3 the heart of chaos

by ich du

  'It's their short legs.' said Johannes, who had spent several weeks at Karak Norn on the ill-fated expedition to reclaim Ulfshard, and so considered himself more of an expert than most on the subject of dwarfs. 'They do have small ponies, but they prefer to ride around in carts, or walk everywhere.'

  'What's that?' said Fakje-Stohl.

  'Why dwarfs don't have cavalry.' Johannes said. 'Their legs are too short for them to ride comfortably. Wicked powerful cannons though.'

  'Aye, it's not just the dwarfs with the big guns.' said Fredericks, hawking and spitting. 'I heard from a merchant that in the Reik, in Nuln in fact, they've forged culverins big enough to fire shot the size of a man's head.'

  'Well, they obviously didn't help too much against the Ironclaw, you know.' said Gastren. 'Still, let's worry about the Prince of Altdorf another day. Plenty of fighting to be done right here without going looking for it.'

  They rode on in silence for another mile, keeping a watchful eye on the road just in sight to their left, scanning the trees around them for any sign of the enemy. Johannes's back began to ache. It had been many months since he had last spent a whole day in the saddle, not since they had returned to Marienburg from Karak Norn in fact, he realised. He ignored the soreness at the base of his spine, and instead focussed his attention on the winding tracks that criss-crossed between the trunks of the trees. There were small game trails, barely visible in the ferns and brush, and wider tracks, perhaps from wolves or bears.

  The thought reminded him that there were more than just enemy soldiers out in the woods. Out in the deep forest of Ostland, as elsewhere in the Empire, dread foes lay in wait beyond the patrols of the count's soldiers. Foul beastmen lurked in the darkest havens of the woods, ready to come forth on their raids to pillage and murder, ambush convoys and raze small villages. Other mutants and twisted creatures also found safety in the dense forests, waylaying lone groups of travellers. There were goblins too, the gods alone knew how many. He had heard some rumours that there were thousands of them, scattered all across the Empire, from Ostland to Averland.

  North of where they were, two days' hard riding, was the Forest of Shadows. Shrouded in dark tales, almost as infamous as the Drakwald that surrounded Middenheim, the Forest of Shadows was home to beastmen and goblins, and also innumerable bandits and worshippers of the Dark Gods. From hidden fastnesses in the woods, they would rampage out on occasion, sometimes few in number, other times under the leadership of a great warrior, numbering in their hundreds. If Kurt did come south with an army, those foes might well further bolster whatever forces Kurt had mustered in the north, some out of loyalty to the same twisted gods he worshipped, others merely for the spoils of victory.

  A movement to Johannes's right caught his attention. Even as he swung his horse around to investigate, he heard a hissing noise and a cry from Gastren. Looking over his shoulder, he saw an arrow piercing the older knight's arm.

  'Ware!' cried Fredericks, wheeling his horse to the left. 'Ambush!'

  Another arrow whistled past Johannes as he dragged on the reins and kicked his heels into his horse's flanks, searching the trees for the hidden foe. More arrows slashed the air nearby, one glancing off Johannes's helmet, stunning him for a moment.

  'This way!' Fredericks shouted, drawing his sword and pointing to the left.

  Fredericks kicked his horse into a gallop and the other three followed, unsheathing their swords. Ahead of them, in a small thicket of brush, Johannes could now see two men crouched amongst the leaves. Seeing the knights charge towards them they turned and began to run.

  'I'll get you, you bastards,' shouted Gastren, driving his horse on strongly, surging ahead of Fredericks, low branches whipping at his face and arms. 'Come here!'

  'Wait!' warned Johannes with a sudden sense of foreboding, pulling his steed up as Gastren thundered after the fleeing archers. Fredericks raced after him, shouting as well. They were about fifty yards ahead now, passing into a shallow, bush-shrouded dell.

  'What is it?' asked Fakje-Stohl, reining in beside Johannes.

