Hammer and Bolter 11

by Christian Dunn

  Blood sloshed down onto Gorthor and he opened his jaws to accept the offering. Then, with a grunt, he tossed the twitching body to the ground, jerking Impaler free in the process. The butt of the spear thudded into the dais and Gorthor glared at his army. One big fist thumped his chest. ‘I lord here! Gorthor! Not Crushhoof! Not Benthorn or Splaypaw or Doombite! By this spear, Gorthor rules!’ he roared and hefted Impaler over his head. The gathered beasts howled in reply.

  Krumholtz watched as the first volley of fire-arrows were loosed from the walls of the palace. His soul cringed at the thought of what would happen to any of the city’s citizens who were left out there, crouching in cellars or attics. But he said nothing. Mikael had moved beyond wanting to save the city into wanting to deny it to his enemies in the two days since they’d fallen back to the palace. He shared looks with the other counsellors, all of whom had similar looks on their faces. Worry, mingled with apprehension.

  Ludendorf had many virtues, among them a savage zeal that made even battle-hardened priests of Sigmar give way. But his flaws were just as fierce at times, and zeal could become blind stubbornness as easily as courage. It had ever been such with the Ludendorfs; Hochland’s nobility were fiercer than almost any in the Empire. Such was the reason that the position of Elector’s Hound had been created. A second head, one to remain level when the Elector inevitably gave vent to the rages of the blood. Of course, the position’s authority rested on the holder’s ability to get the Elector in question to listen.

  ‘We’ll burn them out like rats,’ Ludendorf growled, glaring at the city as new smoke clouds began to billow up to join those created by the fires that the beasts had already started. Nearby, men poured water drawn from the palace’s cistern onto the walls, to ward against the fire. ‘I’ll not let him have it. Not after all we did to make this place impregnable,’ he continued gesturing to the stout walls that surrounded the inner town of Hergig. ‘We can take back the city from here, Aric, after they’ve been driven out by the fire. We can take back the province. Drive the beasts into the Talabec, even!’ He looked down at the cramped courtyard at the huddled groups of civilians and soldiers without really seeing them. Krumholtz watched him rant. None of the other counsellors met his eyes, and he knew it was up to him.

  ‘We can’t hold the city, Mikael,’ he began evenly. ‘The North Wall is unstable and the rest of the keep isn’t much better. We have to retreat, and pull that monster and his herd after us. We can give our people – the people of Hergig – time to flee.’ Seeing the look on the Elector’s face, he said, ‘We would not be abandoning Hergig, Mikael… we are preserving Hochland.’

  ‘Preserving yourself, you mean!’ someone yelled from one of the surrounding buildings. Rotten fruit, broken bricks and the contents of bedpans flew at the men on the wall from the surrounding rooftops. At a barked command from Krumholtz, several men peeled off from a group below and hurried into the cramped buildings, kicking in doors and shattering windows along the way. Krumholtz watched as screaming people, starving and frightened, were dragged out of their homes and tossed into the street. Six in all, five of them labourers by their clothing. The sixth was a boy, thin and fragile-looking. He knew that they likely weren’t the hecklers. It didn’t matter. Krumholtz followed the Elector down into the courtyard towards the prisoners.

  ‘Cousin?’ Ludendorf said, in the sudden silence.

  Krumholtz swallowed and laid a hand on the hilt of the Butcher’s Blade. ‘My lord Elector?’

  ‘Do your duty,’ Ludenhof said.

  The Butcher’s Blade sprang from its sheath with startling speed and five heads rolled into the gutter. The blade halted above the neck of the sixth, the stroke pulled inches from the boy’s neck. Krumholtz stepped back, his face stony. ‘Five is an adequate example, I think.’

  ‘Do you?’ Ludendorf said, teeth bared. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his Runefang and for a moment, Krumholtz feared he would complete the execution himself. Then his hand flopped limply, draped over the pommel. Ludendorf looked around the courtyard, meeting the hollow stares of his people. ‘Where would you go, Aric?’ he said mildly.

  ‘Talabheim,’ someone said. The other counsellors murmured agreement.

