Mark of Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  Stefan cut down a warrior as he turned to flee, feeling the other Norse running behind him. The greatswords leapt forwards and hacked down countless others as they ran. The only warriors who did not flee were the fully armoured warriors, who closed ranks and stood fighting defiantly, shoulder to shoulder. They were soon surrounded on all sides by halberdiers, knights and greatswords, but fought on still, exacting a terrible toll on the warriors of Ostermark. The captain saw several of the glorious Reiklandguard fall, dragged from their saddles as their horses were slain beneath them. The knights were much more vulnerable now that they had lost their forward momentum. The Chaos warriors were cut down one by one, but each one that fell slew two or more of the Empire troops. Finally, they were all slain.

  Stefan roared for his troops to regroup. Short horn blasts sounded, and the Empire troops, flush with victory, moved back into formation. The cannon boomed once again, firing at the enemy that was now several hundred yards down the hill.

  Responding instantly to the shouted commands of Stefan and his sergeants, the battle line condensed its ranks, and began to march to the beat of drums, down the hill towards the besieged castle below. Two regiments of spearmen held back, and re-organised themselves upon the hillside to guard the cannon that continued to fire down into the maelstrom of battle below. A pair of smaller detachments of handguns and crossbows arrayed themselves on the flanks of larger formations.

  To the south, he could see the tattered mob of flagellants running at full speed down the hillside towards the castle. He could also see the figure of Markus moving towards the other cannon, his pride and glory, theWrath of Sigmar, being dragged along the ridge by a pair of draught horses. He was glad that the engineer had survived the first stage of the battle.

  'We have weathered the first attack, men!' roared Stefan as he marched. 'Now let's finish this!'

  The nameless self-proclaimed prophet of the end times screamed incoherently as he ran towards the forces of Chaos. He blinked blood from his eyes, caused by the twin-tailed comet freshly carved into his forehead. His Reiklandguard breastplate was covered with parchment scraps nailed through the steel and into his flesh. Each of these was covered in his scrawling writing, descriptions of his visions of madness and death. Above his head he brandished a scythe, a weapon that he had found just days before at an abandoned, smoking farmstead. Sigmar himself had guided him to it, he knew, for it was a fitting weapon with which to cut down the enemies of the Empire.

  'Sigmar is with us, my brethren!' he screamed as he and the other crazed flagellants raced towards the enemy running up the hill to meet them. 'Our time has come! Purge the evil from them, as we have purged the evil from ourselves!'

  A flaming figure ran past him, screaming in joy as he burnt to death, swinging a long chain above his head.

  'See the dedication of our martyr brother! Honour him with death and pain!' screamed the nameless prophet, and the flagellants screamed their praise. The flaming martyr was the first to hit the enemy lines, smashing his chain across the face of a Norscan, ripping his helmet from his head. Another man rammed a sword into the flagellant's guts, and the nameless prophet saw it rip out of the man's back, splashing blood. The burning man wrapped his arms around his assailant, thrashing and screaming, and the pair fell to the ground, both ablaze. They were trampled beneath the press of bodies as the Norscans and the flagellants smashed into each other.

  The Norse were better armed and armoured, and were skilled warriors. Most of the flagellants wore little but tattered, bloody robes, and wielded only crude weapons. Most were no more than farmers driven to madness by the horrors of the war, and knew nothing of fighting skilled opponents. Nevertheless, the flagellants embraced death, and threw themselves at their enemy with crazed intensity, hacking and smashing at the Norscans without any regard for themselves. Their limbs were hacked from their bodies, but they fought on, madness lending them incredible strength and endurance. One flagellant, a scrawny, malnourished man of middling years had his legs hacked off by an axe; he fell to the sodden ground, but fought on, plunging his dagger up into the groin of his killer and dragging him to the ground. He stabbed the man in the chest over and over again, foam dribbling from his mouth.

  The nameless prophet laid about him with his scythe, cutting down Norscans as he screamed of redemption and eternal fire. The scythe broke as a warrior raised his shield against it, but he cared not, and leapt upon the man to rend him with his hands. He thrust his thumbs deep into the man's eyes, and he fell screaming. Taking up the man's axe with his bloodied hands, he threw himself deeper into the thick of the fighting, hacking left and right.

