught the scrape of a sword being loosened in its scabbard, a nervous cough from Bjordrin, the off-key whistling that Gird had become prone to when he was anxious.
Nearing the bottom of the descent, the defile widened, and at its centre stood a great monolith, easily three times the height of a man, and wider than Kurt's outstretched arms. Like a guardian it stood at the opening of the defile onto the plains beyond. From its base to its roughly hewn tip, it was carved in large runes, worn to scratches by many years exposed to the elements. On a great iron ring, driven into the stone at head height, a horned skull was hung, painted with flaking red dye. It had three eyes, and the crack in one temple was obviously from a blow of some kind.
'A warning?' Kurt asked, turning to Bjordrin who was following directly behind him. 'A territory marker?'
'A grave,' said Jakob, pushing past and hurrying forward to look at the monument. He craned his neck to look at its tip. 'The runes are faint, and strangely drawn, but I recognise some of it. Here is found the skull of, I'm not sure what the next word is, perhaps it means something like blood, perhaps heart. Yes, it is Blood-drinker, Vandel Blood-drinker. Here he fell, axe in hand, Kharneth's name upon his lips. May his soul be granted the eternal fight, for he battles on with the armies of the gods. Blessed is this skull, and curses of the Lord of Skulls on those who would defile it. There is more, about who he fought and killed, the great gifts bestowed upon him by Kharneth, the skulls he harvested for his god, and so on.'
'And would you erect such a marker for my grave?' asked Kurt, looking at Bjordrin.
'Not yet, Sutenvulf,' Bjordrin replied with a shrug. 'Perhaps when you have achieved something, you might be worth it.'
'I took you to the lands of the ancient kings and back, and I'm not worthy of such a monument?' said Kurt, genuinely incredulous.
'Not when you have now promised to lead us to the Gate of the Gods,' said Undar, looking at the imposing monolith. 'Perhaps when we've got a bit closer, you might deserve one.'
'I don't like it here,' said Gird. 'This place has an ill feeling about it.'
'Everywhere has an ill feeling about it, according to you,' replied Bjordrin. 'No wonder you whimper in your sleep.'
'I don't!' argued Gird, his outburst rattling the skeleton upon the banner pole he carried.
They fell silent as they heard a noise echoing along the canyon walls from ahead - the distinctive sound of metal on metal. Kurt pulled his sword free, and stepped to the left, circling around the monolith. The others fanned out around him to the left and right, readying their own weapons.
At the mouth of the defile, barely visible against the dark sky, a group of warriors stood, axes, maces and swords in hand. Each was clad in full armour, enamelled with red and painted with black runes, and at the front their leader held a massive hound on a chain, its fur a deep bronze colour. In his right hand he held a single-headed axe, a skull spli
t from chin to brow adorning the shaft and blade.
He raised the axe, and his warriors stepped forward alongside him, some two dozen in all. He then lowered the axe until it was pointing at Kurt, the challenge obvious. As he strode forwards, Kurt raised his sword and then returned the gesture, accepting the challenge, in a ritual that had been undertaken in these lands ever since man had first recognised the power of the gods.
With a shout, the enemy champion released the chain and the hound ran towards Kurt, its slavering jaws gaping wide, filled with finger-long fangs. Grossly swollen muscles bunched and released under its thin skin as it bounded forward. With a moaning howl, Orst lumbered out from Kurt's right and the hound, scenting the bestial warrior, turned in its run. In a storm of claws and fangs, the two leaped at each other, gouging at fur and ripping flesh.
Kurt had no time to watch the display of raw savagery being acted out, as the rival champion and his followers rushed forwards with wordless bellows ringing from their helms. Kurt stopped his advance and took up a wide-legged stance, sword in both hands, learned over many years on the training ground of the Osterknacht. One of the enemy warriors, faceless behind his helmet, heavy chains clanging against his breastplate, hurled himself directly at Kurt, a short sword in each hand.
