Meanwhile the infantry would be advancing on a wide front, a solid phalanx of well-drilled steel. Invincible within the armour of their disciplined ranks they would grind through the encircled beasts like a butcher’s saw through a joint of venison.
Every year the plan was the same, and every year it worked. The beasts would die like the vermin they were. Their slaughtered bodies would be left for the carrion, and the farms and villages of Hochland would be safe for another year.
Nothing to it really, Viksberg told himself as he marched forwards with his men. It’s a cull, not a battle. There was nothing to worry about.
He glanced back through the ranks to snatch a reassuring glimpse of his horse’s head.
Oh Sigmar, he thought. Let it be over.
It was almost a relief when the knights crested the hill and, with a chorus of drawn-out bugle calls, broke into a canter.
Although he didn’t show it, General Count von Brechthold was disappointed. He had won the honour of commanding the cull on three other occasions, and each time he had bagged many more of the beasts than were gathered here today. Even after three days of baiting, there could hardly be more than a thousand down there.
Never mind, he thought. It’s not as though they’re a real army anyway.
He felt the thunder of the knights’ advance as they swept up behind him. His own mount, who was itself a charger, shifted impatiently beneath him but he held it in check. There would be time enough to take his own scalps later. For now his job was to make sure that the regiments kept to the plan.
He watched as the first ranks of knights thundered past him. Their armour was so dazzling in the sunlight that it almost seemed to be aflame, and their standards glowed against the deep blue vault of the sky. There were some who said that handgunners would one day be a match for these warriors, but in that moment the count knew that such a thing would never be. The very ground trembled beneath the power of the knights’ onslaught, and as they cantered down the slope they looked as beautiful and terrible as angels.
The beasts below were too wracked with hunger to notice the line of cavalry that had appeared on the slopes above them. It wasn’t until the knights had closed to within charge range and the high, clear notes of their trumpets rang out that the foul things looked up and realised that their doom was upon them.
Brechthold felt his blood quicken in sympathy as the last high note of the charge was drowned out beneath the bone-shaking thunder of hooves and the jangle and crash of steel.
His mailed fist clenched around his sword when the steel hit the mass of flesh that stood before it.
With barely a pause the knights sliced through their foes. Their lances ran through the first of their victims, skewering the twisted bodies and pinning them to those who stood behind. Then, lances gone, the knights drew their swords with a steel hiss. The blades rose and fell, shining at first, then dulled with the dark filth of their enemies’ blood.
And all the while the juggernaut of their charge continued, ploughing on through the mob of terrified beasts until it emerged on the other side.
Another chorus of bugle calls, and this time the knights’ formation opened up, the three regiments spreading out as suddenly as the wings of a stooping eagle. They formed a steel cordon between the enemy and the forest which might have offered them sanctuary.
“Well done,” Brechthold muttered approvingly, and for the first time he turned to look at the infantry who were advancing down the hill in the knights’ footsteps. If the knights had been surgeons the men who followed them were butchers, their craft simple but methodical.
The count frowned. They were too slow, almost five minutes away from the battle. Against the subhuman vermin that even now milled and knotted in confusion below that would not be a problem, but even so, too slow was too slow. A human enemy might have taken the opportunity to seize the initiative. With the elements of the army divided, he might have counter-attacked, perhaps defeating the regiments piecemeal. He might have…
Von Brechthold’s mouth fell open as, from the darkness of the forest, a hundred drums rolled into life. Horns sounded, savage and toneless compared to the knights’, but loud enough to drown out even the shrieks of the fallen and the pulse of the marching regiments that closed in on the mob below.
His confusion turned into fear as von Brechthold realised that that mob was gone, in its place, forming up into ragged blocks that seemed a hideous caricature of his own regiments, was something resembling an army.
It should have been impossible. The beasts had formed squares, but they didn’t do that. Even as he watched the largest of the enemy were bullying and beating their fellows into an even tighter formation. That was impossible too. Then a score of crude standards appeared, sprouted up as suddenly as weeds after summer rain.
Where seconds before he had been facing a foe as routed as cattle in an abattoir, now, von Brechthold realised, he was facing something resembling an army.
No, not one army. Two.
The cacophony of drums and horns grew even louder as the dark fastness of the forest spewed out another wave of the horrors. There was no doubting the discipline that bound this wave together. Although hundreds of lesser creatures swarmed around them like flies around a butcher’s blade, their hooves crashed down in a rhythm which rivalled the humans’ own.
“They’re trapped,” one of Brechthold’s aides said. “The knights are trapped.”
“Yes. I know.”
From their hilltop, the general’s staff watched the thin line of knights. They were as hard and sharp as a razor, but suddenly they were just as brittle. For a moment they milled in confusion, and then their trumpeters called them to order. They turned back to face the enemy they had charged through and, with a wild cry, charged back towards them, ready to hack their way through to safety.
But this time, it was no disorganised rabble they faced. The sand they had so easily cut through before had hardened into solid infantry blocks. The blocks shuddered beneath the knights’ onslaught, but they didn’t break.
