01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

He twisted out of the encounter, arching his body to deflect the secondary blow, using the power of the beast to drag it forward. He could still sense the battle raging around him. There was no way of telling who was winning. All his attention was bent on the monster before him. This was the fulcrum of the battle. If he failed now, then they all died.

  He pulled back, but Raghram was upon him. The axe swung down again. The obvious choice was to step back, evade the curve. But the Rechtstahl seemed to draw him on. Inured to hesitation, Schwarzhelm plunged inside the arc of the axe, crouching low. He was within the grasp of the beast. Twisting the blade in both hands, he brought the tip up. With a savage lunge, he thrust it upwards, aiming beneath the doombull’s ribcage.

  The tip pierced its flesh, driving deep. Fresh blood coursed over his face, hot and rancid. The doombull roared afresh and pulled back. Schwarzhelm withdrew the blade, ducking under flailing fingers, feeling the monster nearly grasp him. He pulled back again, feeling his breathing become more rapid. There was no fatigue, no weariness, but the sheer power of the beast was impressive. He would need to do more than stab at it. From somewhere, the killing blow would need to be found.

  Now the creature was wary. It lowered its head. The horns dripped with rain. The axe hung low against the ground. When it growled, the earth seemed to reverberate in warped sympathy. Schwarzhelm held his position, sword raised. His eyes shone in the dark. Every movement his opponent made, every inflection, needed to be observed. He would wait. The Rechtstahl felt light in his hands. On either side, the savage cries of battle still raged. His knights were holding their ground. No gor would get to him while any of them could still wield a blade. The duel would be undisturbed.

  Raghram charged again. Even as the hooves pushed against the rock, Schwarzhelm could see the energy exerted. The muscles in the goat-shaped thighs bunched, powering the massive creature forward. The head stayed low, trailing long lines of blood-flecked drool. As the doombull moved, its horns swayed.

  Schwarzhelm adjusted his stance. His armour suddenly felt like scant protection. Keeping his eyes on the swaying axe-blade, he braced for impact.

  It was like being hit by a storm. A human, however strong, had no chance of halting such a monster. It was all Schwarzhelm could do not to get knocked from his feet. Bringing all the power he could to bear, he traded vicious blows from the axe with the Rechtstahl, giving ground with every one. Raghram let slip a crooked smile as it advanced. Deep within that deranged face, something like amusement had emerged. He was being toyed with.

  Schwarzhelm leaped back, clearing half a yard of space, and let the Rechtstahl fly back in a savage backhanded arc. If it had connected, it would have spilled the monster’s guts across the Bastion floor. But Raghram was too old and wily for that. With a deceptive grace, it evaded the stroke, its momentum unbroken.

  This was dangerous. Schwarzhelm felt his balance compromised, but there was no room to retreat. The axe blade hammered down, and he barely parried it. His blade shivered as the full force of the axe landed on it, and he felt the power ripple through his body.

  He gave ground again, losing the initiative. Raghram filled the void, hacking at his adversary even as it roared in triumph.

  Then the axe got through. Whether it was skill or luck, the doombull’s blade cut past Schwarzhelm’s defence. It landed heavily against his right shoulder, driving deep into the metal of the pauldron. He felt the plate stove inwards. An instant later sharp pain bloomed out, and he staggered back from the blow.

  Raghram leapt up. The axe was raised, and a look of scorn played across the bull-face. Schwarzhelm raised his sword in defence, watching the advance of the monster carefully The doombull came on quickly. Too quickly. In its eagerness to land the killing blow, its axe blade was held too far out.

  Schwarzhelm swept his sword up, twisting it in his hands as he did so. He left his torso unguarded. That was intended. The manoeuvre was about speed. Raghram reacted, but slowly. The Rechtstahl cut a glittering path through the air. Its point sliced across the beast’s face, pulling the flesh from the bone and throwing it high into the storm-tossed air.

  Raghram staggered backwards, a lurid gash scored across its mighty cheek and forehead. The great creature lolled, stumbled and rocked backwards, blinded by its own blood.

  Schwarzhelm recovered his footing. The Rechtstahl glistened eagerly. Taking the blade in both hands, he surged forward. The tip passed clean between the beast’s protruding ribs, deep into the unholy torso and into the animal’s heart.