Kurt parried the first blow easily enough, and swayed backwards as the tip of the enemy's second sword swung past a few inches in front of his face. As he prepared to riposte, Kurt was struck by the sheer speed of the foe's assault, the warrior filled with a manic energy as he thrust forwards with a sword again. Blow after blow rang against Kurt's blade and he found himself giving ground, forced back pace after pace. The sounds of fighting had erupted around him, but he could not even spare a glance to see how his comrades fared, the lightning blows by his enemy requiring all of his attention.
Another red-clad warrior appeared to Kurt's right and he ducked beneath a screaming axe blade, thrusting forwards, the point of his sword clanging off the newcomer's armour. Neither seemed to slow in their assault, invigorated as they were by the power of the Blood God. Realising that he could not defend forever against such a remorseless attack, Kurt delved down into himself, drawing in the energy that flowed around and through him.
His sword erupted into flames as he unleashed the magic of the gods, the blade shearing through the axe head of one of his foes, spattering him and Kurt with droplets of molten iron. Ignoring the scalding metal splashed across his chest, Kurt lunged forward, smashing the tip of his burning blade through the chest of the warrior with the destroyed axe. A blade from the other fighter bit into Kurt's shoulder and he gave a yell, more of anger than pain.
Wrenching his sword free in a spurt of arterial blood, Kurt swung his sword overhead and brought it down towards the helm of the surviving foe. The two swords raised to block the attack shattered under the impact of the magical blade, and Kurt cleaved down with all of his strength. The blow split the warriors head in two and carved down into his chest, almost bisecting him.
There was no pause for respite though, as the remains of the warrior fell at Kurt's feet, bubbling thick, dark blood onto the snow-covered ground. A glance to the right showed that Orst had despatched the hound and was snapping and snarling at two enemies with long spears, who thrust and prodded at his body, already streaming with blood from dozens of cuts and punctures.
A warning shout from the left spun Kurt around, in time to see the champion of Kharneth leaping over the headless body of one of Kurt's men, running full tilt at Kurt himself. Kurt had no time to brace himself, such was the speed of the other champion's sprint, and the two of them collided heavily, the wind smashed from Kurt's lungs as the red-armoured warrior drove his shoulder into Kurt's body. The two rolled on the ground, Kurt slamming his forehead against the armoured face of the enemy, his foe pounding at Kurt's head with the pommel of his axe.
With a kick, Kurt pushed himself to his feet, tearing himself free from the grasp of his enemy. Axe in hand, the other champion launched himself up from the ground; by this time Kurt was ready, sidestepping the charge and swinging his sword at the exposed back of his foe as he swept past. The blade bit into the armour of the champion, hurling him across the ground in a cloud of ice and dirt. The warrior pushed himself to his feet, retrieved his axe from where he had dropped it, and charged again.
This time Kurt met force with force, dipping his body and putting all of his considerable weight behind his outstretched sword. The impetus of the champions onslaught carried him onto the blade, the sword punching through the armour of his helm into his nose before erupting out of the back of his head in a fountain of gore. The man collapsed, hanging by his head from Kurt's blade. With a roll of his shoulder, Kurt ripped the sword out of the top of the champion's head, thick, oozing ichor hissing on its supernaturally hot blade.
Kurt turned away to view the rest of the fight, but spun back as he heard the sound of a metallic laugh behind him. His helm ruined, the champion stood up, axe still in hand. Through the torn metal, Kurt could clearly see the man's face, ravaged and bloody, strands of muscle and fat hanging down from the ragged wound.
'Mother of the gods,' Kurt whispered to himself as the champion took up a fighting stance, and gave an ironic salute with his axe.
An explosion of light to Kurt's right attracted the attention of both. There stood Jakob, back against the monolith. A few yards from him, three smoking suits of armour lay on the ground as purple lighting played from the shaman's fingertips in a storm of crackling energy. Jakob's expression was one of terror as the energy pulsed from his hands, the charred corpses bucking and trembling as the lightning poured into them. With a shuddering gasp, Jakob collapsed to his knees as the energies dissipated.