  'Salvation! Salvation has come to you heathens!' he screamed as he killed. 'Forsake your Dark Gods and give yourself to Sigmar!'

  A spear was hurled through the air and struck the nameless prophet's chest, knocking him to the ground, although it did not pierce his breastplate. From the ground, he lashed out with the axe, cutting the legs from a man. The Norscan fell to the ground, roaring in pain, and the nameless prophet leapt onto his chest, holding him around the head.

  'Darkness comes for you!' he screamed in the man's face as he rammed his head into the ground again and again. Leaping to his feet, blinking blood from his eyes, he screamed wordlessly and smashed the axe into the face of another Norscan.

  Swords cut him, axes grazed his bones, and spears pierced his limbs, but he did not notice them. All he could feel was the warmth of Sigmar's anger within him, strengthening him. He killed and killed and killed, and when there were no more to kill, he led the bloodied rabble that remained of the flagellants in a crazed charge down the hill towards the bulk of the Norscan army.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The tall elf stepped lightly onto the battlements, her ghostly white waist-length hair flowing around her in the breeze. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and utterly flawless. She cast her icy gaze across the battlefield that raged below her.

  The arrival of the Empire troops had been timely. She knew that they had been coming, but had feared that they may have arrived too late. They may yet be too late, she thought, but did not truly believe it.

  'You should step down, Lady Aurelion. It is not safe.' said a soft voice at her side. She turned towards Carandrian, her personal bodyguard. He stood at her side, dutiful as always. He was a proud warrior, and wore a tall gleaming silver helm, as did all the Swordmasters of Hoeth.

  'We are besieged, Carandrian. Of course it is not safe.' she said, and continued to survey the battlefield.

  The Empire soldiers had swiftly reorganised themselves after their initial foray, and were on the move. They marched down towards the castle to engage the rear of the besiegers. Their wide battle line would overlap the enemy on the north side of the castle, she noted. That should draw the Norsemen away from the gatehouse, which was the only exit from the castle. The Empire knights had cantered along the hillside to the north, and were charging down from the headland onto the beachfront, slaughtering everything in their path.

  The dull thud of cannon fire reached her, accompanied by puffs of smoke that obscured the Empire war machines from even her sharp sight. Crude, dirty machines, those cannon, barbarous and dangerous, and as deadly to those using them as to the enemy. She could not understand why anyone would wish to use the black powder favoured by the humans, for the risks were great. They have a different regard for life, she reminded herself. Their lives were so short that they did not see how valuable life was. Still, she thought, the life of a human was nothing to her. They were crude creatures, as likely to tend towards evil acts as good. She found it ironic that her forces were besieged by humans, and that humans had arrived to aid her.

  The proud warriors of Ulthuan stood all along the battlements. Many had fallen, and Aurelion grieved for them, but many remained, defiant and honourable. They fired their gleaming white bows smoothly, mindful that they were short of arrows, and each carefully targeted shot slew one of the attackers. Even before the Empire forces had ar
rived over the brow of the hill, they had fought without fear, killing efficiently and ruthlessly with cold pride and nobility: true warriors of Ulthuan.

  She glanced seawards, and saw the gleaming dragon ships cutting across the water. If the ships could land, the siege would be broken.

  She stepped lightly down from her exposed position on the walls, and called across to Arandyal, the leader of the Silver Helm knights. Their steeds were standing still in the courtyard below, untethered - the steeds of Ulthuan needed no such crude methods to keep them from running away. The knights had joined the other warriors on the walls, lending their swords to aid the defence. Arandyal broke off from the combatants he faced, and ran lightly along the walls.

  'My Lady Aurelion?' he called.

  'Ready your Silver Helms, Arandyal. You must aid the humans to clear the beach.'

  The elf signalled his understanding, and ran back into the melee. His men began to pull back along each side of the wall, fighting as they retreated towards the crumbling stone staircases at either end. The enemy swarmed over the unprotected wall.