  Raghram screamed, and the last veils of shadow around it ripped away. The sudden lurch nearly wrenched the blade from Schwarzhelm’s grip, but he hung on, twisting the sword further into the monster’s innards. It bit deep, searing the tainted flesh like a branding iron on horsehide. The doombull attempted to respond, flailing its axe around, searching for the killer blow.

  But its coordination was gone. Slowly, agonisingly, the pumping of the mighty heart ebbed. The light in its eyes went out. With its throat full of bubbling, foamy blood, Raghram, the master of the horde, sank down against the stone. The iron axe-head clattered against the rock uselessly.

  Schwarzhelm pulled the Rechtstahl free at last. He stood back, lifted the blade to the heavens and roared his triumph.

  “Sigmar!” he bellowed, and his mighty voice echoed from the stone terraces around him.

  Even in the midst of their close-packed combat, the cry reached the ears of man and beast alike. The Knights Panther knew what it portended immediately and redoubled their efforts. Under Gruppen’s grim leadership, they began to hammer the gors further down the slope. Raghram’s body slumped down the dank stone, its rage silenced. Step by step, yard by bitter yard, the tide began to turn. Bereft of the guiding will of the doombull, the assault on the rock citadel foundered. The dark-armoured knights pursued them ruthlessly, their longswords biting deep into the beastmen’s hides.

  Schwarzhelm sank back against the stone, his breathing heavy. For the moment, the counter-assault was conducted by others. The respite would be short, but after such a duel it was needed.

  “Nice work,” came a voice from higher up the rock. Verstohlen emerged from the shadows, his pistol cocked ready to fire. “I’m glad of it. Not sure this thing would have been much use against that.”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t smile. He never smiled.

  “Its hand was forced. Something new has arrived.”

  Verstohlen followed his gaze. Far off, beyond the sea of beastmen out on the Cauldron floor, there was a change. It was hard to make out in the failing light, but there were flashes of steel out in the gloom. Then, as the beastmen finally ceased their chanting, the sound gave it away. The clear horn blast of an Imperial host. There was no noise like it in all the Empire. After a hundred battlefields, it was as familiar to Schwarzhelm as the rain on a thatched roof.

  “Reiksguard,” he said. “Helborg. At last.”

  Verstohlen gave an appreciative nod.

  “That is welcome. We’re still outnumbered. This will turn the balance.”

  Schwarzhelm shot him a disdainful glance.

  “Don’t make excuses for him,” he snapped. “He’s overdue. And if he tries to claim the credit for this victory, I’ll string him up myself. We did this, and paid the price in blood.”

  Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. He looked genuinely taken aback by Schwarzhelm’s vehemence. He started to reply, then seemed to think better of it.

  Schwarzhelm finished wiping Raghram’s gore from the Rechtstahl in silence, then drew himself up to his full height. Around them, the knights had regrouped and were beginning to pursue the remaining gors down the slope. The beastman advance was dissolving into confusion.

  “Go back to the summit,” growled Schwarzhelm. “Someone’ll be needed to keep the army together.”

  “If you wish. Where are you going?”

  Schwarzhelm gave him a flat look. His expression was murderous.

  “Hunting.”

  Hours later, Grunwald
leaned on his halberd. He was near the summit of the Bastion, and had long withdrawn from the fighting. The spires of rock at the pinnacle reached into the sky like fingers. Night had come, and the flickering light of the braziers cast long shadows across the stone. At last, the rain had lessened. Now that the battle was nearly over, he felt the chill enter his bones. His clothes were sodden. His armour and weapons needed cleaning.

  That could wait. It was all he could do to keep standing.

  Morgan came up to him. Like all of them, the commander looked drained.

  “Andreas,” he said. Grunwald nodded in acknowledgement. “A fine victory.”

  Grunwald felt hollow. There were victories he had enjoyed, too many to remember. This was not one of them. His task had been to guard the road, to enable the Reiksguard to ride to the Cauldron unimpeded. He had failed, been driven from his position. Being rescued, even by the Emperor’s Champion himself, was a bitter potion to swallow.