  Ludendorf smiled. ‘Say you make it to Talabheim. And then? There’s little chance of the beasts breaching those walls, no, but they can swarm the land unopposed, which is likely what they want. The Drakwald is cancerous as it stands… imagine it in a season, when the beasts have a province to feed on; it will be a bleeding tumour in the gut of our Empire, Aric. One that will take us years to burn clean, if it’s even possible. Civilisation will be reduced to a few mighty cities, isolated and cut off from one another. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Only the preservation of the Empire matters. And that means breaking them here,’ Ludendorf said.

  ‘And what about preserving the people of Hochland?’

  ‘There’s an old hunter’s saying… when you and a friend are being chased by a bear, don’t try and outrun it; instead, trip your friend,’ Ludendorf said, looking up at the smoke. The shapes of harpies soared out of it, wailing and shrieking. Bows and long-rifles spoke, knocking several of the grotesque shapes out of the air. ‘While the bear is busy with us, we can gut it and render it impotent.’ He looked at Krumholtz. ‘There is a method to my madness, Aric. It’s not just stubbornness.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Krumholtz said, his voice pitched low. ‘Be honest with me Mikael. Is this pride talking?’

  ‘Don’t presume too much on our kinship, Aric,’ Ludendorf said, not looking at him.

  ‘Mikael, Ostland has already fallen. Even if reinforcements were coming, it’s unlikely they’ll reach us in time. Especially not with you burning the city out from under us!’ Krumholtz said, his voice growing louder. ‘But we can save our people now. All we have to do is–’

  ‘What? Abandon the capital? Flee into the wilderness?’ Ludendorf said. ‘And just how would you go about that, cousin?’

  ‘We parley,’ Krumholtz said. Ludendorf’s face flushed.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Krumholtz took a breath. ‘We parley. That monster out there is many things, but he is not dumb. The more time he takes on us, the greater the likelihood his army will be diminished by desertion, infighting and attack. But if we offer him the city, we could escape! We can escort the survivors out, let them scatter into hiding and then march towards Talabheim to join up with their forces!’

  ‘Just give him the city? My city?’ Ludendorf said.

  ‘Better the city than the lives of our people!’

  ‘Their lives are mine to spend as I see fit!’ Ludendorf shouted. He gestured to the clumps of huddled survivors. ‘I would spill every drop of blood in the province to destroy that animal! That beast that dares think to challenge us! And you want to surrender?’

  ‘For Hochland–’ Krumholtz began.

  ‘I am Hochland!’ Ludendorf roared. His voice echoed through the courtyard.

  ‘No! You are a prideful lunatic!’ Krumholtz shouted back, the words leaving his mouth before he realiSed it.

  Ludendorf froze. Then, he pointed a shaking hand at Krumholtz. ‘Give me your sword.’

  ‘What?’ Krumholtz blinked. He was suddenly aware of the others pulling away from him, and he felt a sinking sensation deep in his gut.

  ‘Your sword. Give it to me. I’ll not have a coward as my Hound.’

  Krumholtz’s face went stiff. ‘I’m no coward.’

  ‘No? Retreat this, fall back that. Always running, Aric, never holding. Never standing,’ Ludendorf hissed. His hands curled into fists. ‘Run then, Aric. Run right out those gates. Let’s see how far you make it, eh?’

  ‘Mikael…’

  The Runefang slid out of its sheath with an evil hiss and Krumholtz stumbled back, reaching unconsciously for his own blade. He stopped himself from drawing it and let his hands fall. ‘Go,’ Ludendorf said. ‘Go and be damned.’
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  Krumholtz straightened and unbuckled his sword-belt. ‘As you wish, my Count.’ Without looking at his cousin, he dropped the Butcher’s Blade in the dust and turned away. As he made for the gates, he was aware of the world closing in around him, narrowing his vision to a pinpoint. Outside the gates, damnation waited and capered. At the back of his mind, a tiny voice wondered which was worse, what awaited him outside, or what he’d seen inside.

  No one tried to stop him.

  No one called him back.

  And when he died, no one was watching.

  Ludendorf sat in his palace, the Butcher’s Blade resting over his knees, the Runefang sunk into the polished wood of the floor. He heard a distant roar, and knew his cousin was dead. His fury had abated, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘You have to understand, Aric,’ he said to the empty room. ‘It’s not pride keeping me here. It’s not.’

  He waited for a reply. When none was forthcoming, he closed his eyes. ‘It’s not,’ he said again.

