The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  The general remained at the top of the stairs leading to the tower, gazing at the battle intently. His soldiers had formed a wide defensive semicircle in the centre of the courtyard, their backs to the stairway. From the many steps leading up to the parapet from lower down, fresh troops poured in. They wore the black armour of all of Anna-Louisa’s men. There were more than Scharnhorst had counted on. Where had they been hiding? It mattered little now. They were here, and a way had to be found to resist them.

  His eyes swept across the scene. It was hard to make out any detail in the low light. The fires down below threw a red aura high into the sky, but against it the men were little more than grappling shadows.

  Then, far off, he saw his adversary. A man, standing much as he was at the rear of his forces on the other side of the courtyard. He was on the edge of the parapet. His mane of silver hair was swept back and rippled in the wind. He stood with the confidence of a leader of men. Having seen the pitiful state of Anna-Louisa, Scharnhorst now knew who his real enemy was. He narrowed his eyes towards the unnamed opponent, and whispered a curse on him. Then he hefted his sword lightly in his right hand, and strode down the steps towards the front line. His bodyguard, a quartet of knights in the colours of the Iron Sceptre, fell in alongside him.

  ‘Sir, is this wise?’ asked one of them, his expression hidden behind his helmet.

  Scharnhorst fixed him with a look of disdain.

  ‘My place is with my men,’ he said, curtly.

  And then he pressed on, pushing his troops aside to get to the thick of the fighting. As he went, a shout went up from the knights.

  ‘Scharnhorst!’ they cried in unison. ‘Scharnhorst for Hochland!’

  The standard followed him into battle. When his men saw it, they seemed to garner fresh resolve. Scharnhorst took some comfort from that. The front neared. He whispered a prayer to Sigmar, and then hurled himself into the combat.

  Hildebrandt and Lukas were together, fighting almost back to back. It was hard to make out what was going on in the dark, but they could tell things were going badly. The series of explosions below had turned everything on its head. The lower levels were lost, cut off by flames and the resurgent enemy. The tables had turned once again.

  Still, Hildebrandt found that he preferred being in the thick of battle than being in that dreadful chamber up above. For all its horror, there was an honesty to combat with a sword. His opponents were men, just like him. They had the same aspirations as him, the same weaknesses and capabilities. But that horror in the upper room was like nothing he’d ever seen. Even as he swung his heavy sword against a row of desperate-looking attackers, he found himself chilled by it. There was something uniquely terrifying about the descent into madness of one who must have once been so privileged. Amid his revulsion, there was also a spark of sympathy. The carnage had been caused by other men. Anna-Louisa had just been a tool, a means for them to raise the money they needed.

  Driven by outrage, Hildebrandt roared his defiance and lunged forwards at the advancing ranks of black-clad men. Lukas was at his side, fighting with considerable skill for a lad of his years. Just as before, Scharnhorst’s men clustered around Hildebrandt’s imposing presence. He became a focal point in the struggle for survival. On either side, a hundred similar little battles took place. No ground was given, no backwards step was taken. Though knocked off-balance by the lines of bombs, the men had recovered. For the last time, the forces clashed. This would count for all.

  As he worked, swinging his blade with heavy strokes, Hildebrandt suddenly found himself wondering where Magnus had gone. A pang of worry hit him. He had been heading for the mines. Had he got back up before the bombs detonated? Even if he had, he might have walked right into the middle of the enemy. There was no telling where he’d ended up, or if he was even alive. The prospect of his old friend’s death galvanised him even further, and he let slip a frustrated bellow of rage. Enemy troops scattered before him, and he waded forward, his sword sweeping in mighty heaves. The men beside him joined in, shouting with scorn and mockery as they pressed forward.

  Then, something changed. A ripple of confusion seemed to pass through the soldiers on both sides. Orders continued to be spat out by the captains, but there was a distraction. The fighting became sporadic. Some detachments even disengaged entirely. The attackers in front of Hildebrandt seemed to lose heart, and hurried to withdraw. In the brief lull, Tobias looked around him. Lukas had turned from the fighting too. Others had done the same. Despite the urgings of their commanders, soldiers from the two armies were pulling free from the combat and looking up at the tower.

