Mark of Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  The engineer held the captain in high esteem. He was certainly not the brightest man he had ever met, and was in no way a good speaker, but then he was a soldier, and Markus respected his skills and instincts in war as he respected none other than the reiksmarshal himself. He knew that the captain was a battle-hardened general, and that if there was a way for victory to be secured, then he would fight hard to find it, but the engineer was not hopeful.

  The balcony where Markus stood with theWrath of Sigmar was some twenty feet above the cobbled killing ground. Fifty feet of open ground, with eight grapeshot-loaded cannon and the helblaster to guard it. There were other defences: searing oil had been heated and was ready to pour down through the murder-holes, and there were several handgunners to pick off any survivors of the cannon's fury. The men waited tensely as the roars of unearthly fury echoed up to them. They had not sighted the enemy yet, but they knew that this vanguard force was not human.

  The gears of the portcullis strained as the enemies below attempted to lift the massive iron gate. That was not going to happen, Markus thought, having surveyed the mechanisms earlier in the week - massive cogs and wheels that once locked in place would be impossible to shift without completely destroying them. Those below clearly came to the same conclusion, and the sound of a heavy weight smashing against the iron echoed through the tunnel. It sounded to Markus like a battering ram.

  Hroth threw himself against the portcullis again, and the metal began to buckle under the force. He took a step back and threw his shoulder against the iron latticework once more, wrenching it further out of shape.

  Hans stirred in his unconsciousness, the pounding and wrenching of metal piercing his comatose mind. Blood pooled out beneath him, and he groaned in pain and horror. His eyes opened heavily, waking to a nightmare. A daemon was rising from the blood pooled out before him, curving horns rising from its long head, its eyes blazing with fire and hatred. Hans tried to cry out, but his throat was dry and sore, and his weak croak was drowned out by the wrenching of metal from below. The bloodletter rose fully from the blood,his blood, and opened its fang-filled mouth, snarling at him. It rammed its hellblade into his guts, and then turned its gaze upon the other men on the balcony, whose backs were to it. It leapt forwards, roaring in bloodlust, and swung its deadly weapon into the back of the closest man.

  Markus spun around as the hellish roar was joined by a scream of pain. Blood splashed over his face and across his silk shirt as the man besides him was decapitated. The bloodletter, towering over him, roared and cut down another two men in an instant before launching itself at the engineer.

  Markus quailed and staggered backwards in horror. The hellblade slammed into his shoulder, shattering bone and cutting deep. He screamed and fell to the ground. Stepping close to deliver the fatal blow, the bloodletter suddenly staggered forwards, struck from behind by a handgun shot. It swung away from Markus, snarling in anger, seeking its foe. Fiery eyes narrowed as it saw the man frantically reloading his gun, and the daemon leapt towards him, cutting down everyone in its path. With a roar, the daemon leapt at the man, cleaving its massive blade straight through his ribcage, sending fountains of blood spraying into the air.

  Markus felt his lifeblood seeping from his body and out onto the floor. He felt suddenly tired, and a strange sense of calm descended on him. All he wanted to do was to sleep. He closed his eyes.

  Within a minute, every crewman on the balcony was dead. The frenzied bloodletter was finally brought down by a handgun shot, even as it delivered the fatal blow to this last defender. Still, the daemon had done its work - the deadly guns protecting the killing ground had been silenced before they had even fired their first shot.

  With a roar, Hroth hurled himself at the portcullis a final time, and the iron buckled and gave way before him. Bellowing in triumph, he led the charge across the cobbled floor of the inner fortress. The bloodletters raced at his side, and behind them came the full force of the army of Hroth the Blooded. The final battle was at hand, and the fate of Talabheim hung in the balance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The legion of daemons burst out of the inner fortress, the heavy gate smashed into a million shards of tinder. Into the fields of Talabheim they raced, intent on slaughter and bloodshed. Stefan shouted, and handguns and crossbows fired, scything down many of the daemons, but still more raced towards the thinly spread Empire lines. The great beast beneath Stefan growled dangerously at the daemons, and he patted its muscular side comfortingly. She was a magnificent creature. Eagle-headed, with the body of a massive lioness, she was an awesomely powerful mount, easily capable of ripping apart fully armoured knights with her taloned forelegs and her leonine back legs. She could kill a man instantly with a single bite of her tooth-filled, wickedly sharp beak, and her large eyes stared angrily at the daemons as they raced towards the Empire lines. Fearless and proud, the griffon was a noble creature, and Stefan felt honoured that she had accepted him as her rider.

