[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  The shock of the attack was now lost, and the two cavalry forces smashed together as they both urged their horses into the charge. Within minutes, both forces were all but decimated.

  Thorrik hacked and cleaved as he stepped backwards, keeping pace with the weakening Empire line. He hated the idea of giving anything to these enemies, but he knew that if he stood his ground he would be surrounded in seconds and cut down. How he wished he stood alongside doughty dwarf warriors rather than these manlings!

  He grunted as a sword smashed into his helmet. He battered the next attack away with his shield, and carved his axe into the knee joint of an enemy, splintering the bone and sending the warrior crashing to the ground. He disappeared amongst the press, replaced by another pair as they shouldered their way through the fray.

  Feeling the fragile courage of the Empire soldiers faltering, knowing that it would shatter at any moment, Thorrik roared and surged forwards. If he was going to die here then at least he would make a good account for himself, enough for him to be welcomed in the halls of his ancestors. He powered into the first man, striking with his shield rim and crushing the bones of his arm. He buried his axe into the neck of the other, and hot blood pumped from the mortal wound.

  He deflected another thrusting sword blade on his shield, but a powerful blow from an axe connected with his side, and he stumbled. He could taste the sharp, metallic bite of blood on his lips, and another blow struck him, a spiked hammer that smashed into his left shoulder, bending the ancient metal out of shape. It could not breach his thick plate armour, nor the fine-meshed chainmail underneath, but he felt his bones crunch beneath the blow, and shooting pain ran down his arm.

  Thorrik hacked sideways, smashing the axe into the ribs of an enemy. The blade of the weapon was lodged there for a moment, and as he struggled to pull it free, a swinging shield knocked him back a step. He lost his grip on the axe, and was spun around as a sword clipped his wounded shoulder.

  Disoriented and in pain, Thorrik sank to his knees.

  Annaliese’s heart was thumping wildly as she charged into combat at the head of the Empire line. She swung at the head of a hulking bearded figure that towered above her, but her blow was easily intercepted as the warrior stepped forward and lifted his blade into the path of the descending hammer. He died as Eldanair’s sword speared out, taking him in the throat, and then the lines of the Empire soldiers were blurred with those of the enemy as the two sides smashed into each other.

  Annaliese was knocked to the side as she took a blow on her shield, and she cried out in fear, the battle a swirl of chaos all around her. The air was filled with screams and shouts, the deafening sound of weapons clashing and the sickening sound of swords cleaving through flesh and bone. She was bustled and knocked from every direction, and frantically kept her shield up before her, her eyes wide and panicked.

  She looked into the eyes of an Empire soldier, his face covered with blood, as he fell at her knees, and a sudden calmness descended over her. Anger and a stubborn refusal to let the enemy overpower her rose within her, and she lashed out, her hammer slamming into the side of the face of one of her foes. The blow crushed bone and dislocated the man’s jaw, sending him reeling, where he was impaled upon the sword of another soldier.

  “For Sigmar!” Annaliese screamed, and struck again, her blow this time turned aside by a warrior’s shield. Nevertheless, another Empire soldier stepped forwards and stabbed his sword into the neck of the marauder, the blade sliding easily through flesh.

  “Sigmar!” roared the soldiers around her, and they stabbed and blocked furiously, blood splattering.

  Dozens were hacked down beneath the brute power of the enemy, but the Ostermarkers pushed forwards, cutting and hacking.

  Eldanair spun, his long sword in one hand and a knife held in a downward position in his other. He felled an enemy warrior with his flashing sword, the blade cutting deep into his neck before he slashed his knife across the face of another, then reversed the blow and stabbed the blade up into the man’s sternum as he reeled backwards.

  The elf spun neatly, blocking a thrust that would have impaled Annaliese, and stabbed his knife into an eye socket. Another blow that would have killed the girl was deflected by the shield of an Empire soldier who died in the next breath as a spiked hammer pulverised his head.

