Another beastman jabbed at Torben’s steed with its spear. The horse reared, whinnying, and Torben’s second stroke missed. But the horse’s hooves came crashing down on the injured ungor’s head, hurling it onto the iron-hard, frozen ground and cracking its skull open.
As Torben despatched those others who had foolishly taken him on, he already knew his men were in trouble, despite the fact that many were holding their own against the ungor pack. Vladimir Grozny, unhorsed, his steed gone, stood drenched in the blood of the foe, with a mound of beastman heads and corpses at his feet.
Arnwolf was in single combat with a beastman that was taller and more heavily muscled than the human-sized ungors. This must be the pack leader, Torben thought. Beastman polearm clanged against Norse axe-steel as Arnwolf deftly parried a two-handed downward strike and then backhanded his opponent across the snout.
The Preacher was delivering divine retribution against the savages with a gore-splattered hammer gripped tightly in his white-knuckled fists. ‘Begone, foul spawn of Chaos!’ Oleg yelled as he shattered the spine of another beastman with his holy weapon.
The skirmish had split into two halves. Torben, Arnwolf, Oleg and half a dozen other soldiers had quickly broken the beastman charge on their side, although the dull-witted beasts had spread their warriors unevenly so Torben’s half had met with the weaker assault.
The rest of his cavalrymen, caught unawares by the sudden ambush, had not fared so well. As Torben galloped to their aid he realised that the bodies of several men and horses lay twitching or motionless on the valley floor amidst the snow and scree. Zabrov lay curled around an ungor spear, which thrust vertically into the air from where it was sunk into his dead body. Mikhail Polenko lay half-crushed beneath the carcass of his own thoroughbred steed, desperately fending off three slavering brown-furred beasts.
At the same time, a number of the ungors, who had at first fled when their ambush had not immediately brought down Torben’s cavalrymen, were regrouping at the other end of the valley, under a filth-encrusted banner that looked like stretched human skin, which bore the Mark of the Beast.
Oran Scarfen, however, was surrounded by more than half a dozen beastmen, and he wasn’t dead yet. As Torben closed the distance between them he saw Oran’s horse dragged down by the beastmen and his friend disappeared from view amidst the excitedly braying ungors.
With a shouted ”Yaaah!” Torben urged his panting mount on even harder.
He felt the rumbling through the vibrations of the rock-hard ground before he heard it, drumming like the cartwheels of a loaded wagon. Looking towards the head of the valley he saw the two chariots thundering towards them, bristling with spikes and slicing blades, iron-shod wheels gouging great ruts in the frost-hardened turf, and pulled by monstrous horned and tusked creatures that combined the very worst and most savage attributes of great boars and brutish rams.
The arrival of the chariots alone could assure the beastmen their victory. Turning his whinnying steed to face the rumbling chariots, Torben prepared to break their charge.
‘AND YOU’RE THE only ones who remain?’ Captain Yasharov asked as he surveyed the survivors of Torben’s unit. ‘Half of you?’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ Torben said. Only eight of them had rejoined the rest of the border patrol. Following the appearance of the chariots, despite Torben’s men managing to wreck one of them, five of his fellows had been seized and carried off by the second tuskgor-drawn contraption - Oran, Manfred, Andrei, Evgenii and Mikhail. Three had died: the steppes warrior Zabrov, the untried Cheslav and Kiryl. ‘We were ambushed.’
‘And you failed to locate the horde’s encampment,’ Yasharov said pointedly.
‘Yes, sir. We were down to half strength and needed to regroup to effect a rescue.’
‘Your orders were to locate the enemy camp. That is what scouts are for, is it not?’
‘If we had continued it is doubtful there would have been any of us left alive to return and tell you the location of the camp.’
‘Well, no matter,’ Yasharov said, smiling coldly, disdain visible in his eyes. ‘Boris Bogdashka’s infantry found it for you. And their scouting mission met with no such misfortune.’