  Twisting around awkwardly, unwilling to let his guard down entirely, Hildebrandt did the same. The smooth stone soared high into the air above them. Its flanks gleamed in the firelight. The pinnacle glowed brightly. Hildebrandt found the effect no less oppressive for knowing its cause. Now more than ever it reminded him of a cluster of eyes.

  For a moment, he couldn’t make out what the great distraction was. But others had seen it. Though some fighting continued, many men stood idly, looking up at the tower, mouths gaping. Hildebrandt screwed his eyes up against the night sky.

  Then he saw it. She had emerged. One of the windows had been opened. Far up the tower there was a narrow balcony. Anna-Louisa stood against it, her skirts fluttering in the smoky air. She was too far away for Hildebrandt to make out much of her expression, but it seemed she was smiling. The effect was mesmerising. Soldiers of Scharnhorst’s army who had been fed the story of Margravine von Kleister’s power and majesty now stared at the frail woman standing over them. Her own troops were similarly transfixed. Many looked horrified, discovering for the first time the true nature of their dread mistress.

  ‘O men of Hochland!’ she cried. Her voice was high and fragile, but it carried down to the courtyard well enough. A crazed edge was still apparent in it. ‘Why do you fight in my castle? Do you not know that soon we shall all march to Altdorf together? Put away your toys! It is time for bed!’

  Her words had an instant impact. Soldiers of the citadel stood staring, or shook their heads in disbelief. From parts of Scharnhorst’s regiments, a raucous laughter broke out. Commanders bellowed in anger, urging their men back to the fighting, but it was no good. Anna-Louisa had stolen their thunder. Like some grotesque ghost of childhood, she loomed over them. As her fortress burned down below, she let slip a giddy laugh.

  ‘You look so funny down there!’ she giggled. ‘Stop your nonsense now. Where is my soldier man? He should have come to see me.’

  More laughter broke out amongst the soldiers. Anna-Louisa’s troops fell back, some openly disputing between themselves. The unveiling of their commander had broken their vengeful spirit. Hildebrandt could see the look of horror on the faces nearest him. He could understand it well enough. Many of them had died. They had been promised much. It would be a hard lesson, to learn how far they had been deceived. Some of the troops even put down their weapons, throwing their hands up in disgust. Their commanders began moving through the ranks, cursing them and ordering them to take up arms again.

  They responded only slowly. The momentum of the battle had been broken, and it was slow to recover. The long days of fighting, the endless cold and privation, had broken the martial spirit of many of the men. It was not as if they were struggling for survival against one of the dread foes of mankind. They were all Hochlanders, all simple men of the Empire, locked in combat due to the whims and obsessions of their distant superiors. Like beaten animals, they were herded back into combat. The commanders barked orders, cajoled with promises of plunder, threatened with the prospect of punishment.

  Slowly, unwillingly, the men took up their swords. Anna-Louisa continued to laugh and rave. The knights charged, and the spell was broken. Scharnhorst’s troops reformed their defensive positions, and Esselman’s contingents renewed the press towards the tower. Steel clashed against steel, and the crie
s of anger and agony drowned out the crackle and spit of the flames. The distant roar of the fires in the keep had grown louder, and the columns of smoke curling into the night were thick and dark. Anna-Louisa was forgotten, a pathetic figure railing from the balcony unheeded.

  Then the assault stumbled again. A single shot rang out across the courtyard, echoing from the walls around it. Another voice was raised in a great, resounding shout. It came from one of the lesser towers on the east side of the courtyard. There was a balcony set high up. A man stood at it. He had long, grey hair and wore a leather coat. He leaned over the masses below, pressing against the iron railing just as Anna-Louisa had done. In one hand he held a laden sack. In the other he held a pistol.