  Annaliese smashed her hammer into the arm of a tattooed berserker, his face transformed into a hellish visage of hatred and frenzy, crushing the bone and rendering the arm useless. Ignoring the pain, the berserker swung a mailed fist into the girl’s head, knocking her to the ground. She ripped the helmet, which was dented out of shape, off her head, and stared up at the manic killer looming over her.

  A sword cleaved down and split the berserker’s head open, and his hot blood splashed over Annaliese’s face. She looked up into the face of her saviour, seeing Karl Heiden’s eyes through the narrow slit in the black and gold helmet as his steed reared, hooves flashing out. For a second their eyes met, and then the knight was ploughing deeper into the enemy formation, hacking left and right.

  Eldanair hefted her to her feet, and she wiped the blood from her hand to get a better grip on her hammer. Then she surged forwards once again, hurtling back into the fray.

  Grunwald had seen no sign of Annaliese, but pushed on through the brutal melee, battering his way into its midst, his eyes flashing around trying to find the girl.

  Through the chaos around him, he saw a short figure fall to the ground, and broke into a run, bashing a man out of his way with his shield and clubbing another to the ground with his mace.

  Then he was at the dwarf’s side, just as knights appeared all around, smashing through the enemy lines. There was a moment’s respite in the wake of the thundering knights, and Grunwald dropped to one knee beside the ironbreaker. He was amazed at the amount of damage the dwarf seemed to have taken—his armour was dented and pierced in a dozen places, and his helmet and shield bore testament to the number of attacks that had been landed against him.

  “Thorrik! Are you hurt?” he shouted over the din.

  “I’m fine,” snarled the dwarf, and Grunwald tried to help him rise. He weighed a ton—it would have been as futile to try to lift a mountain.

  “Get off me, manling!” Thorrik thundered. The witch hunter saw that the dwarf’s left arm was hanging limply at his side.

  “It’s fine,” snarled the ironbreaker, seeing Grunwald’s eyes.

  There was a ragged cheer, and Grunwald straightened up, looking around him. He could see few enemies, and these were hacked to the ground as he watched, pierced by dozens of swords and spears. A halberd smashed down into the back of a wounded enemy marauder, felling him instantly. The ground was strewn with the dead and dying, and the soldiers set about them, smashing their weapons into the fallen bodies of the enemy.

  The word passed quickly through the ranks, and there was the sound of Empire horns blowing. The enemy was in flight!

  Men cheered and held their weapons up high into the air in defiance.

  “Victory!” shouted one soldier, but the witch hunter shook his head, his eyes locked onto the dark ridge overlooking the battlefield.

  High upon the moorland overlooking the field of carnage below, a doom-laden pounding began. It reverberated down across the land like the heavy beating of a daemonic heart as the massive, armoured sentinels who had been overseeing the progress of the battle began to beat upon their shields with their weapons in perfect unison, the sound potent and instilling fear in the bloodied Empire soldiers below.

  Mounted on the back of its snorting hell-steed, the flaming blue eye hanging in the air above its head, the warlord of this massed host of Chaos lowered his long, barbed glaive towards the weakened Empire lines.

  To the beat of the reverberating sound of weapons upon shields, the elite warriors of the Chaos forces, the chosen of the dark gods, began to march down to battle. And as blue flames erupted all along the shaft of its ancient daemon-weapon, the warlord of the
host descended at their head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The fear projected by the dark warriors, who had long sold their souls to the infernal power of Chaos, was like a tidal wave, and it burst across the Empire lines, washing over them in an all-consuming torrent. Men cried out in horror as they felt the icy chill that came with the wave of fear, and weapons dropped from shaking hands as they watched the hellish figures advancing down toward them.

  Terror engulfed the Empire men and blue fire hurtled from the tip of the warlord’s glaive. It smashed amongst the centre of the Ostermarkers, and men screamed as their flesh was melted from their bones and their armour was twisted out of shape. Terror turned to panic, blind and numbing, and the Empire line broke.