  “How goes the battle?” he asked.

  “Helborg’s broken them,” said Morgan. The bodies of the beasts lie two-deep across the Cauldron. “They’ll take years to recover from this.”

  “Schwarzhelm killed the doombull,” said Grunwald. “That was the turning point. I was there.”

  Morgan laughed.

  “This isn’t a competition, Grunwald.” Then his face darkened, as if humour so soon was inappropriate. “The day’s been barely won. We’ll return with fewer than half the men we brought. The halberdiers have suffered most, lust be content that we didn’t all die here.”

  Grunwald suddenly thought of Ackermann. The man’s body would never be found now, never be buried. He deserved better.

  “Believe me, I’m content,” he lied.

  There was a commotion on the terrace below. Men were moving up to the pinnacle. Gruppen was among them, leading a squadron of battle-ravaged Knights Panther. There were less then twenty of them with him. Grunwald also recognised Tierhof and other commanders. This was a general’s retinue. But there was no general to lead them.

  The captains strode into the light of the braziers. Noble faces all, streaked with blood and mud. Their fine armour was dented and scored. Some had looks of triumph on their faces, others blank weariness. Their labours were over for the night, and now they came to confer on the clear-up.

  Then a new group arrived. Their armour was battle-scarred, but nothing like that of the Knights Panther. They wore no pelts or other elaborate garb. Their plate armour was simple and effective. Their colours were black, red and white. That livery was known all across the Empire. Reiksguard.

  They strutted with the supreme confidence of the Emperor’s elite. Unlike Schwarzhelm’s forces, who had been fighting for hours without respite, they looked fresh. Grunwald could see Morgan and the others try to make themselves look more respectable. He rolled his eyes.

  Then their commander arrived. All knew who he was. His face was the third most recognisable in the whole Empire, after that of Sigmar and Karl Franz himself. Miniatures of his profile adorned the lockets of maidens, and were painted into tavern signs across the provinces. Songs were sung about him by all loyal troops, most of whom would have given their own daughters away just to serve under him. To utter his name was to invoke the saviour of the Empire, the hero of mankind, the master of the Emperor’s numberless armies. Loyal wives would forget their vows the moment he rode into town, and their husbands would forgive them for it.

  He was Kurt Helborg, Kreigsmeister, Hammer of Chaos, Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard. Unlike Schwarzhelm, he cut an elegant figure. His armour shone brightly, glinting in the flames. Despite his ride through the heart of the beastman horde, it seemed like he’d barely suffered a scratch. His equipment was pristine. Even his famed moustache, carefully oiled and stiffened, was immaculate. He could have walked straight from one of the Empress’ balls and he would not have looked out of place.

  But this was no court dandy or effete noble. Helborg’s name was spoken of with reverence by all fighting men. Though they respected Schwarzhelm, they knew little of him. Helborg’s deeds, by contrast, were the stuff of legend. So much so, that he carried not the weapon of a mere general, but the blade of an elector. The Solland runefang, one the ancient twelve. It had many names, across many realms. In the annals of Altdorf it was known as Grollhalter, the Grudgebearer. Others called it the Lightshard, or Hellbringer, or Warpsbane. Helborg himself only used one title for it. Klingerach. The Sword of Vengeance. Thus was it whispered of across the homesteads and households of the Empire. When all seemed bleakest, it was Helborg and Klingerach the common folk prayed to see.

  As the Marshal approached, the knights and commanders fell silent. Helborg strode into the centre of the gathered men.

  “Where is General Schwarzhelm?” he asked. His voice was as weathered as the granite of the Bastion.

  No one knew. Seeing the indecision around him, Grunwald came forward. He was as senior a commander as any of the others.

  “He fights still, my lord,” he said, bowing deferentially. Helborg turned to face him. His glance was piercing, unforgiving.

  “The day is won,” said Helborg. “What fighting is there to do?”

  Grunwald hesitated. Making excuses for his master was a dangerous game. Schwarzhelm spoke for himself. He felt caught between two titans.

  “While beasts remain alive, there remains fighting to do,” came a deep voice from the shadows.