They bled beneath the cyclonic steel of the knights’ blades, but they still did not break.
They gave ground beneath the weight of armoured horses, but not much and not enough.
And they did not break.
Then the second wave of the enemy reached the rear of the knights’ line, and suddenly it was the men who started to die. The remains of their formation collapsed as their horses were torn from beneath them. Their regiments disintegrated, and as the slaughter continued the last survivors met their doom, alone and surrounded.
Von Brechthold was unaware of the tears which ran down the runnelled lines of his face. He cursed himself for not having kept a proper reserve force. He cursed himself for not teaching his regiments to keep tighter together, and for not having developed a proper contingency plan in case something like this happened.
Then he thrust aside such pointless indulgences and cursed the infantry instead. Events had developed with such terrifying speed that they were still plodding on, holding to the original plan even as it turned to ruin before them.
“Charge!” the general cried, signalling for his drummers and flag men to pass the message on. “Charge!”
If all of the regiments had followed his lead, they might have arrived in time to save some of their comrades. Perhaps the remains of the knights could have held out until the infantry had reached them. Perhaps the beasts’ new-found discipline would have snapped when caught between two foes. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
In fact, only two of the six regiments charged when they were ordered to. The others were not as alert. It took them time to understand the order, and more time to follow their comrades’ lead. As for Viksberg’s regiment, it didn’t charge at all.
Von Brechthold watched as the solid front of his infantry fell apart. Skirmishers fell upon one of the outermost regiments, attacking the unguarded flanks with the ruthless instinct of wolves snapping at an ox’s hamstrings. Another regiment re
ached the enemy just as the last of the knights disappeared. They were enveloped, surrounded and torn apart by creatures who now seemed frenzied with victory. The remaining regiments saw what was happening, and the captains slowed. Then they stopped, balancing on the precipice of retreat.
It was at that moment that the general heard the cavalry beat of speeding hooves coming from the east.
For one wild moment he thought that he was saved, for even in the midst of battle he could distinguish a horse’s tread from that of the things before him. He stood in his stirrups to see the riders as they emerged from around one of the sweeping arms of the forest.
They were no knights, that was for certain. Even at this distance he could see that they were dull and scruffy. He didn’t care. Irregular as they might be, they were fine horsemen, and even as he watched their pace quickened into a gallop. They came in a great mass, sweeping across the green pasture like the shadow of one of the great white clouds that drifted above.
It wasn’t until they had drawn close enough for him to see what they truly were that he lost all hope.
It was a strange feeling, this despair, almost liberating. He had no more decisions to make, no more mistakes to avoid. He and his army were doomed. As the savage cavalry thundered towards the remains of his army, the general knew that there was only one thing to do. Still standing in his stirrups he unsheathed his sword and, with a roar of defiance, led his bodyguard in a final charge.
“My lord, we must advance,” the captain said, his exasperation only held in check by a lifetime of military discipline. “We are ordered to. Look, see how the other regiments are outstripping us!”
But Viksberg was already looking. In point of fact, he was looking at the destruction of the spearmen who had so rashly followed the order to charge. They were no more than two hundred yards closer to the enemy than he was, and he could hear the terror in their voices as they were swallowed by the endless, heaving mass of the enemy.
Compared to the stinking ocean of the beasts’ massed bodies the regiment looked tiny, forlorn. The troopers, who an hour ago had seemed so impressive to Viksberg, now looked like children in the shadow of these savage creatures. Even their standard, once so magnificent, now seemed like no more than a vainglorious boast.
Viksberg grimaced as the spearmen’s square finally broke. The flanks caved in and suddenly there was no regiment, just an explosion of men desperately trying to survive.
“My lord, I am going to give the order to charge,” the captain told him.
“No.” Viksberg shook his head. He had caught sight of another regiment. Or at least, of the beasts who had closed around it, their ragged formations as tight and deadly as a strangler’s fingers. Above the ringing steel and guttural roars of the enemy, he could already hear the men’s shouts becoming shriller, more desperate.
“Sigmar help them,” he mouthed reflexively.
At that moment, as if in answer to his prayer, the thunder of hooves sounded in the east. He could feel the thunder of the charge through the soles of his boots, and the traditional cry of the charge was taken up by the men around him.
“Urra!” The men cried in salute. “Urra!”
Viksberg felt his stomach unknotting in relief as he peered through the confusion of the battle to catch a glimpse of their saviours. He couldn’t remember any talk of such reserves during the previous night’s planning, but that hardly mattered now. All that mattered was that they were here, the hammer of the Empire, the lightning bolt from a clear blue sky, the steel weight that would tip the scales.
Then the first wave of the charge surged through the melee, and Viksberg realised what they truly were.
For one terrible moment he thought that he was going to scream. Even at this distance he could make out the twisted confusion of their bestial forms. In some ways they echoed those of their kin that had emerged from the forest. They had been created by the same hideous fusion of men and beasts, and the viciously curved horns and yellow goat eyes and snarling muzzles were the same as those Viksberg had already seen.