  On the point of exhaustion, the halberdiers and swordsmen readied themselves for this final assault, fear in their hearts. The only defenders who seemed unconcerned by the enemy were the last twelve elf swordmasters, standing protectively around the mage Aurelion. Stefan could feel the tension and terror of his troops - in truth he felt it himself - and he called out to steady them, invoking the name of the warrior god Sigmar.

  Hearing the captain's voice, the massive, winged daemon prince swung its heavy head towards him. In a voice filled with hatred and derision, it spoke. 'Your god is nothing, little mortal.'

  The creature spoke in the maddening tongue of the daemon, yet Stefan and the last of his soldiers could somehow understand the words, as if they were spoken directly into their minds. 'Your god was a mere mortal - nothing more. The true gods of Chaos feast upon his soul, just as I will feast upon yours.'

  Captain Stefan von Kessel felt the words claw at the edges of his sanity, and his stomach knotted in horror. A man to his left dropped his weapon and fell to the ground, clutching his head in his hands. Others swore, or made protective symbols to ward off evil. The resolve of the soldiers withered away, and every man on the field of battle knew that he had only moments to live. Stefan felt his faith in Sigmar falter, and doubts filled him. What if the daemon spoke the truth? Despair pulled at him, and he barely resisted the urge to flee.

  A single figure stepped forwards to face the charging daemons. Gripping his heavy warhammer tightly, the figure of the warrior priest, Gunthar, stood defiant, his eyes glowing with righteous anger. The daemon prince slowed his charge, allowing his bloodletters the honour of cutting down this one, and they roared as they closed on the single figure, swinging their murderous hellblades.

  'In Sigmar's name, begone, daemon filth!' roared Gunthar, hefting his warhammer high over his head. A halo of light surrounded him, bright and pure. The daemons shied away from the searing glow. With a shout, Gunthar slammed his hammer into the ground, and the light surrounding him exploded outwards, engulfing the bloodletters. They bellowed in pain and rage as their physical forms were ripped apart, the essence of Chaos that kept them in corporeal form melting away as they were sucked back to their native realm.

  The light faded. The daemons were all gone, except the towering form of Hroth who was stalking murderously towards the warrior priest. His mortal army burst from the inner fortress, and began to pour out around him onto the field. Hatred billowed from the daemon prince like a dark cloud, and it leapt towards Gunthar, roaring in rage.

  The warrior priest leapt at the massive daemon as it screamed towards him, hefting his hammer. The Slayer of Kings flashed down, meeting the hammer in an explosion of sparks. Swinging its heavy axe, the daemon slammed it into the warrior priest's chest, and the man was sent flying through the air, his armour and ribs crushed.

  Hroth the Blooded raised both his weapons and roared his triumph to the heavens. The warbands behind him raised their weapons, and their bellows and shouts mingled with his roar, and they charged i
nto the Empire lines, hacking and cutting.

  The time for strategy and planning was done. The day would be won or lost on the courage of the warriors of the Empire. The actions of the warrior priest in defying the daemons had fired the resolve of the troops, and they fought with a determined fury. At Stefan's prompting, the griffon leapt forwards, beating her powerful wings. She drove into the Chaos warriors, screeching in joy as she ripped the head from the first with a powerful downwards bite of her beak, and closed her fore-claws on another, crushing the life from him. Stefan hacked and stabbed with the Runefang at the warriors of Chaos that threatened to overwhelm the Empire defenders.

  He felt a sudden reckless abandon overcome him, a release from the pressure of the siege over the last week. The battle was almost over - win or lose, it would not last longer than the day, and he felt a strange euphoria. He blocked the thrust of a sword, and sent a deadly riposte that punched through the eye socket of the enemy warrior. The griffon plunged her beak through the head of another man, his full-faced helmet crushed utterly.