  There was no need for Johannes to answer as the other two knights rode into the archers' trap. Arrows flew at them from all directions, some bouncing harmlessly off their armour, others punching through the plate steel, piercing their flesh. Fredericks fell first, sliding sideways from his slowing horse, his back studded with three shafts. Gastren tried to turn but was going too fast, and his horse lost its footing, sending up clods of earth and rotting leaves as its hooves carved furrows in the ground. Off balance, the knight tottered for a second before two arrows slammed into his chest, almost simultaneously, knocking him backwards, one leg still stuck in the stirrups as he did an ungainly cartwheel off his horse.

  Johannes watched in horror as the enemy loosed more arrows into the stricken knight, half a dozen or more sticking out of his head and torso and he collapsed into the mud. Glancing left and right, wary of more foes, Fakje-Stohl turned his horse and began to ride back towards the road. With one last look at the men emerging from the bushes, cautiously trying to grab the harnesses of the fallen knights' horses, Johannes turned and followed. To do anything else was to invite a similar fate for himself.

  IT WAS WITH heavy hearts that the army made camp that night, the glow from the campfires of Steinhardt's host glimmering on the horizon. Throughout the day, the Ostermark scouts had waylaid and ambushed the outriders of Vapold's force, until the count had moved up his own archers and gunners to clear the way, slowing the advance and buying the enemy more time for their reinforcements to arrive.

  Their losses were not that significant, a little more than a hundred men had been killed in the brief clashes, but the effect on the army's morale had been significant. From the confident host of the morning, they had been reduced to a weary, edgy force. Brother Hordicant, most senior of the three priests of Morr accompanying the army, lamented that thirty bodies had not been recovered and had therefore not been dedicated to his god. This boded ill, he warned.

  In the distance, the lights of Ludenkort shone dimly from the hilltop where the town was sited, while in the fields and woods around the town, campfires burned like stars in the firmament. Steinhardt's army had been swelled since the scouts' earlier estimates, though perhaps by only a thousand more men. Vapold still held the advantage of numbers, though his foe were better positioned, on higher ground and with the tree line at their back to cover their retreat.

  It was the count's hope to deal a single shattering blow to the enemy. Urged on by Bayard, who still retained the hope that Steinhardt himself might be slain or caught and Hensel restored as the true count, Vapold would break the usurper's army upon the field and as they fled, crush them against the Talabec which cut through the forests ten miles further to the southeast. With one blow, the threat from Ostermark could be quashed.

  Captain Felsturm was also confident, sharing the opinion that an army of sellswords and dispossessed would have little stomach once battle had been joined. He ordered the woodsmen and carpenters to fell trees and begin construction of a gallows, in order to remind the enemy of the fate that awaited those who would war upon their own. The sound of hammers and saws echoed through the night as the men laboured by torch and lantern light.

  Johannes could not sleep, a mixture of tension about the coming battle and unspent energy from his encounter early in the day kept him pacing back forth through the camp as the moons rose and fell again. Fredericks's and Gastren's bodies were two of those that had not been found, and he wondered if he could have recovered them. He sought out Ruprecht, who was sat dozing by a guttering fire outside one of the large barrack tents, and shared his fears.

  'It sounds like you did the right thing.' the burly warrior assured him, the dull yellow light of the flames glinting off his left hand. 'Better two bodies lost than three bodies found.'

  'I tried to warn them.' Johannes said, staring into the fire. 'I guess they didn't hear me.'

  'Or didn't want to.' said Ruprecht. 'You know what
knights are like, always ready to charge off at the slightest provocation. I hope they show a bit more restraint tomorrow.'

  'Do you really think that Steinhardt will fight?' asked Johannes. 'Even with the hill to hold, he must realise that he is outmatched.'

  'I wouldn't expect anything rational from a man who murders a youth to steal his crown.' said Ruprecht. 'Besides, blood has already been spilt, it's not like Vapold is just going to let him walk away now, is it?'

  'I suppose you're right.' said Johannes, standing. 'I'll let you get some sleep.'

  Ruprecht watched the young man walk off into the gloom. Around him the snores and farts of the soldiers sounded in the night, against the backdrop of the work on the gallows. Another figure appeared out of the night, swathed in a heavy robe. As he approached, Ruprecht saw that it was Magnus. The astrologer looked as if he were about to walk straight past and then stopped and turned towards Ruprecht.

