The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  ‘Spears!’ shouted Stahler, though he hardly needed to as the second rank thrust their polearms over the first who went down on bent knee to let the steel tips pass over their shoulders. Several orcs and boars were pinioned, two even fell to mortal wounds but the greenskins were not done.

  After hacking off an orc’s hand at the wrist then ramming his shield into its boar’s snout, Stahler saw the chieftain a few paces down the line. Its axe blades were a crimson blur, reaping heads and limbs like a farmer reaps corn during harvest. Except this was a visceral, bloody yield.

  ‘Fight me, pig-face!’ shouted Stahler. He didn’t relish taking on the beast. It was almost twice his height without the mount; with it, the orc was utterly monstrous. Yet he couldn’t let it attack the spearmen. They would simply be butchered, and any hopes of survival with them.

  ‘Come on, you stinking scum!’ he roared, stabbing a boar rider in the gut as it leaned to strike at him and very nearly losing his head as it swung back.

  A line of blood laced Stahler’s face, still warm on the orc’s blade, and he fought not to gag. A spear to the beast’s throat ended its life, but he couldn’t see who’d done it. It was impossible to discern anything in the madness. Stahler’s focus was just on the orc chieftain.

  ‘To me, you spineless bastard!’

  At last the orc took notice, this squealing piece of manflesh rattling his puny shield with his tiny knife. Though man and orc did not speak the same language, understanding between them was absolute. Throwing back his head, the greenskin chieftain emitted an ululating cry that drove the warriors from its path.

  Challenge accepted.

  Stahler fought to quell his fear. The battle around him appeared to lull. The world slowed, but it was as if the orc chieftain were moving outside of time as it came on inexorably and at speed. The captain’s longsword was no ordinary weapon. Myrmidian priests had blessed it and a single rune was forged into the blade. Despite the keenness of its edge, the magical sharpness parted mail links like they were parchment, Stahler balked at the thickness of the orc’s armour, its flesh and brawn.

  ‘Sigmar protect me…’ he whispered, making the sign of the hammer with his shield arm then bringing it up to meet the charge of the beast.

  ‘Last step!’ cried Karlich as they reached the summit of the hill. Through the fog of battle, the Grimblade sergeant vaguely made out Sturnbled issuing a similar warning to his men. The Middenlander had given up on his pistol and fought with sword and buckler instead. Torveld fought beside him and, despite his disliking of the northerners, Karlich had to admit they were ferocious fighters.

  Twenty minutes is a long time on the battlefield where seconds can stretch to lifetimes and every swing of your sword or sweep of your halberd feels like lifting a tree. Proud of them as he was, Karlich knew his men were flagging. Another of the Grimblades – Helmut? – was struck down, and the line thinned again. It had been some time since they’d had two full rear ranks and the gaps were telling. Three times Karlich had narrowed the formation already, the small circle of soldiers around the hill tightening as they ascended its rise, as if pulling their own noose. Occasional peals of Rechts’s drum relayed the command to close ranks, whilst Lenkmann hollered and cajoled them to maintain good order when they did.

  Smoke was still rising from the gatehouse. If Stahler didn’t make it through soon, this would be one of the shortest Imperial campaigns in history.

  The world was drenched red before Stahler’s eyes as the blow against his shield forced him back. He staggered with the sheer strength behind the attack. Putting his weight on his back foot, he lashed out wildly with his blade. Laughing – a deep, throaty noise full of malice – the orc chieftain merely swatted the sword aside with the flat of its axe. It sported long cuts, the odd gouge in its skin and armour, but these small blows Stahler had inflicted only enraged and empowered the beast.

  Blood was leaking into Stahler’s eyes from a cut on his forehead that he couldn’t see or feel. A deep throbbing in his head dulled the battle noise, but he thought he heard the final pulses of his heart in this world as the orc came again.

  Stahler lunged in an effort to maybe put the orc off balance, salvage a little more time for Utz, but the beast swatted the weapon away again. Leaning down from its mount, the chieftain seized Stahler by his tunic. Snarling stinking spittle into the man’s face, the orc butted him hard.

