Katerina stood with Ambrosius and Schwarzhelm in the centre of the formation. A company of knights stood gravely beside their commander. They made up Schwarzhelm’s personal guard and the most deadly swordsmen in the army. The air of expectation hung heavily over all of them. Few around them spoke. The only unguarded noises were those of the horses as they stamped and whinnied. The Imperial forces kept their positions, looking down the slope towards the thick line of trees at the base of the hillside. If the scouts’ reports were correct, the orcs should have been coming through the forest, hacking and slashing as they went, but there was no sign of them. The wind sighed, ruffling the grass in waves, shaking the crowns of the trees. And so, they waited.
“Could they be coming another way?” whispered Katerina to Schwarzhelm, even her battle-hardened spirit daunted a little by the silence.
“No,” said Schwarzhelm, standing quietly next to his grey stallion, his helmet in hand, poised to mount at any moment. “They’re coming all right. I’ve made sure they know we’re here, and they won’t pass up the chance to fight, even if they have to run up the hill to get to us. That’s our great hope. I’d never pick a fight from their position, but they will. Greenskins would charge through solid stone to get to us, and if their numbers are anything like as big as the castellan thinks they are, we’ll need to make them pay for the ascent. Let’s see how it goes.”
His rumbling, thick voice was unperturbed, as solid as the earth beneath their feet. Katerina took some comfort in that, as ever admiring the way Schwarzhelm carried himself. Despite her best intentions, she realised she was feeling something uncannily like affection for the bull-necked, grey-haired old warrior. Of course, it made good strategic sense to keep close to him, especially knowing that she had enemies in the camp. While it had been a chore to cultivate Erhardt’s fawning attentions, there were definite attractions to sharing a tent with a man like Schwarzhelm.
She smiled to herself, and looked back down the hillside to the dark edge of the forest below. Idly, she wondered what had happened to Erhardt since his humiliation during the night. He had been conspicuous by his absence since then. The only slight concern was the other figure he had been with. Something about that man worried her, just as the mysterious pursuer in Altdorf had done, but there was no time to do anything about that now. Clutching her staff tightly, she started her mental preparations, feeling the heft and weight of the wood turn easily in her practised hands.
Then, it started. The beat of drums became faintly audible, a low thump muffled by the trees in front of them. Some of the soldiers began to shuffle nervously, and the horses tossed their heads. The branches were shaking more vigorously, and it wasn’t just the wind. Under the strong clear sun, it was evident that something large was coming through the trees towards them.
“Hold your positions!” shouted Schwarzhelm, donning his helmet quickly and mounting his huge steed. Around them, his knights did likewise, their steel-tipped lances rising high into the air like glittering points of ice. “No one is to move until I give the word!”
Katerina took a deep breath, waiting for her first sight of the horde, so long talked about, and now finally coming towards them. On her left shoulder, Ambrosius had also taken up his staff in readiness. Ahead of them, far down the slope, the branches of the trees shook more vigorously, waving as if being thrown around by some invisible hand. The drums rolled louder. Cries and bellows dimly emerged from the shadows. She felt the first pricks of sweat start on her brow. Her heart pumped hard. The sound of bowstrings being pulled taut rippled along the ranks, and the tips of the archers’ slender longbows were raised high over the lines of infantry in front of them. Flints were struck by the gun crews, and the pungent smell of blackpowder wafted across the lines on the breeze. Schwarzhelm had done his job well, and all was prepared. The army waited, tight as a drum, poised ready for his orders.
Then, they broke from the cover of the trees. Goblin outriders burst into the sunlight on wolves, their manic cries rising high into the air.
“Hold your positions!” cried Schwarzhelm again, his eyes surveying the approach of the enemy with cold concentration.