Kurt reacted more quickly, swinging his sword in a rising arc, its tip connecting with the enemy champion in his groin. Lifted off the ground by the force of the blow, the champion was hurled backwards again, one leg spinning off to the left. Kurt stalked forwards, sword ready, but this time the champion did not move. Standing over the body, Kurt plunged his sword down through the armoured chest, just to make sure.
Undar was swinging left and right with his huge mace, keeping two warriors at bay, the corpses of three more lying mangled nearby. Bjordrin stepped over the body of another, blood streaming from a long cut down his left arm, and drove his sword into the back of one of the fighters facing Undar. As the other turned his head at this fresh attack, Undar's mace struck him in the chest, crushing his armour and sending blood, splinters of bone and shards of metal exploding outwards, the jagged remnants hurled across the ice-layered ground.
Some ten of Kurt's men were down, most of them likely dead by the grievous wounds hacked across their bodies and heads. Two more of the Kharneth worshippers stood back to back, hemmed in by Gird and three others. One of the armoured warriors leaped forward and Gird swung the banner around like a staff, connecting heavily with the warrior's head and spinning him to the ground. The other, realising his back was unprotected, glanced back and forth at the closing circle of foes, and then with a roar, took a double-handed grip on his axe and waded forward, disembowelling one of Kurt's men and sending the others scurrying back out of reach.
As the stalemate continued, Kurt strode over, sparing a glance for Jakob who was now stood leaning against the monument, one hand clasped to his face as blood streamed from his nose. Gird stood aside as Kurt approached, and the enemy fighter charged through the gap towards Kurt. Two steps to the left and a backhand strike sent the warrior's head sailing into the air, streaming blood like a comet trail.
'See who's dead, and who can walk,' ordered Kurt, stepping over the headless body, with a look at Gird and the others. 'Any that can't walk, send them to the gods with honour.'
Gird nodded and hurried off while Kurt stood next to the still form of the surviving foe, who was shaking his head groggily as he sat up, looking for the sword that had been knocked from his grasp by the impact of Gird's blow with the banner.
'Get up,' s
aid Kurt, resting his hands on the pommel of his blazing sword, its tip melting into the snow at Kurt's feet.
The warrior stood, and with a snarl, threw a punch at Kurt, which he caught easily on his right forearm, turning the blow aside. In the same movement, Kurt leaned forward and caught a grip on the warrior's throat, between his heavy breastplate and full helm. Lifting the man a few inches off the ground, Kurt looked at the wild, fury-filled eyes that stared at him from the helm's visor.
'What is your name?' Kurt asked. The man kicked and struggled against Kurt's iron grip until Kurt drove his sword into the ground and with his free left hand, smashed a fist into the side of the man's head. 'What is your name?'
Vlamdir, beloved of Khargha,' the man replied. 'I will not surrender. Kharga would feast upon my soul and shit out my honour for such weakness.'
'How long have you waited in ambush here?' Kurt said, looking over his shoulder at the monument. 'Why here?'
Vlamdir remained silent for a moment until Kurt raised his fist again.
'Every spring we come to the great cliff, to the stone of Vandel,' the warrior said. 'Here we fight for Kharga until he eats the sun and sends us back to our fires and wives.'
'And how long until Kharga eats the sun?' Kurt asked.
'It will not be many days now,' said Vlamdir, raising a hand to point at the glowering skies. 'Even now, he opens his mouth wide. His hunger has come early. The battles have not fed him this year. The blood for his cup has not flowed long enough. The skulls for his belly have been few.'
'And if you refuse to surrender, I will have to kill you,' Kurt said, lowering the man to the ground but maintaining his grip. 'You are a fierce warrior, and Kharga obviously favours you. Would it not be better to swear your oath to me so that perhaps you can feed him more skulls?'
The man did not reply, and Kurt could see the man's eyes looking at him and then over Kurt's shoulder at the monolith. After a long while in thought, Vlamdir nodded. Releasing his grip, Kurt straightened, towering over the warrior who he now realised was quite short, even for a man not as blessed by the gods as himself. The top of his head barely reached to Kurt's chest.