Torben was fuming inside but he said nothing. His survivors had made their way back to the main force to find that the army had made camp, following news of the discovery of the enemy’s stockade, to prepare for the final decisive push. That night the Kislevites would lay siege to the beastmen’s stronghold.
‘The beastman camp is within a stockade atop what remains of an ancient earthwork. It is not far from here, beyond a spur of the pine forest. Order your unit to ready themselves. We attack at dusk. Dismissed.’
Torben remained exactly where he was.
‘I said, you are dismissed,’ Yasharov repeated, fire creeping into his voice.
‘Sir, we should mount a rescue to free my men. I also believe that the beastmen have other prisoners, taken from the villages they’ve raided. Why, I do not know, but I do know it is not the normal behaviour of the warped ones.’
‘Why would you want to rescue them?’ Yasharov asked, an incredulous look on his blunt features.
Torben’s loathing for his commander was increasing by the minute.
‘Other than to save my men from a horrible death, you mean? Men I value and respect, some of whom I consider my friends?’ Torben retorted. ‘Other than that, the beasts must be planning something, I’m sure of it, possibly some dark ritual. It could be dangerous negligence to let such a ritual take place. Who knows what the consequences might be?’
‘We are fighting a war against these mutants and in war there are bound to be casualties. Your men, and any other prisoners the beastmen may have taken, are expendable.’
Torben’s blood was boiling. ‘Good soldiers are a commodity you should do your best to protect,’ he rejoined.
‘I have suffered enough of your insolence! It is time you learnt your place!’
‘I am sorry, my lord,’ Torben lied, ‘but if you would only give me a few hours we could at least try to infiltrate the camp and free the prisoners before the main attack.’
‘In a matter of hours we will be ready to attack the stockade and cull this tribe, dealing with them once and for all.’
‘But by then it may be too late. They know we are coming. The prisoners could have been sacrificed before we can rescue them and who knows what dark blessings such a sacrifice might bestow upon the horde? It could be the difference between victory and defeat.’
‘You cannot even be sure that the prisoners are still alive, if indeed there are any!’
Yasharov was silent for several long, agonisingly drawn out seconds.
‘Very well,’ the captain said at last. ‘You have until nightfall. Then the rest of us go in.’
‘LOOK,’ SAID ALEXI, pointing excitedly at the hilltop from the party’s seclusion within the pines. ‘You can see quite clearly how the stockade has been planted around the top of the earthwork. Those contours aren’t natural. Some long-dead tribe built up the hill and turned it into a fortification.’
Stripped tree trunks had been rammed into the hillside and the palisade strengthened at irregular intervals by massive granite monoliths. Rising above the sharpened points of the great sunken logs they could all see a huge wicker effigy that had been erected inside the camp. It reminded Torben in part of the figures woven from corn stalks at harvest time, only it was constructed from numerous wicker cages lashed together in the form of a colossal beastman. Even from this distance, Torben could clearly see the antlered skull of some Chaos beast mounted on the ”head”. From between the spars of the wooden cages hands and arms waved in pathetic supplication. Torben’s suspicions had been correct.
‘I see what you mean,’ Torben nodded.
‘And that could also provide us with a way in,’ Alexi said, a wry smile forming on his lips.
‘How?’ asked Vladimir.
‘The ancestors of your people often dug
secret escape routes through the earth beneath their hill-forts as a way out in dire emergencies. Sometimes they emerge up to half a mile away from the earthwork.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Stefan muttered.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Yuri said, fixing their newest recruit with a harsh glare.
‘A way out can also be a way in,’ Torben explained.
On foot, avoiding the attentions of the beastmen above, it was not a difficult matter for them to get closer to the hill-crowning edifice and begin their search for a secret way into the camp.
‘OI! SCARFEN!’ A voice hissed. ‘Are I you awake?’ Oran opened his eyes.
‘Manfred?’ Oran replied, trying to look round.
‘Up here.’
‘What’s going on? Where are we?’ Oran’s wrists and ankles had been roughly bound and where the rope rubbed his skin was sore with red welts circling his wrists.