They kept coming, a tide of running, scampering lumbering forms, apparently without end. The bearers of the drums emerged from the forest, thrusting the thick branches aside like twigs. Their booming rolls echoed across the wide open space. Stringy orcs with long, curved horns leapt from cover, blowing brazen calls across the battlefield, summoning more of their kind from the forest. The space between the armies began to close. Swarms of pale green-skinned creatures poured across the tussocked hillside. Greater orcs emerged behind them, towering over their lesser brethren, their bull-like roars deafening even from a distance. They came forward slowly, swinging heavy axes with every stride, their tiny eyes wild and red beneath heavy iron helmets. At the flanks, more hooded goblins burst from cover on their slavering mounts, goading them with studded whips, cackling with malicious glee.
“Hold your positions!” bellowed Schwarzhelm for a third time, taking up his lance in his right hand and hefting it easily to his side. The lines held firm. Katerina let the meagre Wind of Shyish, the source of her order’s power, collect around her. There was little for her to draw on in such a place. For an Amethyst magician, shadows, secrecy and death were the tools of the trade, but she knew that within moments the first blows would fall, and then the Amethyst Wind would gather swiftly. It would come, as it always did, when the men and orcs died. Beside her, she could feel the resonance of Ambrosius’ staff. The Wind of Chamon must be strong. The fat wizard glanced towards her for a moment, before turning his face back to the orc advance.
“Stay close to me,” he muttered acidly. “Follow my lead.”
Katerina let a wry smile pass her lips.
“Of course,” she said sweetly, and made ready for the order to charge.
Ahead of them, the orcs were closing. At the rear of the advance, ever more brutish monsters clambered into the open, some bearing ragged standards. The largest were enclosed from head to foot in thick metal plates. They growled with a rumbling menace as they came, trampling their attendants underfoot. Their thick arms wielded huge, crude blades the height of a man. Boar riders tore through the ranks, their tusks rearing wildly. Tiny, imp-like snotlings scampered under the feet of the mightier warriors, each holding a spiked cudgel or twisted gouge. They shrieked and howled even as they were slapped aside and crushed in the mad onslaught. The energy of the waaagh pulsated almost visibly. The horde was like a single giant beast, gradually choking the space and light from the hillside as it hauled its massive bulk towards the Imperial lines.
Schwarzhelm waited a few moments more, and then the time came.
“Archers, let fly!”
A storm of arrows flew high into the air over the heads of the infantrymen, plummeting down like rain on the heads of the oncoming orcs. Shrieks went up immediately, the feathered shafts piercing deep into the advance. The vanguard stumbled. Those behind leapt with abandon over their fallen kin.
“Again!” bellowed Schwarzhelm, still standing still as stone.
Fresh arrows rose and fell, causing more green forms to stagger and fall. The air was thick with them, but the advance only slowed slightly. The gap between the forces was narrowing. A third wave of arrows coursed into the air. Even Katerina began to feel her nerves fray.
“Gunners! Fire!” roared Schwarzhelm, and the crack of exploding blackpowder echoed across the field. Low chains of grapeshot were hurled into the advancing orc lines, causing immediate havoc. The arrows kept coming while the gunners reloaded, and then another volley tore into the enemy. Blood splattered across the uneven ground, bones cracked, armour dented, and still they came. The killing had begun, and Katerina felt the stirrings of Shyish around her.
She screwed her eyes against the glare of the sun, peering over the endless morass of figures labouring up the hill, trying to catch sight of the shaman. Nothing was visible. The only vague indication of its pre
sence was an insubstantial feeling of foreboding, a nebulous dread that seemed to shimmer in the air. Wherever it was, it was biding its time. She swallowed, and looked back at Schwarzhelm. He glanced down at her for a moment, his scarred face grim, but there was something else in his eyes, a savage, almost joyous sparkle.
“Men of the Empire!” he bellowed, turning to address the waiting ranks, even his powerful voice only just audible over the gathering tumult. “Remember your orders! Go with honour, and do not fear death! There is nothing nobler than to fight and die for hearth, home and kin! Look not for mercy from these dogs, but kill them! Kill them all! Follow me, trusting in Sigmar and the Emperor, and ride to victory!”