  The giant was a malformed thing, with jagged curls of bone bursting through its tortured flesh. It moaned as it uprooted another roof and tossed it aside with a crash. Four of the mammoth beasts worked steadily, pulling down buildings and slamming them into pieces even as hundreds of gors crawled across the shattered timbers, lashing them together. It had taken them three days, and the fire hadn’t helped matters. But Gorthor watched, and was pleased. He had enslaved the giants personally, his crude magics binding their weak minds to his own. Their thoughts fluttered at the edge of his consciousness like moths caught in a storm.

  ‘Waste of time, waste of time,’ Wormwhite muttered.

  Gorthor tossed a lazy glance at the shaman. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We will take the town, as the gods want. But we will do it my way. Gorthor’s way.’

  ‘Stupid,’ one of the chieftains said. It wasn’t the first time that one of his sub-chieftains had commented on Gorthor’s insistence on building siege towers and battering rams, as opposed to simply forcing the gates in the traditional fashion.

  Gorthor grunted and reached out. He grabbed the scruff of the chieftain’s neck and jerked the startled gor into the air. Muscles bulging, Gorthor shook the critic the way a hound shakes a rat and then tossed him into the dirt. ‘One gate,’ Gorthor growled. ‘One!’ He glared at them and gestured at the platforms being built. ‘Many,’ he said. ‘Cannot crush with only one finger.’ He made a fist. ‘Must use all at once.’ His lips quirked and he laughed. ‘One herd cannot destroy them, but many – all at once?’ He looked at them, wondering if the lesson had sunk in. He caught Wormwhite looking at him strangely, and Gorthor glared at the shaman. ‘Speak, shaman.’

  ‘This is not the way of the gods,’ the albino said. He spread his talons and witch-light curled around their tips. ‘We break, we do not build,’ he continued. ‘The gate is there! We should attack!’

  ‘The gods want the town, Gorthor will give them the town,’ Gorthor said matter-of-factly. ‘But I will not waste warriors to do so!’ He thumped a fist on his chariot. ‘One hole no good. Need many.’

  ‘Bld fr th’ bldgd,’ another chieftain growled. He slapped his brass-sheathed horn with his axe and set sparks to drifting down. Behind him, the red-stained hair of his followers bristled in eagerness.

  ‘The blood-god wants man-blood, not beast-blood!’ Gorthor countered, showing them his teeth. After Crushhoof, Brasshorn was one of the loudest grumblers. And Brasshorn’s Khorngors with him. Eager for blood and skulls and souls, and not very particular about where they came from.

  ‘Blood-god wants all blood,’ Wormwhite said pointedly, eliciting snarls of agreement from Brasshorn and his followers. ‘Gods demand our blood, Beastlord. Demand man-blood! Demand we dance on the cities of men and crush skulls beneath our hooves! Crush, not create! Burn, not build! Smash, not speak!’ Wormwhite’s voice grew ever shriller and Gorthor’s hackles rose. The other shamans joined in, uttering warbling denunciations of his procrastination.

  Gorthor had never feared the ire of the wonder-workers. As a blessed child of the gods, he had known that their magic was as nothing to his. But now, now he could feel the warp dancing along the edge of each prickled hair and he made his decision a moment later.

  Wormwhite’s skull made a wet sound as Impaler passed through it and nailed the slop of his brains to a wall. Silence fell, as it had earlier with Crushhoof’s demise. Gorthor could feel the rage of the gods in his nerve-endings, but he ignored it and jerked Impaler free, brandishing it at his advisors. ‘Gods will have blood… seas and messes of it! But Gorthor will deliver that blood! Gorthor will deliver it his way! In his time!’

  He looked around, noting with satisfaction that none dared meet his gaze. He stamped a hoof and bounded aboard his chariot. ‘And Gorthor says that time is now!’ he roared, waving his spear over his head. A spasm threatened him, but he forced it aside. He would listen to the gods after. After! Now was only for doing what they demanded.

  His chariot rumbled forward, picking up speed as the tuskagors pulling it snorted and chewed the ground with their hooves. The giants stomped past, easily outdistancing the chariots as they slammed the crude bridges down across the wall. And waiting there below were eager gors, carrying improvised scaling ladders and battering rams. They streamed like ants through the streets, some of them surrounding the gates of the inner palace even as one of the giants, peppered with hundreds of arrows, slumped against the weakened wall that Wormwhite’s necromancy had indicated and sent it tottering.