  Schwarzhelm emerged from the gloom beyond the brazier light. He looked terrifying. His armour dripped with dark blood and his heavy beard was caked in gore. His blade was smeared with it. It looked as though he’d waded through a well of entrails. Even Helborg seemed taken aback.

  Schwarzhelm approached him, leaving his blade unsheathed. As he came, he tore his helmet from his head. His expression was hard to read in the dark. Grunwald had witnessed his savage departure after the death of Raghram. He looked scarcely less angry now.

  Awkwardly, the two men embraced. That was as it should be. Brother warriors, congratulating one another after a crushing victory. But all present could see the stilted movements, the grudging handclasp. Schwarzhelm still smouldered with resentment, and the fire would not be put out easily.

  “This is your victory, Ludwig,” said Helborg. None but he could have used Schwarzhelm’s given name.

  “That it is,” snapped Schwarzhelm, and turned away. None but he could have shown his back to the Marshal. Grunwald looked at Tierhof, who looked at Morgan. None knew what to do. Even Gruppen seemed uncertain.

  Then, from far below, a trumpet sounded. Three notes, long and mournful. The signal for the end of the battle. The last of the beasts had been killed or driven into the trees. That seemed to break the spell.

  Helborg’s granite face broke into an unconvincing smile.

  “Yours will be the honour, my friend,” he said, addressing Schwarzhelm’s viscera-smeared shoulders. “You may count on it.”

  “If d better be,” muttered the Emperor’s Champion, as he stalked back off into the dark.

  Dawn broke cold and cheerless. The watery sun crested the eastern horizon, but did little to banish the heavy, low cloud. Though the worst of the rain had passed, the air was still chill. With the destruction of the beasts, the combined forces of Schwarzhelm and Helborg had camped as well as they could on the rock of the Bastion. Out of a combined force of more than seven thousand, fewer than three thousand remained. The heaviest casualties had been amongst those who had manned the pitiless walls of rock. Despite the cold, the surviving troops had slept as heavily as the dead. Grunwald himself had drifted into unconsciousness as soon as his head had hit the gravel of the terrace. When he awoke, the sunrise was long gone and preparations for the march home were already far advanced. The amalgamated forces would head back to Altdorf and report the utter destruction of the latest beastman uprising. They would say it had been shattered between the hammer of Helborg and the anvil of Schwarzhelm. They would say nothing of the botched preparations that had
left half the army fighting on its own for the best part of a day, nor how many lives that had cost.

  Rubbing his eyes, Grunwald sat bolt upright. He could have happily slept for hours more, but he should have woken earlier. There were things to do, things to organise.

  He struggled to his feet and looked around. Across the wide bowl of the Cauldron, bodies lay in heaps. Some were those of men, most those of the beasts. Already vultures were circling above. The stench was ripening. As the day waxed, it would only grow. Even now, he thought he could make out figures picking their way among the cadavers, looking for something they could use. There was a woman, young and slim with short dark hair, merely yards away from him down on the floor of the Cauldron. She was oblivious to his presence. He was too tired to be angry. Too tired for anything.

  Grunwald shook his head to clear it. He was still groggy. His clothes clung to his limbs, cold and deadening.

  “Good morning, Herr Grunwald,” came a familiar voice.

  Andreas turned to face Pieter Verstohlen. “Counsellor,” he replied, and there was warmth in his greeting.

  Verstohlen came over to him, and the two men embraced.

  “I’m told I have you to thank for my life,” said Grunwald.

  Verstohlen shrugged.

  “I had some small part in it. Schwarzhelm can be persuaded, if you know the right means. But there was a halberdier captain out there too, a man named Bloch. If you owe anyone thanks, it is he.”

  “Aye, I know him. Did he make it back to the Bastion?”

  “I was fighting with him before the doombull arrived. If he’s alive, then the general will seek him out. Battle may be the making of a man. Bloch has advanced his reputation.”

  Grunwald felt a sudden pang of shame.

  “Where I failed,” he said, almost to himself.

  Verstohlen frowned.

  “In what way? You held the ridge for as long as anyone could have asked. It was foolish of the commanders not to send relief earlier, and I told them so. There’s no whispering against you, Andreas.”