  ‘Men of Hochland!’ he cried, and his voice echoed around the strangely quiet scene. ‘You have been lied to! You were told there was gold for you at the end of your glorious campaign. You were told that your patron was a woman of power and wealth. All of these are lies. You can see with your own eyes that the margravine is mad. She has been used by evil men. Forget their stories! One of them is dead. The other still leads you. Reject him! He has nothing to offer you but this!’

  At that, he swung the sack over his head several times, before launching it out over the heads of the two armies. It spun in the air, spraying its cargo in every direction. At first, it seemed as if the bag contained a collection of blood-red jewels. The nuggets rained down, bouncing from the stone and clattering across the flags. As they landed, the soldiers cowered, expecting some new engineering terror. But no fire exploded over their heads, and no strange blast kindled on the hot stone. The pebble-like projectiles lay against the flags, glinting in the firelight. Seized with a sudden realisation, men scrabbled after them.

  ‘Gold!’ came the cry. The scuffle became a frenzy. Fights broke out instantly. All discipline had been broken. The courtyard descended into confusion once more.

  ‘My gold!’ came a wail from the tower. Anna-Louisa had climbed onto the balcony edge, her face creased with distress. ‘Do not take my gold!’

  The man in the leather coat laughed, and the sound of it echoed even above the growing commotion below.

  ‘Fear not, lady!’ he shouted. ‘It is worthless! Like your promises!’

  The truth of it was gradually emerging. As men fought over the nuggets, they shattered and broke between their fingers. Greed turned to anger. A low murmur began to build across Anna-Louisa’s forces. Hildebrandt, standing amid the ranks of Scharnhorst’s troops, looked over towards the rear of the courtyard. The enemy command group was besieged by their own men, and had drawn arms.

  ‘My gold!’ shrieked Anna-Louisa, and stood, precariously, on the rim of the railing. She seemed to be stretched out into the void, desperately clawing at the air. Hildebrandt looked up. With a sudden feeling of nausea, he could see what would happen.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ he shouted. It was hopeless. There were dozens of men directly beneath her. They were squabbling over the fool’s gold, all thought of the conflict lost.

  There was a desperate, last flail before her balance was lost completely. Anna-Louisa grasped the railing, her eyes wide and staring. For a brief second, her gaze seemed to clarify. She looked out over the ruins of her fortress. The flames burned, licking even up the parapet of the courtyard. A wan smile crossed her ruined features. The madness in her eyes dimmed. Her features relaxed. For a moment, she seemed as she must have done, years ago. She lingered for a heartbeat longer. Then her fingers unclasped. Without a sound, she dropped from the balcony. Her nightdress flapping, she plummeted. Hildebrandt averted his eyes. There was a heavy crack, and then nothing.

  The fires were growing. The armies were seized by a dark and mutinous mood. The grip of the commanders was loosened, and murderous fighting broke out again. Madness swept across the regiments, as the utter futility and desperation of their situation became apparent. They would get no money. There would be no plunder. All that remained was a blind rage, the fury of the mob. At the base of the tower, the storm of anger swirled. Hochlanders put down their long guns and picked up blades. Morgramgar had become a pyre, a gruesome monument to the folly of Anna-Louisa and the ruthless response of Ludenhof.

  It seemed as if both armies would be consumed with the same primal rage. Once the lust for blood was kindled, it was hard to douse. But Scharnhorst was still at the heart of the fighting, and his knights were clustered around. The kernel of his army remained true, a fixed point around which the madness revolved. Slowly, his iron will began to exert itself. Regiments of Ludenhof’s Grand Army were beaten into shape by their captains, and formed up to charge into the demoralised, shapeless ranks of Anna-Louisa’s men. The Knights of the Iron Sceptre, noble warriors who had little need for more gold, kept their heads. Scharnhorst’s army gradually recovered its poise, and began to push out from the steps around the tower. Slowly, and with each step contested, they pressed against the noose around them, driving the encircling ranks of soldiers back towards the parapet.

  There was no disciplined response. Anna-Louisa’s army had turned in on itself. It was an army of mercenaries, hired by the promise of riches. Seeing the ruin of their hopes, many of them tried to flee. Others went berserk in their frustration and bitterness, attacking anyone who came near them, friend or foe. Knots of desperate men dragged their own commanders down. Throats were cut in the dark, and scores settled.