  Drawing power into herself, Aurelion began a softly sung incantation, the intricate and difficult words rolling off her tongue effortlessly, musical and beautiful. Raising her staff, she pointed it at the midpoint of the wall, where the enemy gathered in the greatest numbers. Searing flames burst at their feet, and they shouted in shock and pain. The flames took hold of the warriors, their cloaks, hair and flesh burning and melting. Screaming, the warriors stumbled blindly, falling from the walls and setting their comrades on fire. Aurelion extended the spell outwards, so that the flames ran left and right along the wall until the whole area blazed with roaring flames. With every second that passed, the flames roared hotter and higher. She could feel the heat on her face, flushing her icy pale cheeks red.

  She turned back to look over the crenellations once again, and saw the warriors swarming below her. 'They come again.' she said as ladders were thrown against the wall. She stepped back, behind Carandrian. Many of the ladders were pushed backwards by the warriors on the walls, to fall amongst the tide of evil that swarmed at its base. Norsemen swarmed up the others, and the wall was suddenly the stage for vicious, close-quarters fighting once again.

  Carandrian stepped forwards, moving like a dancer, and swept the head from the first attacker to leap over the crenellations with a sweep from his two-handed sword, the blade humming through the air. The warrior fell from the walls without a sound. Another fell to the blade of Carandrian as he plunged the weapon into its chest, the thin blade sliding through the ribs to pierce the warriors heart.

  Glancing down, Aurelion saw that Arandyal's warriors were nearly ready. Most were in the saddle, their long lances held aloft. She signalled to the eagle claw bolt throwers on the roof of the keep to direct their fire outside the gatehouse. They reacted instantly, swinging their war machines around lightly, and began to fire down into the masses. Each bolt fired was four feet in length, and the machines had a phenomenal rate of fire. Dozens of the bolts streaked down, skewering the warriors beyond the gatehouse.

  'Have the Empire soldiers engaged fully?' she asked Carandrial. The tall warrior dispatched another foe, his blade first slicing across its stomach and then back across its throat in a smooth motion.

  'They have, Lady Aurelion. Now would be a good time for Lord Arandyal to sally forth.' he said calmly, the point of his blade piercing another warrior's neck. With a deft movement, he ripped his victim's throat out.

  The elf mage signalled to Arandyal, who raised a hand in recognition and, perhaps, farewell. The warriors atop the gatehouse increased their rate of fire, sending arrows streaking down into the foe, clearing the immediate area around the gates. With a groan, the portcullis was raised, and the heavy drawbridge was released. Chains rattled as the bridge was dropped, striking the earth with a heavy thud.

  A note from a horn was blown, clear and high, and the Silver Helms galloped from the castle and onto the battlefield.

  'Prince Khalanos, cousin.' said Aurelion quietly. 'Where are you?'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Captain Stefan von Kessel slew another Norseman, and seeing that no other enemy was immediately before him, took a deep, shuddering breath. His hand was slick with blood, and his sword was beginning to slip in his grip. Wearily, he wiped a hand across his blood-smeared brow. He winced as pain flared up his side. He could feel the scrape of bone as ribs rubbed against each other. He knew that he had been lucky, but it didn't feel like it. He ordered his greatswords to the north, to aid Albrecht's halberdiers still battling there.

  The attack towards the castle had gone well. Caught between his advancing army and the walls of the castle, the Norsemen and the last of the remaining beastmen had been cut down without qualm or mercy. The impact of the halberdiers and the greatswords had been great, and the enemy had buckled in front of them. Those at the back were being peppered by the arrows of the elf defenders. Occasionally, magical gouts of flame would roar forth from the white-haired sorceress on the battlements. Charred corpses fell to the ground, but continued to burn, the flames seeming to grow hotter as the minutes passed. Stefan was wary and suspicious of magic generally, but he was glad that the sorceress was on his side.

  The men around him were bloody and bone-tired, and all sported minor wounds. Many of their number had fallen, for the Norse were savage warriors, their skills honed by lives of constant warfare and battle. They were big bastards too, thought Stefan, generally standing a full head taller than the men of Ostermark. Despite this, his men had fought well, and at first had inflicted far more casualties on the foe than they had received themselves.