  The Empire line buckled where the daemon prince charged. Its axe and sword rose and fell, cutting and killing with every sweep. Weapons clanged off its iron-hard flesh, and its power and strength grew as its fury deepened. Stefan kicked the griffon into the sky, her wings beating powerfully. She rose from the battle reluctantly, and dropped her last kill down into the press of battle below.

  From his vantage, Stefan could see the reiksmarshal charge into the fray, leading the Reiklandguard knights. They drove through the enemy, cutting them down in droves and crushing them beneath flashing hooves. Fully armoured Chaos warriors were spitted on the long lances of the exemplar knights, and others were hacked to the ground by their heavy blades.

  Tearing his gaze from the ensuing battle, Stefan focused on the massive form of the frenzied daemon prince. His war mount needed little encouragement, and she folded her wings tightly over her back and screamed down towards the red-skinned creature.

  Hroth hacked his axe into the head of a man, splitting it in half, the force of the blow driving it down into the man's torso. The Slayer of Kings lashed out, carving straight through a soldier's body and cleaving into the body of another. Hroth kicked another man, crushing his chest, before sweeping his axe through the air, and the man's head went flying into the fray. The daemon prince was a maelstrom of destruction, killing and rending with every movement.

  The griffon hit the daemon in the back, knocking the massive creature sprawling. The griffon's claws dug deeply into the daemon's shoulders, and its beak flashed, ripping out great chunks of daemonic flesh from Hroth's neck. Stefan stabbed with his Runefang, the magical weapon driving deep into the back of the daemon, which roared in pain and fury. Hroth thrashed around and rolled over, knocking the griffon away, and the daemon prince rose, eyes of fire blazing.

  With a hiss of pure hatred, Hroth hurled himself at the griffon, which sprang forwards to meet him. Hroth's axe swung out in a murderous arc. The griffon twisted its body to avoid the full brunt of the blow, the axe biting only shallowly along her flank. She latched onto the daemon with her talons, and her back legs raked down the daemon, tearing gouges of flesh from its body. Stefan stabbed towards the daemons neck with his blade, but the powerful weapon was batted aside by the daemon's own blade.

  Stefan swayed beneath a deadly swipe from the daemon, and thrust his sword into Hroth's bicep, the blade sinking deeply into the flesh. Hroth dropped his daemon sword, which screamed in anger. Balling his hand into a massive fist, the daemon prince punched the griffon in the side of the head once, twice. The creature staggered and fell, its head lolling drunkenly. Rolling free of the saddle, Stefan landed heavily, the air driving from his lungs. The daemon, grinning madly, stepped forwards and punched the griffon again, and it slumped to the ground.

  Stefan pulled free one of his ornate pistols, and unloaded it into the daemons face. The shot smashed the right cheekbone of the daemon, but Hroth cared not. His breathing was heavy, and he felt energy and power surging through his limbs. The bloodshed had been great this day. He could feel that Khorne was pleased. The frenzy was still upon him, and detecting a movement to his side, he lashed out with his axe blindly. An Empire soldier was torn in half by the blow. He didn't take his eyes off Stefan, and stepped towards him, ready to kill the impudent mortal.

  'My Lord Jurgen!'

  The baron had been trying to ignore the irritating voice, feigning sleep, but it was getting louder and more insistent, as was the pounding at his door. Coughing painfully, he rolled over and called out weakly, 'What is it?'

  A frightened-looking manservant opened the door. There was a man behind him, who pushed past the attendant with an irritated look on his face. It was the captain of the house guard, Jurgen realised. He didn't know the man's name. 'What?' said Jurgen. 'What is so important that you wake me on my death bed?'

  'I'm sorry for the interruption, my lord,' said the man. 'There are... strange occurrences in the city that I thought best to bring to your attention. Battle has reached the streets.'

  'What? How is that possible so soon?' asked Jurgen, frowning. Why did they not just let him die in peace? 'What are these strange occurrences?'

  'An enemy has appeared within the city itself, sir.'

  'The walls have fallen then. The end is nigh.'

  'No sir, the walls are intact. The Wizard's Way has been taken, but von Kessel is holding the breach as we speak.'

  'So how is it that the enemy are here?' asked Jurgen in a tired voice, the tone of which showed he did not really care about the answer. He had already resolved to die, what happened until that time mattered little to him.

  'They come from beneath us, lord,' said the man, his face stoic.