  The red world turned black. It was like being hit by granite. Stahler felt his nose break. He became vaguely aware of being spun around, his shield fleeing from his grasp, sword slipping from his nerveless fingers.

  ‘Wilhelm…’

  The words brushed past his lips like a death rattle as the long well came for him. It was cool in its shadowy depths and the water was dank. Old things lingered in it: old unquiet things that he would soon be joining. Earth came up to meet him, the bloody mire embracing Stahler’s body like he was a babe in arms. For he was a child of war and she, the battlefield, was his dark mother.

  Thunder boomed above, and with the last of his fading sight Stahler saw dead, bloody faces staring back at him, welcoming him.

  Join us…

  An almighty crack announced the destruction of the gates. Karlich saw it happen as surely as he felt the greenskins falter. Flaming debris and smoke plumed fifty feet high in an orange, grey bloom that expanded into the orcs around the gates. The greenskins were engulfed, riddled by wood splinters the size of swords, burned to death in the booming conflagration.

  Some of the orcs and goblins fighting the Grimblades were looking over their shoulders. Confidence that had been so abundant moments ago ebbed like water in a punctured skin.

  Something else was happening too. There was thunder, only not from the heavens. This thunder shook the earth and sent it trembling all the way up to the summit of the hill.

  ‘Wilhelm…’ breathed Karlich, in revered thanks for their deliverance. Having planned to join his armies on the road to Averheim, the Prince of Reikland had come. He had come and they were saved, but only if they were still willing to save themselves.

  Karlich saw his chance.

  ‘Grimblades! Push them back!’

  As one the halberdiers thrust forward, leading with spikes and cleaving with blades as they surged down the hill, scattering the greenskins before them. There came the sound of powder cracks from a fusillade as beautiful and welcome as an orchestral chorus. Smoke plumed the air like grey pennants billowing on the breeze, announcing the arrival of salvation.

  No longer pressed from all sides, greatsworders, handgunners and spearmen spilling into Blösstadt to leaven the intense pressure, Grimblades and Steel Swords reforming their ranks in a thick, narrow fighting block. Shields and blades went deep, as deep as they could. The greenskins were broken, all sense of purpose and coherency lost in a moment. The men of the Empire were merciless as they routed them.

  Outside it was a similar glorious story. Karlich and the others would not get to see the magnificent charge of Prince Wilhelm and his knights, nor would they witness the efforts of the regiments from Kemperbad, Auerswald and Ubersreik. There were scores of militia soldiers too, drawn from the surrounding Reikland villages, all impassioned by a prince’s cause and a desire to protect their borders and the borders of their neighbours. If they did not look to the defence of their Empire, then who would? It was a rare moment of solidarity in a land rife with internal strife and politicking, but then Wilhelm was an inspirational man and ruler. He spoke to men’s hearts, not their heads or their coffers.

  The goblin wolf riders broke first. The sight of such enemy numbers bearing down on them from the west – the serried ranks of pikes, halberds and swords all eager for blood – was enough to put them to flight. The militia regiments protecting the wagons cheered and jeered at the fleeing greenskins but knew, deep down, how close they had come to being food for the worms.

  Prince Wilhelm
was at the tip of a gleaming lance head, driving his knights forward from the back of a barded steed. Captain Ledner was at his right hand, Preceptor Kogswald at his left. With their banner unfurled and a blazing clarion call bursting from a silver bugle, the Griffonkorps rode onto the bloodied field like avenging warrior angels laying waste to the foul and the wicked.

  Trapped between the doughty spearmen of Bögenhafen and the irresistible charge of Wilhelm and his knights, the orc boar riders were split apart like rotten kindling and scattered to the wind. Only the chieftain and his loyal bodyguard cadre stayed, recognising the prospect of a good fight and unafraid of death.

  Griffonkorps lances skewered the first, splintering shields, piercing armour and flesh. Orcs were flung from their mounts as if punched by a cannon ball and those boars not kicked to death by the knights’ armoured horses, were stabbed with longswords.

  Even after penetrating the first greenskin line, the impetus of Wilhelm’s charge was not spent. It rolled on, gathering momentum like a tidal wave. As its apex, the Prince of Reikland met the orc chieftain in single combat. Storm clouds were billowing across the heavens, as if the elements heralded the battle about to unfold, and dry lightning raked the sky in jagged forks.