‘Have a look for yourself,’ came Manfred’s disgruntled reply.
Turning his head, Oran saw that he had been squashed inside a wicker cage with several other people, all packed on top of one another. He was pressed against the crossed spars of one side of their prison. Squeezing around within the cramped cage, Oran tried to assess precisely where they were.
The cage was just one of many that had been fastened together to form a much larger structure. He found himself looking out across the entirety of what he realised must be the beast horde’s camp. It was a stockaded hilltop. Beyond it the sun was setting behind the pine-forested horizon, painting the sky and distant snow-capped peaks orange and mauve.
The spaces between the bars of the cage were wide enough for Oran to push his face through. He looked down and immediately regretted the action. His head began to spin; he was over fifteen feet above the ground. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, fighting against the rising vertiginous nausea.
He opened his eyes but this time looked straight ahead. As he took in more of the cages lashed together around him he began to see a definite shape to the structure. It was that of a giant figure and his cage was part of its trunk. The colossus stood on two pillared legs while other cages, hanging from broad-beamed shoulders, formed its arms. Stacked high around the structure’s legs were faggots of wood. There was no doubt as to the intended fate of the captives.
In front of the bonfire stood the granite monolith of the tribe’s herdstone. The menhir was festooned with human remains hung on rusted chains - some no more than skeletons, others still red-raw and glistening. His vision blurred and he felt his stomach turn over as cold sweat beaded on his skin. He had looked down again.
Twisting his neck, Oran was just able to look upwards. The monstrous wicker edifice was surmounted by an equally monstrous skull. He wondered what sort of warped beast had ever existed for there to be such a relic. Every part of the pyre was packed tight with human prisoners. Now he knew what had happened to the inhabitants of the villages. Some of those who were still able moaned and wailed their plight to the heavens, while others huddled together within the cage whimpering or remaining eerily silent.
‘Are there any of the others in here?’ Oran asked of his companion.
‘I can see Polenko through the bars of the cage above me, but I’m not sure if he’s even alive. I know that one of the Tolyevs was brought here with us - Andrei, I think - but other than that, I don’t know.’
Despite his hands being bound Oran was still able to reach inside his jerkin and, with relief, found his dagger still secreted there. By manipulating the sharp blade with his fingers alone he was able to cut through the hemp with ease. However, he didn’t fancy his chances with the blade against the wicker staves of the cage.
‘Can you see any way out of here?’ Oran asked.
‘Yes,’ Manfred’s replied. ‘There’s a door. It wouldn’t be hard to force it open, but we’re not going anywhere trussed up like a couple of game birds.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Oran replied, ‘just worry about forcing that door.’
AS THE LAST light of day leeched away, Cathbad the shaman began the ritual to reawaken the Lord of Misrule.
A hush fell over the assembled herd. Beastman rituals were usually raucous, unruly affairs, but this night the assembled tribe understood that what was occurring was more momentous than anything they had ever witnessed before. They were summoning their god.
Gashrakk gripped the burning brand tightly in a great hairy paw, fingers as thick as a man’s wrist curled around the wood ready to ignite the pyre and make the sacrifice. The flickering flames cast rippling orange shadows over the contours of his slab-muscled torso as Cathbad’s guttural chanting intoned the incantation.
Gashrakk could feel the quickening power of Chaos coursing through his body. He snorted in excited anticipation. In moments the sacrifice would be made, the prophecy would be fulfilled and he would face his destiny, revelling in an orgy of unrestrained bloodlust against the forces of order. All would be returned to its primal, uncivilised state where the only law was to kill or be killed and the beast ruled supreme.
And unseen by Gashrakk, Cathbad or the tribe, high up on the structure of the wicker beastman, two figures emerged from the splintered door of one of the cages and began to scale the monstrous effigy.
THE NAUSEOUS REEK of the dung heap swept over Torben as he emerged from the tunnel. Thanks to Arnwolf’s tracking skills and Yuri’s sharp eyes, it had not taken the rescue party long to locate a half-collapsed opening overgrown by the straggling tangle of a bush, itself half-buried under a drift of snow. Twenty feet into the tunnel, they had discovered that it rose to the height of a man, the tunnel wall reinforced with slabs of rock.