  'Beneath us? What are you talking about?'

  'They have emerged from the sewers, my lord, and Taal's square has collapsed. They are streaming out from the hole. They must have been tunnelling beneath us for years. Almost two thousand of them have emerged, at my best guess. And lord, they are not men.' the captain of the house guard said. 'They are... some kind of beastman. They look like... well, they look like rats.'

  'I... see.' said Jurgen slowly. He wondered briefly if this was the result of his illness - that he was becoming delusional. 'I... I'm sure that you can deal with this, captain. Thank you for informing me of the rats. I will now retire to bed.'

  'My lord, the ratmen are marching towards the Wizard's Way. If they hit von Kessel in the rear, then the battle will be as good as over. The city will be lost.'

  'The city will be lost.' muttered Jurgen, as if weighing the words up in his mind. The words of von Kessel came back to him then - that the way you die can be the way you are remembered, or words to that effect. 'Von Kessel will perish if this attack happens?'

  'Most certainly, baron. He is struggling to hold the enemy as it is. An assault in his rear will leave the army crushed utterly.'

  The sick baron frowned, thinking. The captain stood awkwardly, uncomfortable in the presence of his lord. He coughed eventually, and the baron looked up at him. 'Yes?' said Jurgen.

  'Shall I... take my leave, baron? Shall I lead the household guard against this foe? We will certainly be destroyed, but we may buy von Kessel some time.'

  'You wish to do this, captain?'

  'It is not a matter of wishing it or not, baron. It is my duty.' said the man.

  'Your duty.' repeated the baron, his expression blank. 'Duty.' he said once more. He turned towards the captain, his eyes clear. 'Ready my armour and my horse, captain. I will lead the household guard.'

  The captains mouth dropped open. 'My lord?' he said questioningly.

  'My armour. Have it brought here, and ready my steed.' In shock, the man nodded dumbly, backing out of the room.

  Yes, thought Jurgen, duty. He was dying. Maybe before he did, he could do something that might have made his father proud. The thought both terrified and filled him with desperate pride.

  Sudobaal grinned evilly
as he pointed his staff at another Empire soldier. Blue flames flickered up across the twisted staff and burst out towards the man, engulfing him in searing heat. The man's clothes and skin caught fire, and he screamed horribly as he died.

  'Ulkjar,' called out the sorcerer. 'Stay close to me!'

  The towering blond Norscan flashed him an angry look, but nodded his head. The massive man hacked the legs out from underneath an Empire soldier and slammed his other sword down into his chest as he fell. The Norscan was covered in blood - both his and that of his enemies - he was covered in cuts, but he seemed not to care. Indeed, the cuts were healing quicker than they were being inflicted.

  Sudobaal had been plagued with visions of his own death these last weeks. He knew that Ulkjar was the catalyst. In his visions, he was struck down by a black arrow. He had seen this in his dream-visions, but had seen in other premonitions, the Norscan step into the path of the arrow, saving him. If Ulkjar fell, then the sorcerer would be lost, of that he was certain. Thankfully, Ulkjar seemed nigh-on impossible to kill, so the chances of him falling were slim.

  The time came sooner than Sudobaal had expected. The black arrow came streaking through the press of battle. A Chaos warrior ducked to the ground to kill a fallen foe, and the arrow sliced above him. It passed scant inches by the head of another, closing unerringly on Sudobaal. He knew that he was not quick enough to get out of the way. It was exactly as he had seen it in his visions. How many times had he seen the black arrow embed itself in his skull? A dozen times? A hundred? Yet he had only seen himself saved by Ulkjar a mere handful of times. In that moment, he believed that he was about to die, that the visions of the Norscan had not been true dream-visions, merely concoctions of his own mind to give him some sense of hope.

  Ulkjar sliced his sword through the neck of an Empire man and spun around, driving his other blade into the chest of another. He spun again, a dervish of death, and a head went flying into the air. As he spun, he stepped into the path of the arrow, and it thudded into his lower back. He rocked forwards, but did not fall. Kicking a man to the ground, he deftly spun one of his swords in his hand and drove it down into the fallen man. Kneeling, he released his grip on the sword, impaled through the man, and gripped the arrow protruding from his back. He ripped it free, and tossed it to the ground.