  ‘In the name of the Empire and Reikland!’ shouted Wilhelm, his gleaming runefang held aloft as the thunder answered.

  He struck just as the lightning cracked, a close heat drenching the field in a feverish sweat. Haze flickered in the distance and the air thickened. The ancient runefang descended like a comet and cut the chieftain down. Axe hafts splintered, armour parted, flesh and bone were cleaved – nothing could stop it. The chieftain died, split in two, both halves of his body spilling gore and viscera onto the earth.

  It proved the end for the greenskins. Fear ran through them. In that moment, the heat broke and the clouds, as if they had been holding their breath, let go and the rains came. Wilhelm rode into Blösstadt like a warrior-king of old. Orc blood ran down off his armour, washed away and purified by the rain.

  ‘Victory to the Empire!’ he cried, as the fires around him died and the last death throes of the battle with the greenskins played out. ‘For the Reik!’

  ‘For Prince Wilhelm!’ the men of the Empire replied, and Wilhelm knew then that his people loved him. Perhaps they could win this war and send the Paunch back over the mountains to the east.

  Little could Wilhelm have known the futility of that dream and the dark days that lay ahead.

  Chapter Seven

  Good counsel

  Prince Wilhelm’s encampment, Averland,

  324 miles from Altdorf

  It was claustrophobic in the war tent, and the air was thick with pipe smoke. Sergeant Karlich didn’t mind the latter, but he found the presence of the great and good a little hard to bear. He was not a politic man; he was a soldier, plain and simple. He knew how to fight, how to command men and get the best from them. He understood tactics and he feared death – any man that didn’t was not to be trusted – but here, in this war tent, before his lords and masters, he felt profoundly out of his depth.

  ‘You are all known to me, so I’ll speak plainly,’ Wilhelm began. The Prince of Reikland was still wearing his golden breastplate but had removed his greaves and tassets. The vambraces on his wrists carried the symbol of a rampant griffon. His blond hair, slightly damp and unkempt from wearing his helmet, shone like fresh straw in the lamplight, and his blue eyes flashed like sapphires. Noble blood was obvious in his features and bearing.

  ‘No aid comes from Altdorf.’ The prince’s conclusion landed like a hammer blow.

  Preceptor Kogswald bore this statement with knightly stoicism and gave nothing away, but the others present, Captains Vogen of Kemperbad and Hornstchaft of Auerswald, Engineer Meinstadt and Father Untervash of the Holy Order of Sigmar, balked at this news. All had thought Altdorf would respond to the threat, that its vast armies would march in support of the prince. If Altdorf had closed its gates, then Nuln had too and that meant the Emperor was content to hole up behind the walls of Prince Wilhelm’s former domain.

  ‘What of the other states? What of Talabecland and Stirland? Does Wissenland answer the call to arms? Its borders are under threat too,’ asked Vogen, a portly man with thick plate armour, and a feathered helmet sat in the crook on his arm. He sported a dark brown beard to hide his jowls and double chin.

  ‘None are coming. Middenland, too, has sent what troops it is willing to commit,’ said Wilhelm before his expression darkened. ‘We are alone in this.’

  ‘Ha!’ scoffed Hornstchaft. ‘So Middenland waits for the storm to vent its wrath against our bulwarks, only to then see it dashed upon its own when it rolls over the eastern Empire and the Reik. I’m surprised the northerners sent men at all.’

  Where Vogen was all bulk and flab, Hornstchaft was hawkish and slim. Slightly taller than his counterpart, he held himself straight like a rod, and wore light chain armour. A small breastplate, emblazoned with a laurel and skull, finished the ensemble. He preferred a wide-brimmed hat over a helm. His had three griffon feathers sticking out of it.