But whatever foul gods had shaped these blasphemous creatures had gone even further. Where others had remained vaguely humanoid, these things’ torsos melted seamlessly into horses’ bodies. They galloped forwards with the instinctive grace that it took a knight a lifetime to learn, and they held their crude axes and stone-headed spears with an effortless balance.
As Viksberg watched they hit the first of their victims, leaping over their lesser brethren to smash into the faltering lines of the humans. The formation wavered. Then it broke.
It was all too much for Viksberg. Even as he had remained frozen, his mind had been working as frantically as a rat caught in a trap. He turned to the captain, his face a haughty mask.
“You wouldn’t desert, would you, captain?” he demanded.
“Of course not, sir.”
“Good. Then stay here. I’m going to get help. You men,” Viksberg called out, turning around, “clear the way. I’m coming through.”
“What?” For a moment the captain was lost in confusion. He watched as Viksberg started elbowing his way through the neatly dressed ranks behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Going to get help,” Viksberg called back, trying to keep the terror out of his voice. “Reinforcements. Won’t be long.”
As one man, the regiment turned to watch him clamber onto his horse. It shifted nervously beneath him, eyes wide, nostrils flaring.
“I’ll be back soon,” Viksberg promised and then, with a sense of wild relief, turned and galloped off.
“What a complete…”
“No talking in the ranks,” the captain snarled. “Eyes front. Halberds at port. Big they may be, but they’re still no more than animals. Drummer, sound the advance!”
As Viksberg raced away, his regiment moved towards the galloping horrors who hurled themselves so eagerly forwards to meet them.
Viksberg stopped briefly on the crest of the hill, his horse’s flanks heaving. Below him he saw not just defeat but annihilation.
Nobody else, it seemed, had shown the intelligence to withdraw when the storm of defeat had overtaken them. Here and there little knots of men still held out, clustered around ragged and blood-soaked standards. Most had already fallen, clinging to the illusory safety of their regiments with the same misplaced faith of sailors clinging to a sinking ship. Their remains lay trampled into the mud and the gore, cold bodies hacked and gouged and savaged.
Others amongst the fallen had not been so fortunate.
Even before the last resistance had been crushed, the celebratory feasting began. If the beasts below had hungered after the blood of the bait animals, they were starving for the more refined taste of human flesh. Viksberg watched armour being stripped from bodies, and then flesh being stripped from bones. He watched heads torn off, skulls smashed, brains gnawed out of the cavities. He watched a man screaming as he was devoured from the fingertips inwards.
And all the while the sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky above. Somehow the perfection of this spring morning made the nightmare that was unfolding below all the more unreal, and Viksberg sat mesmerised as the last little knot of resistance disappeared beneath the victorious horde.
Then some instinct made him look to the left. Half a dozen of the horse creatures had caught sight of him. Their fur was blackened with spilt blood, and flies swarmed around them. They showed no desire to join in the feasting. It would take more than dead meat to slake their bloodlust.
Viksberg snapped back into the hellish reality of his situation, turned his horse and fled.
Chapter Two
“Schmitt, you old villain. Where are you?”
The barge master cringed at the voice that boomed through the narrow confines of his boat. Realising that he couldn’t close the hatch that led down into his quarters without being noticed, he rolled beneath his narrow cot instead.
“Schmitt!” His persecutor’s voice sounded like that of a wounded bull. Schmi
tt plucked at his ear-ring, and desperately wished that he was somewhere else. He could already hear the boot steps clumping on the deck above him. Even more ominously, he noticed that the usual chatter and arguments which accompanied his little flotilla had fallen silent. Everybody must have decided that this new drama was more interesting, damn it.
Then, a miracle happened. The boot steps marched away to the side of the boat and the gangplank squeaked as somebody walked down it.
Schmitt realised that he had been holding his breath, and sighed with relief. Then he waited for five more cautious minutes before rolling out from under his cot and sidling carefully up the stairs. He poked his head out of the hatch and blinked apprehensively.
Then he screamed as a fist grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him up from the safety of the hold. He dangled, his scalp in agony, and found himself looking into Erikson’s face. The man was perhaps thirty, perhaps more. It was difficult to tell beneath the scars, the broken nose and the military angle of his waxed moustache. His eyes, which usually showed such good-humoured intelligence, were now hard as ice. They were a pale yellow against his tan, like those of a tiger or some other great beast, and they glittered hungrily.
“Oh, good.” Schmitt, ignoring the feeling that his hair was on fire, tried to smile. “I was looking for you.”
Erikson barked with what might have been laughter.
“Were you indeed?” he asked. “And why was that? To tell me that you have stolen my money and reneged on our agreement?”
“No, no, no.” Schmitt shook his head and then thought better of it. “Well, that is to say, yes.”
Erikson dropped him in disgust, and now that his scalp had stopped hurting Schmitt had time to notice how much bigger Erikson was than him. He stood six foot tall, and even beneath the leather and velvet extravagances of his uniform it was possible to see that he was built like an ox.
Broken Honour Page 2