  'Have you seen Ursula?' Magnus asked.

  'Not since dusk.' Ruprecht replied with a shake of the head. 'Why?'

  'No particular reason.' Magnus said, though Ruprecht was unconvinced. 'Nobody has seen her since we made camp.'

  'Nobody?' said Ruprecht. 'That is odd.'

  'Yes, it is not like our maiden of Sigmar to be inconspicuous.' Magnus said, gazing up at the sky. He pointed and Ruprecht looked up to see a clear night, the stars just about visible over the glow of the campfires.

  'You see that circle of five stars, with a line of three to the right?' Magnus said, and Ruprecht nodded. Two of the stars in the line had a reddish tinge to them. 'That is the warrior, his shield and sword. There are others that make up his head and legs, but it's too light to see them. Anyway, you see how his sword is bloodstained? It is a good omen.'

  'For us, or for Steinhardt?' asked Ruprecht. 'It can't be a good omen for both.'

  'The sword points to the north.' Magnus said, crossing his arms. 'Perhaps it is not for us at all.'

  Ruprecht did not reply, but sat watching the blood-red stars as Magnus walked off. As the fire crackled, ash rising into the night air, his head lolled against his chest and he slept fitfully.

  LUDENKORT WAS BUILT upon one of a pair of hills known locally, for a reason lost to antiquity, as the Twin Goats. The northernmost hill on which Ludenkort was stood was known as the Little Goat and the other, where could be found the ruins of an ancient elven watchtower, was the Big Goat, half a mile to the south. The forest grew up the eastern slopes of the Big Goat, all the way back to the Talabec, while for several miles to the south and west were open fields, dotted with the occasional barn or farmhouse.

  With the sun reaching midmorning, the two armies deployed for battle. Led by the drums and trumpets of their musicians, the soldiers of Ostland and Ostermark filed out in their orders of battle. Steinhardt retained his position on the hills and had two cannons protected by handgunners sited just outside Ludenkort itself. His cavalry were split into two wings, one on each flank, just visible behind the twin hills, in reserve. Spearmen, bowmen and swordsmen stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder in a dense mass along the slopes of the Big Goat, another cannon behind them.

  Vapold's army stretched out in a long line, the three hundred surviving knights of the Osterknacht to the far left, opposite Ludenkort, the cavalry of the count to the right, south of Steinhardt's defensive position. At the front of the line, the handgunners lit their matches and the archers strung their bows. With grunts and curses, the crossbowmen set their weapons, loading the stocky, deadly quarrels and hefting their pieces to their shoulders to march forwards. In all, Vapold had some two thousand missile troops, and his plan was to reduce Steinhardt's men with their fire before charging in with the knights and following up with the infantry. Unfortunately, he had no cannons of his own. The need to move swiftly had been too great to allow for the slow carriages and shot wagons of his artillery. With no counter-battery fire, his army would have to run the gauntlet of the enemy guns before they were in range.

  Perhaps half a mile apart, the two armies faced each other, individual regiments redressing their ranks or changing position in the lines as last minute adjustments were made. Banners flapped in the growing wind, the black and white of Ostland against the purple and yellow of Ostermark. There were even a few picked out in the grey and red of Wissenland, the green of Stirland and the brilliant white of Solland, now a desolated, ravaged land. The banners and totems of the mercenary companies were staggered throughout the enemy line, each flanked by other troops. Steinhardt had realised not to place too much faith in the sellswords and had therefore spread them throughout his army. If they were to run, there would be more steadfast troops to hold the line.

  The battle opened as puffs of smoke billowed out from the two hilltops and a moment later the bark of cannons echoed over the muddy fields. Cannonballs screamed though the air, dark blurs of movement, and ploughed into the ground, short of the Ostland line. A jeering roar rose up from the ranks of soldiers and they waved their weapons in the air in mockery of the enemy's efforts.

  As the cannon crews reloaded their guns, trumpets sounded from the Ostland army and the archers, gunners and crossbowmen began to advance, opening up gaps in the line. When they were some fifty yards ahead, they closed their ranks, concentrating near the hill on which Steinhardt's personal banner fluttered at the crest. The sword- and spear-armed soldiers marched forwards behind them, shields ready, weapons glinting in the bright light of the summer sun. The knights remained where they were, their horses prancing and pawing the ground in anticipation.