  ‘If our brothers do not come, then why are we marching out to Averheim? Why aren’t we looking to our own borders? Tell me that,’ said Meinstadt. The engineer was a fastidious man, his buttons and buckles polished and pristine. His face was pale and narrow from too much time spent in his workshops, and his hands bore powder stains like faded lesions. He wore a monocle with what appeared to be a targeting reticule placed over it in thin strips of brass. Leather, part smock, part armour, covered his upper body and carried an icon of the College of Engineers, a sideways image of a cannon. Evidently, Meinstadt was a gunnery captain. Karlich had seen no artillery in the camp, though.

  ‘By marching to Averheim, we are defending our borders,’ countered Wilhelm. The frustration of the prince was obvious, but he had encouraged his officers to speak plainly. He reminded himself of the fact that he already knew this news and that he had asked the very same questions himself during the long ride from Altdorf.

  Another figure stepped forward from the shadows. This man, Karlich knew, was Adolphus Ledner. He held the nominal rank of captain, but most who knew him were aware of other services he provided for the prince and the Empire. Ledner was a scary bastard. Thin-faced like a blade, with hooded eyes that could pierce a man’s soul and an aura of inscrutable intensity that made his mood impossible to gauge. Whenever Karlich had seen him, Ledner had always been wearing a red scarf around his neck. Some in the army suggested it was to cover a neck wound from where one of his many enemies had tried to slit his throat. Karlich could believe that. Exploitation, assassination and intimidation were Ledner’s forte. He was as secretive as a witch hunter, and twice as resourceful. He traded in information, lies and half-truths and Wilhelm, for the good of the Reik, was content to turn a blind eye to most of it.

  ‘Uncontested, it will not be long before the orcs drive westward,’ he said. Ledner’s voice reminded Karlich of a snake. It was harsh and rasping, but when he spoke all in the tent listened. ‘And as they rampage, burning villages and murdering as they go, other tribes will gather to their banner.’ He leaned forward on the table in the middle of the tent that was covered in maps and hastily written reports, and shadows pooled in his face from the lamps, making him appear ghoulish. ‘This “Grom the Paunch” is like no other greenskin we have fought in recent times. It has an army large enough to sack Altdorf and if we do not meet it now and stop it, then that is exactly what it will do. Irrespective of whether the Emperor can see the danger or not, we must preserve our greatest cities. Nuln too, is under threat and we cannot allow the capital to fall without a fight. This goblin king must not cross the Averland border. It must not reach the Reikmark.’

  Meinstadt’s jaw clamped shut like a trap. Ledner, and therefore Prince Wilhelm, had spoken – it would not be wise to contest further.

  Karlich cleared his throa
t, breaking the sudden silence. ‘So what must we do?’

  All eyes turned to him, and he felt suddenly very small and insignificant.

  Wilhelm’s was the first face to soften. ‘I am glad there are some soldiers in our midst,’ said the prince. ‘How is your captain, Sergeant Karlich?’

  Taken aback that Wilhelm even knew his name, Karlich faltered before replying.

  ‘Fighting for his life in the chirurgeon’s tent, your majesty,’ he said at last, unsure if he should bow and instead producing a sort of half nod.

  Stahler had been dragged off the battlefield by what was left of the Bögenhafen spearmen. His bravura had saved many of their lives, but left the captain badly wounded. Most of the blood that soaked his clothes had been his.

  ‘Then we should all pray to Sigmar that he recovers to fight again.’ Wilhelm half glanced at Father Untervash as he said it. The bald-headed warrior priest, who was even thicker set than Eber, gave a barely perceptible nod and touched the hammer icon hanging by a chain over his breast.

  ‘Sigmar does not abandon his fighting sons,’ he intoned, his voice full of sepulchral import. ‘Your captain will take up his blade again. It is the will of the Hammer.’

  Somewhere in the shadows, Karlich thought he heard someone cough, though he couldn’t see who made the sound and realised there was another present whom he had yet to meet.

  Wilhelm made the sign of the hammer before addressing the room. ‘Averheim is under siege and we go to lift it if we can.’ He gestured to some of the reports written by his scribes from the findings of the army’s scouts. ‘Greenskins push north, south and west. Stirland’s borders are breached in a dozen or more places, entire tribes move on Wissenland despite its watchtowers and walls. None are untouched. But Averland is overrun and needs the aid of its brother states. We march on to the state capital and will meet with whatever provincial forces remain outside the city.’