A huge roar rose from the massed ranks, drowning for a moment even the chants and jeers of the orcs. The men of the Empire raised their weapons into the air as one. With a kick, Schwarzhelm thrust his charger forward. He and his knights thundered down the slope, their lances lowered, the beat of their hooves churning the earth as they went. The arrows, flew either side of them, landing amid the flanks of the orc horde still coming towards them. The cannons cracked, and with a massed cry of fury and aggression, the lines of swordsmen, halberdiers and greatswords fell in behind their commander. Men surged down the hill, their faces distorted by battle-cries, their weapons light in their hands. Katerina whirled her staff around, sending a shroud of magic over Schwarzhelm’s head, its aura protecting and guiding.
“Go well, champion,” she breathed, as he disappeared into the churning, boiling mass of the battle, his company riding beside him.
At her side, Ambrosius was conjuring golden essence from the earth, ready to hurl it against the wall of greenskins. She did likewise, pulling Amethyst force from the air, relishing the sensation of power at her fingertips. She pointed her staff at the orc lines, watching for a suitable target amidst the clash of arms. The familiar thrill of superiority passed through her.
“Let’s get started,” she said, her staff shimmering, her wicked, knowing smile firmly in place.
* * *
Lothar crept along, his staff held low, hugging the shadows. Karsten was ahead of him, and the rest of the men were close behind. All told, they numbered just under two dozen, all survivors from Helmgart who had made it as far as the Skaag Hills. For such a large garrison, it was a pitiful return. Lothar hoped at least some others had escaped the horde in the mountains. Those who remained wore grim masks of determination. Having fought the monster twice, they knew exactly what to expect. This was not a job for cowed conscripts. They were here because they wanted to see the shaman killed, to extract revenge for the deaths of so many of their comrades.
Lothar looked around, trying to gain his bearings. They had set out an hour ago, skirting far to the west of the expected orc approach, travelling under the cover of the forests that flourished in the valleys between the bare hilltops. Now they were heading south, hoping to loop around behind the advancing horde and emerge within charging distance of the shaman at the rear. At least that was the plan. Lothar couldn’t help but reflect on how much of it was dependent on hunches and good fortune. Suppose the shaman led from the front against Schwarzhelm? Or that it was too well protected to attack? Or they were spotted before they even got close? But such speculation was useless. He cleared his mind of such worries; he would need to be alert for the task ahead.
In front of him, Karsten held up a warning hand. The company halted, crouching low amid the shadows of the trees. Lothar shuffled towards the castellan.
“What is it?” he whispered, his eyes struggling to see far in the leafy gloom. Though his magical sight was excellent, his normal vision was no better than average.
“Not sure,” said Karsten in a low voice. “We’ve been heading south, and should be well to the rear of the horde. I’d like to start tracking back towards them, keeping under the trees. In time, we’ll follow them to the battlefield, which lies to our north. The assault must have started, and we don’t have all the time in the world, but I thought I heard something ahead… maybe nothing.”
The men stayed crouching for a few moments longer. Lothar’s heart thumped strongly. His grip on his staff was tight.
“Do you want me to conceal us?” he asked softly.
“No,” said Karsten. “Save your strength. You’ll need it if we get to the battlefield in one piece.”
He motioned to his men to continue, and they rose soundlessly like spectres from the forest floor. They started walking again, travelling in long strides as quietly as possible. After only a few more paces, Karsten seemed to tense again. Then, suddenly, it was evident why. Two goblin wolf riders crashed through the undergrowth ahead, loping through the trees, apparently unaware of them, heading north. They were either stragglers from the main army, or just lost. Either way, they cared little for being seen. Their dirty red cloaks fluttered behind them as their snarling mounts carried them towards the battle.
“Down!” hissed Karsten, frantically waving to the men behind him.