  Men began to stream away from the advancing enemy, banners were dropped into the mud and blood and slush, and templars were thrown as their steeds bucked and kicked.

  Grunwald knew then that all was lost, all hope of victory gone as the soldiers’ resolve was smashed like a fragile crystal beneath a hammer. Ranks turned away from the hellish foe, and men pushed and shoved at each other in their urgency to flee. All order was broken, and the panic turned into a rout.

  Men were trodden into the ground underfoot in the frantic crush. Grunwald was knocked to his knees, and feet trampled over him, kicking and lashing out in their hurry to run before this infernal foe. He swore as he fought against the crowd, and he lost his grip on his shield as heavy feet smashed down onto it.

  He was struck in the head as he tried to rise, and was knocked down again. The threat of being killed beneath the weight of the crush was very real, and he fought like a cornered animal to rise above it.

  He saw a flash of blonde hair and a panicked face, and he lifted himself up, drawing one of his pistols.

  Annaliese was carried along with the crowd, their fear fuelling her own, and her mind was blank, her desperate need to get away overcoming all rational thought. Then she saw Grunwald before her, saw the anger and strength in his face, and her whole world became focused upon him. Her vision narrowed, and she stared down the black barrel of the gun pointed in her direction.

  The words of the witch hunter floated through her mind.

  I will kill you myself…. Better that than let the soldiers see their Maiden of Sigmar run.

  She jerked to a halt, though she was knocked and pushed from behind.

  It all came down to this moment, she thought. Let the fear overcome you now, and if you survive, you will be running for your whole life, a slave to its whim.

  She had somehow lost her shield—she could not remember where, or how—and she clasped her hand around the pendant of Sigmar still hanging from her wrist. She held onto it like a talisman, like it would save her, something that would buoy her in this sea of terror.

  She turned around slowly, her head held high, standing against the terrified flow of humanity surging around her. A shoulder struck her in the chest, and she almost fell, but she forced herself upright. A hand clutched at her leg, and she looked down to see the blood-splattered face of a soldier looking up at her with fearful hope in his eyes. Then he was dead, dropping face-first into the mud, and she saw the pole clutched in his other hand.

  The banner was tattered and trod into the ground, covered with blood and mud and grime. She reached for it, prying the dead soldier’s fingers loose from its grip, straining with all her might to lift it. The press of bodies was too much and she cried out in despair as the weight of failure fell on her as she realised it could not be done. But then Grunwald was at her side, and between them they managed to lift the banner up into the air.

  It fluttered in the wind, rippling the heavy fabric, and then it streamed out over the heads of the fleeing warriors. In the breeze, it seemed like the griffon emblazoned on its surface was flying,

  Grunwald felt a profound sense of awe as the banner was lifted high, and for a moment it seemed as if a golden light surrounded Annaliese. She stood, strong and defiant, the pole of the standard held in her hand.

  “For Sigmar!” he roared at the top of his lungs as faces turned to his direction. Men slowed in their rout as they saw the streaming banner of the Ostermark and saw the battered and bloodied girl holding it aloft.

  “The Maiden,” someone muttered and more men slowed, drawing to a halt as they gazed in awe at the fluttering banner and the girl.

  “For Sigmar!” Grunwald roared again, his voice cutting across the field.

  Annaliese began to walk through the confused ranks of soldiers, her head held high and the wind ruffling her blonde hair as she strode forward, the banner held up above her head.

  Like a ripple that spread across a lake from the tiniest pebble being thrown into its centre, the mindless rout was stemmed. Seeing other soldiers turning to watch the girl stride through the army, more and more warriors halted their flight and turned back towards the foe.

  “The Maiden of Sigmar!” someone bellowed, and the shout was repeated, rippling along the lines and filling the hearts of the warriors with new hope.

  Grunwald shook his head in disbelief as he followed in the wake of Annaliese. Soldiers pressed tightly all around, pushing and shoving as they marched behind the Maiden of Sigmar.