  As the battle played out however, the greater numbers of the Norsemen began to take its toll. The Empire line had been pushed back at its wings. The only part of the battle line that had continued to make ground against the Norse was Stefan's greatswords. Even then, their forward momentum had gradually been halted, and they had fought desperately for some time not to be pushed back. For all that, Stefan was proud of his men, and none of them had fled in the face of the terrible enemy. Brave men, Ostermarkers, he reminded himself.

  The enemy had been unable to move around the flanks of the Empire army, despite their greater numbers. The handguns and crossbowmen back on the hill had advanced, and their fire, together with that of the cannon, had kept the flanks clear.

  Stefan prayed that the reiksmarshal was faring well, and that the attack towards the castle itself had drawn most of the Norsemen away from the beach. He had heard a clear, high note blown from a horn that was clearly not a human instrument, followed by the thunder of hooves, but that had been almost an hour ago.

  A flood of Norsemen raced into view. He wondered if Albrecht had routed them, just as the Norse threw themselves at Stefan and his soldiers. They seemed desperate to break through the greatswords, and lashed around them wildly. Wearily, Stefan raised his sword and shield, feeling more tired than he could ever remember. You are getting old, soldier, he thought.

  He blocked a strike with his shield and struck back, but his attack had little strength behind it and was easily knocked aside by the large Norseman.

  'You are weak, little man.' said the warrior in broken Reikspiel, and stepped forwards to knock the captain aside. He stopped abruptly as an arrow took him in the neck. He stood for a moment, before tumbling forwards onto the ground. Suddenly, arrows filled the air, and the Norsemen looked around in confusion. A group of elf horsemen thundered by, firing their arrows with unerring accuracy into the Norse. The arrows dropped dozens of them, and Stefan shouted loudly, gathered his strength, and launched himself at the remainder. He cut down two of the warriors, plunging his sword into the chest of one, and the groin of another. Suddenly he was faced with men in purple and yellow.

  'Albrecht!' called the captain. 'I'm glad to see that you have avoided Morr's touch.'

  'Aye captain, I ain't ready for him to come for me yet.'

  A deep roar echoed across the batt
lefield, louder than the sound of any cannon.

  'What in Sigmar's name is that?' said Albrecht, and he shouted to his troops to about face, ready to confront whatever new threat was approaching from the direction of the beach. Leaving his greatswords to aid the other regiments of state troops to the south, Stefan moved alongside Albrecht, the halberdiers stepping aside to let them through. They could hear another sound - it sounded like the canvas sails of some massive ship flapping in a heavy wind. Air buffeted around Stefan and the halberdiers, who looked around uneasily. They were as exhausted as him, their faces pale and drawn, as they awaited this new horror.

  The roar sounded again, much closer this time. Von Kessel could feel the sound reverberating within him.

  'Sigmar save us,' breathed Albrecht as he saw what approached. Abject terror rippled through the halberdiers.

  A massive shape closed on them, swooping down from the clouds and plunging hundreds of men into shadow. With a beat of leathery wings, the dragon roared towards them, flames blazing from its nostrils.

  It was the colour of the sea, a faraway sea that was warm and filled with life, not the cold, black sea that lay off the coast where the fighting was taking place. It was a massive beast, almost as long as a ship from nose to tail, and its wings seemed to cover the sky. Great spines projected from its curling, flexible backbone, extending up its neck and forming a spiked mane behind its head. Its strong, sinuous limbs were powerful enough to rip a castle apart, and its jaws could crush stone. Its serpentine eyes blazed with an ancient, feral intelligence.

  Though it seemed a futile gesture, Stefan drew and cocked the one pistol he had not yet fired, and levelled it at the monstrous creature diving towards them. Its mouth was wide, and its reptilian lips curled back, exposing countless massive teeth, each as large as a greatsword. It breathed in deeply, sucking up a huge amount of air. Any second now, Stefan expected a great gout of flame to engulf him, yet he stood, unafraid. He just hoped he could hurt the creature before he was slain, and he aimed at one of its baleful eyes.