  More smoke erupted from Ludenkort as Steinhardt's gunners opened fire, the crackle of their muskets barely audible over the tramping feet and drum beats of the advancing Ostland soldiers. They were obviously ill-trained, firing far too early for their volley to have any effect, most of their bullets spent before they reached the Ostland line. Here and there a crossbowman fell, but no more than a handful in total.

  Vapold rode forward, accompanied by Captain Felsturm, between two halberdier regiments. Sitting astride his horse behind a unit of archers, he drew the Dragon Bow from his saddlebags and handed its gold-embroidered cover to his captain. Pulling out an arrow, he fitted it to the string and took aim. The sharpened, polished dragon horn of the arrow tip shone in the sunlight. With a smooth action, Vapold pulled back the string of the bow and loosed the arrow. The keening flight of its passage took it arcing across the gap between the armies, finding its mark in the knot of officers standing at the crest of the hill around Steinhardt's standard. The banner toppled and fell as the man holding it collapsed, the dragon arrow through his chest, its tip punched out of the back of his breastplate. There was confusion as the other men around him scrambled to stop the banner from falling, and yet avoided making themselves the next target by picking up the banner. More laughs and cheers erupted along the Ostland line as Vapold held the Dragon Bow above his head and with a flick of the reins caused his horse to rear up and kick with its forelegs. Felsturm shook his head at the extravagant display.

  'The next one is for that bastard Steinhardt,' the count said through his fixed smile as his horse settled on the ground.

  The Ostermark cannons fired again as Vapold's army continued its advance, this time the shots smashing through the archers and handgunners to the right, flinging bodies and limbs into the air, scattering mud and blood as they bounced and spun through their ranks. Arrows and crossbow bolts began to rain across the blue sky in dark clouds, and more men fell to each volley. The shouts of the sergeants and captains kept the Ostlanders moving forwards, closing the range for their own attack. Shooting uphill, as they were, they would have to get closer before they could fire. When they were just three hundred yards apart, jagged gaps in their line from the enemy fire, the Ostlanders stopped and prepared to loose their first salvo, awaiting the order.

  A murmuring cheer began to the left, growing in volume and rippling along the line. Craning his neck to see what was happening, Vapold spied a lone rider galloping out f
rom the left flank, heading diagonally across the open space between the two armies. Seeing the long, red hair of the rider flapping in a pony tail, he realised it was Ursula.

  'What in Taal's name is she doing?' cursed Felsturm. Vapold simply shook his head and looked on, stunned.

  With the shot and arrows of the Ostermarkers flying overhead, Ursula galloped the length of the Ostland line, staring towards the hill on which Steinhardt stood. She turned as she reached the end and headed back to the centre, stopping just in front of Vapold.

  'Come with me,' she called out, and turned her horse towards the foe.

  'What?' Vapold said with a disbelieving laugh.

  'Follow me,' Ursula said. 'Trust me. Trust Sigmar!'

  Vapold sat motionless for a moment, and then looked at Felsturm. The captain merely shrugged, abstaining from voicing any opinion.

  'Where are you going?' Vapold shouted to Ursula as arrows and quarrels sung through the air around her.

  'Over there!' she cried back, pointing towards the hill occupied by the Ostermarkers.

  Silently, Vapold handed the Dragon Bow to Felsturm and nudged his horse into a walk. The archers parted for him to pass, as Ursula waited patiently. The volleys from the enemy had slowed, and then stopped as the two of them rode out into the open ground between the two armies. A hush had descended on the battlefield as the soldiers of both forces watched their strange behaviour.

  Unmolested by the enemy, they crossed the gap and began to ride up the hill. Ursula stopped some fifty yards short of the enemy at one end of their line and Vapold reined in beside her. He could see the gaping looks of curiosity on the faces of the opposing soldiers stretching out to his right, and further up behind them, the urgent conference of nobles commanding the army.

  'Wait here,' Ursula told the count, turning her horse along the line.