  To the very front of the Empire army she walked, holding the banner aloft. A clear path opened up before her, and she strode through it. Then, with no more men before her she stared defiantly out across the open field, strewn with the dead, towards the infernal ranks of dark warriors drawing ever nearer.

  She lifted her hammer high into the air.

  “For Sigmar!” she shouted, and the entire army of the Empire echoed her.

  Then, shouting her defiance, she broke into a run, heading straight for the heart of the enemy lines. With a roar, the army of the Ostermark surged forward around her.

  The men of the Empire fought with inspired, devout fury, but they were as children against the massive armoured chosen warriors of the Dark Gods, and they were cut down in their hundreds.

  The soldiers formed a protective shield around Annaliese, desperate to ensure the Maiden came to no harm, but they were fighting a losing battle.

  One of them was cut down, his arm hacked off at the shoulder and he fell screaming. Another was smashed in the face by a massive armoured gauntlet, and he stumbled. A sword punched through his breastplate and he was lifted high into the air before being hurled from the blade with a dismissive flick.

  The chosen of Chaos were like demi gods of war, and they butchered their way through the Empire lines. They strode into the breach before Annaliese, hacking down Empire soldiers to the left and right. Grunwald pushed forward and smashed his mace into the faceplate of the first, piercing the metal, but the warrior did not fall, and he back-handed the witch hunter, sending him staggering back. Thorrik bellowed a dwarfen war cry and smashed his axe into the warrior’s midriff, cleaving through the thick metal and felling the mighty foe, but others laid into the soldiers surrounding Annaliese, destroying and killing everything in their path.

  Then the enemy lines parted, and the fell warlord of Chaos appeared, astride his towering black infernal steed. The massive beast stamped its barbed hooves, smoke rising from beneath them, and its eyes were lit with blue flame. Tusks emerged from its equine mouth, and steam filled the air with each powerful exhalation.

  The warlord was huge, and the blazing blue eye hanging in the air between the curving horns of its helmet was locked on the defiant figure of Annaliese, holding the banner in one hand and her hammer of Sigmar in the other. The lord of Chaos could see that the resolve of the Empire army centred around the girl, and he approached her with sickening finality, intending to break her and send her soul screaming to the realms of Chaos.

  The battle raged on around them, but Annaliese was suddenly oblivious to anything but this awesome and terrible being.

  Nausea and crippling sickness struck all who gazed upon the thrice-cursed figure. Its features were hidden beneath a full-faced helm, though brilliant azu
re flames blazed in its eye sockets, the startling colour reflected upon the shimmering surface of the raven-feather cloak draped over the warlord’s broad shoulders.

  In one huge, spiked gauntlet the dread lord held its spiked glaive, the haft easily ten feet long and covered in bony spurs. It lifted its other gauntleted hand into the air, and a crackling sphere of pale light appeared in its palm, blue sparks of electricity flickering up its arm.

  Nobody moved, entranced by the power of the devil before them, and Annaliese lifted her head high, staring into the eyes of the enemy even as her soul cringed and recoiled within her.

  The flaming blue eye of the gods that hung above the warlord’s head flicked to the left as there was a sudden flash of movement at Annaliese’s side. Eldanair, his movements swifter than the human eye, had nocked an arrow to the bow he had unslung from his back, and drew back the string to fire. Faster even than the speed of the elf, the warlord hurled the ball of light held in its hand, and it smashed Eldanair in the chest, throwing him backwards, arcing electricity engulfing his body.

  Annaliese cried out.

  Thorrik stepped forth hefting his axe, but was smashed aside by the powerful blow of a Chaos warrior, and Grunwald levelled his pistol at the warlord’s head, and fired.

  The blue eye of the gods flicked in his direction, and he felt his soul shrink. The slitted iris of the daemonic eye widened slightly as it focused on the lead shot, and it was halted a mere foot away from the warlord’s head, hovering impossibly in the air before him.

  The warlord swung his head in Grunwald’s direction, and the shot reversed its direction. It smashed into the witch hunter’s shoulder and he fell with a shout of pain.