Torben had led the way, a half-shuttered lantern guiding them through the dank darkness. More slabs of stone gave the shaft its form and also provided irregularly distanced steps, creating a rock ladder that led up to the earthwork above.
It had taken them longer than they had hoped to infiltrate the camp. A large, flat stone covered the earthwork end of the escape tunnel, which had itself become covered by the general detritus of the camp. They had smelt the mound of excrement that seemed to be the beastmen’s privy, several feet from the top of the chimney. They now crouched behind it as they took in their surroundings.
‘There’s no fear of them smelling us coming,’ Vladimir grunted disconsolately.
‘Listen!’ Yuri hissed.
Torben did so and realised how quiet it was. A lone braying voice came to them from the southern end of the camp, along with pitiful moans.
‘We’ll be outnumbered Sigmar knows how many-to-one but any time now the rest of the army are going to attack, providing us with just the distraction we need to free the prisoners,’ Torben explained. ‘When we see their torches we need to be in position.’
‘It sounds like the beasts are too preoccupied and dull-witted to be on guard against an attack from right inside their own stockade,’ Arkady suggested.
‘Just the same, watch your backs. We don’t know what sort of creatures they might have keeping guard for them.’
Cautiously, the party began to creep through the abandoned huts of the encampment. There was no need for the lantern now, the night was clear. The flicker of torches could also be seen beyond the solid black shape that towered over the camp.
How long did they have, Torben wondered, before the Kislevite attack came? They had best move quickly, if they were to have any chance of saving their companions. Then, as the party rounded the side of the largest hut, Yuri stopped them again.
‘I hear something,’ he said.
Torben scrambled up onto the crudely thatched roof of the hut. From his vantage point he could see the beastman herd thronged before the towering effigy. And then he saw them; dancing specks of yellow-orange light bobbing towards the hill-camp from the jagged, black silhouette of the pine forest in a snaking line.
Torben cursed. ‘They’re coming!’
‘Let’s pray that we’re not too late to rescue anyon
e at all,’ Oleg muttered.
GASHRAKK BLACKHOOF SAW the lights too and realised what must have happened. The ambush had failed. It could only have been a skirmish force that Slangar and Barruk’s ungors had fought, not the whole hu-man army. But he wasn’t going to let his plan fail now.
Snarling in rage and before Cathbad could finish the ritual, Gashrakk plunged the brand into the bonfire at the feet of the wicker colossus. Doused with tar, the faggots ignited with an incendiary roar. The shaman looked on in horror, the sacred rite climaxing too quickly, as the caged prisoners’ screams drowned out the beastlord’s triumphant bellow.
ORAN CLUNG TO the bars of the giant beastman feeling like he was going to vomit.
‘Move it, Scarfen!’ Manfred encouraged, only a few feet beneath him.
‘I-I’m trying!’
It had been the only thing to do, Oran told himself, but now, as they climbed higher to escape the rising flames, they only seemed to be delaying the inevitable. It was hard to say whether the fire would claim them or whether they would fall to their deaths first, as vertigo threatened to overwhelm him.
Shrill cries cut through the night air, audible over the excited braying of the beastmen. The two soldiers had shown others a way out of their predicament and some of those who had shared their cage had begun to follow them. However, the prisoners were struggling to climb the wicker structure with wrists and ankles still tied. Some lost their grip, falling into the hungry flames below. Others were being picked off by spears hurled by the beastmen, as the tribe became aware of the prisoners’ escape attempt.
‘Scarfen, move it!’ Manfred roared in desperation.
His whole body shaking, Oran continued his laborious ascent.
‘FOR KISLEV AND the Tzar!’ Torben yelled and flung himself, sabre drawn, at the monstrous beastman standing before the blazing bonfire. Before the creature knew what was happening, Torben had sunk his blade into the thick, corded muscle of its flank.
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