  Something flashed behind Gorthor’s eyes as he squatted in the back of his chariot, waving Impaler. Visions of brass horsemen, cutting through his ranks. He shook it off. No. No, it wouldn’t be that way! The gods were watching him. He was doing as they asked! They would protect him as they had always done! He roared and clutched Impaler in both hands, shaking it high as his chariot thundered towards the gates of the palace. A giant was already there, tearing at the door even as oil burned its skin and belching guns found its eyes. It screamed piteously as it fell, taking the great wooden doors with it and only stopped when the iron-bound wheels of Gorthor’s chariot pulped its skull.

  The last defenders of Hergig were waiting there for Gorthor and he roared as his chariot crashed into them. Impaler flashed out, lopping off limbs and piercing bodies, staining the stones red. Men fell beneath his wheels and were gored by his tuskagors. More chariots followed him, filling the wide avenue with a rolling wall of spiked death.

  And then, in one moment, it all went terribly wrong.

  When the horns sounded, Gorthor knew at once what his visions had been trying to tell him, and he felt a brittle sensation that might have been the laughter of the Dark Gods. Beneath his feet, the ground trembled. There were new smells on the wind and he looked up, peering back along the trail of destruction he had left in his wake. Over the heads of struggling combatants, he saw a gleam of something that might have been brass and he heard the blare of coronets. His visions returned, blasting over and through him and a chill coursed down his spine.

  Horsemen clad in burnished plate charged towards him, their steeds grinding his warriors into the street as they rode on. Gorthor speared the first to reach him, hauling the man off of his horse. He swung the body of the brass man into the air and tossed it aside in a burst of furious strength. The fear that had seized him upon sighting the warrior faded into confusion. Was this what the gods had been trying to tell him? Was this what they had wanted? He snorted and turned away from the crumpled body. His warriors were locked in combat with the men and the city was burning. His nostrils flared and another spasm passed through him. He thought of Wormwhite’s dead eyes and bit back a snarl.

  No, he was blessed. Blessed! Hergig would be his, gods or no. More trumpets blared out and burnt his ears. He spun and watched in consternation as the defenders of Hergig fell upon his forces through the holes he’d made in their defences. The new arrivals crashed into the packed ranks of beastmen, carving through them with ease as the child
ren of Chaos panicked, caught between the hammer and the anvil. Gorthor snarled in rage. He had to rally his troops. He had to re-order them, to pull them back and prepare to meet this new threat. He leapt from his chariot and clambered up a nearby statue with simian agility. Holding Impaler aloft, he issued desperate commands. The armoured shapes of his chieftains and Bestigors responded, cutting a path to him, but too late.

  Even as the cream of his warherd assembled, the rest of it began to melt away, caught as they were in the pincers of the two forces. He could hear laughter in his head and knew at once that an ending was here.

  The gods had demanded a sacrifice. He had thought it was this town, but he had been mistaken. Or perhaps blind. Those beloved of the gods were often the ones they called home soonest, and the thought filled him with berserk rage. Frothing at the mouth, his mind filled with the mocking laughter of the Dark Gods, Gorthor lifted Impaler and looked towards the palace. His fangs ground together and he dropped off of the statue. Stones buckled beneath his feet and he straightened. Impaler raised, he began to run and his herd followed suit.

  The gods demanded blood. And though they had turned from him, Gorthor would deliver it nonetheless.

  Ludendorf drew the Butcher’s Blade with one hand and Goblin-Bane with the other. Today, at the last, he would be his own Hound. He hadn’t bothered to find another, and no one had volunteered.

  He didn’t blame them. On some level, Ludendorf wondered if he were truly ruthless, or simply mad. Had he sent his cousin to death and doom for causing dissension where none could be tolerated, or for simply speaking the truth?

  ‘Aric,’ he said softly, examining the Butcher’s Blade in the weak light of day. ‘Why couldn’t you for once have just listened?’ His gaze slid to Goblin-Bane and he sighed. The Runefang of Hochland seemed to purr as he made a tentative pass through the air with it. A weapon passed down from father to son, it lusted for battle with a passion that matched his own. It craved death, and spells of murder had been beaten into its substance during its forging. It longed to split the Beastlord’s skull, and he longed to let it. ‘Soon enough,’ he murmured.