  The rot of mutiny spread fast. The most bitter of the fighters, professional murderers and brawlers, the dogs of war, needed a culprit for their loss. Too late did the command group see the danger. The rear ranks of Anna-Louisa’s forces turned tail and surged towards Esselman. There was a murderous sheen in their eyes. Their swords dripped with gore as they came.

  There was nowhere for the general to go. He was pinned at the back of the courtyard with only the sheer drop down to the next level behind him. One by one, Esselman and his commanders were set upon and pulled into the maw of the mob. Far from help, swords rose and fell quickly, and the cries of Anna-Louisa’s captains were brief before being silenced. The orgy of rage was ratcheted higher. Soldiers trampled over their comrades, just for the chance to desecrate the corpses of the men who had betrayed them. Fists hammered down, feet stamped, fingers gouged. The stones were covered in a thick carpet of blood. With a roar of empty triumph, the mutineers dragged the corpses to the edge of the parapet. With little ceremony, the bloodied bodies were stripped of their armour and valuables, then hurled over the edge and into the inferno below. Esselman was the last. As his blackened, mutilated body sailed into the void, a huge cheer broke from the armies. Both of them.

  Lukas looked at Hildebrandt, a mix of amazement and uncertainty in his expression.

  ‘What is this, Tobias?’ he said.

  Hildebrandt leaned on his sword. He could see Scharnhorst and his commanders surging forward, slicing through the broken ranks of the enemy. The standard of Hochland was being carried into the heart of Anna-Louisa’s forces. Their formations were broken, their hopes ended. All that was left was the final bout of killing, the final snuffing of the candle.

  ‘This is the end, Lukas,’ said Hildebrandt, wearily preparing to join the assault for the last time.

  There was no triumph in his voice. All around them, Morgramgar burned. And in the firelight, crushed underfoot, the nuggets of fool’s gold twinkled, a final mockery to heap insult onto the memory of all those who had died.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘The fact that I have become, by dint of my skill and labour, one of the pre-eminent engineers in the Empire, is a matter of considerable pride to me. Not a day goes by without me giving thanks to Sigmar for his grace in granting me my gifts of invention and the moral character to use them wisely. And yet all these things pale into nothingness beside the greatest creation of my life, the one that fills me with joy beyond compare, and in earnest of which I would gladly give up all else. My son, Magnus, the priceless jewe
l for the sake of which all else has been done. I am proud of him, though he doesn’t know it as he should. I am old now, and I write these words for posterity. One day he shall rise up and shake the Empire with his deeds. He has the skill. And, in time, if the fates are kind, he will discover the will.’

  Augustus Ironblood

  Private diary. Recovered and preserved

  in the Imperial College, Nuln

  The smoke drifted down the valley, staining the clear mountain air. Dawn had broken several hours since, and still the lower levels of Morgramgar burned. Scharnhorst had long abandoned the attempt to save the citadel. The survivors of the assault had been withdrawn. Those who had fought for Anna-Louisa were disarmed and interned. Their trials, or what passed for them, would take place in Hergig. After a day of being near abandoned, the camp was inhabited again, and the men wearily went about gathering their supplies for the long march back to the lowlands. All were exhausted. There was no mood of victory. Morgramgar had held neither riches nor glory. It had been cursed, a monument to the madness and greed of the noble classes and nothing more.

  Magnus sat on one of the artillery wagons back in the encampment, gazing over the ruins before him. They smouldered darkly under the shoulder of the mighty crag beyond. Every so often a muffled boom would announce that some hidden cache had gone off. The proud aspect of the fortress had been mauled beyond recognition. Many of the towers had fallen. Those that were left were charred and cracked. The forges, deep in the heart of Rathmor’s conflagration, were lost forever.

  Magnus thought of the rows of infernal machines hidden in those dark storerooms. And the ranks of forges, now silenced. Perhaps it was for the best that they were destroyed. There was some knowledge that the world was better off without.