Once again the company shrank into the shadows, but this time too slowly. One man near the back seemed to lose his footing and crashed noisily through a briar patch, letting slip a muffled curse. The goblins immediately pulled up their steeds, sniffing suspiciously. The wolves paced in their direction slowly, tongues lolling, their lean muzzles held low against the ground. The riders were hooded in rough, patched rags, but their teeth glinted darkly in the shadows of their cowls.
Karsten drew his sword, soundlessly, keeping the blade flat along the ground. Lothar whispered the first words of a spell, but it was risky. Once the wolves were startled, they couldn’t hope to catch them, and if the goblins got free, then it was all over. The wolves crept closer, now within two hundred yards, their long noses sniffing with awful persistence. There was an agonising wait as they shuffled around, coming no closer, the search appearing more aimless. Then there was a muffled crack from some distance away, as the Imperial guns were fired. Both goblins stiffened, and looked north to the source of the noise. One gestured to the other, and said something in a coarse, unintelligible rasp. They both began to move off, pulling savagely at the strands of studded leather that served as crude halters for the wolves. Lothar let the nascent spell dissipate, holding his breath. The goblins headed away from them.
Then, apparently for no reason, one of them looked over its shoulder, directly towards their position. Even hidden under bracken and low creepers, some glint of a helmet or visor must have been visible. The greenskin let out a shriek, and suddenly the goblins tore towards them, the jaws of their wolves gaping wide.
There was nothing for it. Karsten leapt up, swinging his sword at the nearest wolf rider as it approached. The other men jumped from their cover, racing forwards to protect their captain. Their assistance wasn’t required. With a single, clean blow, Karsten’s sword sliced the leader’s head from its shoulders, drenching the castellan in thick, viscous blood. The wolf rounded on him, snarling, ready to leap. It was felled with a quick blow from Lothar’s staff, tipped with a strange grey glow. As the magic struck its flanks, the wolf yowled in pain as if burned and limped backwards, clearly struggling with some mysterious wound. Two men ran after it, swords in hand.
The second goblin, surprised to see so many bodies rise from cover, cursed in a shrill voice and pulled its mount up sharply. With a snarl, the lean grey shape halted in its tracks before turning and bounding away from the company. Lothar spun his staff towards the departing shape and fired a hastily cast bolt of dark, inklike matter in its direction. The spell was not delivered correctly, and the magical substance burst harmlessly against a tree trunk, barely touching the fleeing greenskin. Karsten hurled his sword after it in despair. It spun harmlessly into the bracken behind the raised tail of the wolf. The goblin was away, goading his mount hard, leaping over logs and clumps of undergrowth as it went. There was nothing they could do to stop it. It would alert more of its kind, and the raid would be over before it had begun. Lothar felt a deep sickness well up within
him. Even Karsten looked pale. They had failed.
Then there was a crash in front of them. Two heavy branches, old and gnarled, seemed to tear themselves from the forest canopy and fell into the path of the fleeing wolf rider. Leaves were flung up into the air, whirling in a vortex of destruction. With a bellow, a shaggy form leapt from behind the fallen branches, straight at the bewildered wolf, now backing away, snarling. A bright amber light flashed briefly. There was a sickening crack as something hit the ground hard, and a dog-like howl of pain and confusion.
“Run!” cried Karsten, gathering his wits and sprinting to retrieve his blade. “We may still catch it!”
Lothar felt sudden recognition, and instantly knew who was behind the surprise intervention. Stifling a cry of relief, he ran after the wolf rider with the others, only to arrive well after the event. The goblin’s twisted body lay on the ground, its neck snapped. Thick blood pooled under its distorted limbs. The wolf had been similarly treated. Its back was broken, and its glazed eyes stared sightlessly into the air. Marius was leaning heavily against the crossed tree branches, his breath coming in heaves. He looked even worse than normal, his straggly locks hanging in greasy bundles about his face, and his eyes rimmed with red. When he saw the company approach, he smiled wearily.
Masters of Magic Page 19