by ich du
During the hours of daytime, the training field was thronged with the recruits. As they arrived they were handed their uniforms, quickly woven on the looms of Wolfenburg and crudely dyed in faded black, and organised into new regiments. The field rang with swordplay and the shouts of men practising with halberds and spears. To the shouts of the sergeants, the newcomers, many of them youths barely fifteen and sixteen years old, learned to drill with handguns and crossbows. Hunters from the forests were formed up as archers, and would be tasked with continuing to supply the army once it was on the march.
The docks at Hoarsonburg were filled with ships and boats as agents of the count travelled to and from the south to trade with the merchants of Talabheim, who sensing that demand was high, raised their prices to extortionate levels. Messengers asking for support from the Count of Talabecland remained unanswered, and his silence was a source of concern to Vapold, as he voiced to his counsellors one day. He feared that perhaps, seeing Ostland vulnerable, Talabecland would move against Vapold from the south. He was loath to spare any more men than were absolutely necessary to guard the river and the southeastern border, knowing that he needed every able fighter to combat whatever force assailed them from the north.
Steinhardt had returned to Ostermark to marshal his own forces and speak to his nobles, agreeing to meet again with Vapold and his force in the northern forests of Ostland. Captain Felsturm had already been sent ahead with a vanguard of two thousand foot and a thousand cavalry. He was tasked with holding the road against any foe that dared to oppose him. If Ursula's predictions were true, and the northmen had amassed the sort of horde she had dreamt about, then this force could hope to do nothing more than delay their advance. However, Vapold was reluctant to move with his army until all was ready.
A week before the host was set to begin its long march northwards, three massive barges arrived at Hoarsonburg, flying the colours of Nuln. The bemused observers soon had their questions answered when the first barrel of a cannon was hoisted from the hold and lowered to the dock. The parts for its massive carriage were unloaded next, and crates filled with heavy shot. In all, six guns were transferred to heavy wagons pulled by twelve-strong horse teams and some three hundred cannonballs loaded onto a mile-long convoy of carts. With them came ten gun captains of Nuln, their expertise paid for out of the almost empty coffers of the count.
The Reiklanders were greeted as heroes as they arrived at the city, the people of Wolfenburg flocking out of the gates to cheer them as the wagons laden with the massive guns were formed up outside the city walls. They marvelled at the finely forged artillery pieces, larger even than the cannons on the wall of the keep, their black-painted barrels shaped into the muzzles of fierce wolves, griffons and dragons.
Ruprecht was among the throng as the cannons were slowly hoisted onto their carriages, a line of menacing metal that would put the fear of the gods into any man facing them. Count Vapold appeared with a small entourage, riding out of the gates and dismounting to inspect his new weapons. One of the gun captains, sporting a large red feather in his wide-brimmed hat, his black doublet decorated with the arms of Nuln in silver thread, climbed atop one of the guns and addressed the grateful crowd.
'My lord.' he began, and fell silent as another great cheer resounded from the gathered masses. 'My lord, fair people of Wolfenburg, it is with great honour that I present you with these fine pieces. Artefacts of the finest artisanship and craft, the best that the foundries of Nuln have to offer.'
He pointed to each of the cannons in turn, each receiving a cheer as he did so.
'First we have Warwolf, which first howled death at the siege of Altdorf.' he told the crowd. 'Her first shot slew a mighty wyvern. Next we have two veterans of the battles of Gunderbruche and Staghold, the venerable Thunder of Sigmar, and her sister Storm of Justice. On my right, pay attention to the wonderful craftsmanship of Victory's Hammer and the splendid magnificence of Sigmar's Judgement.'He paused then and looked at the count. 'Your lord has spared you no expense in bringing you these five great cannons.' the gun captain said. He then crouched and patted the barrel of the cannon on which he was standing. 'This one, fresh from the forges no more than two months ago, is a gift to you all from Baron Vorst, patron of Nuln.' 'What is her name?' asked the count. 'That is for you to decide.' the captain replied with a smile. 'She is yours to call what you will. Choose wisely though, for if you honour her she will fight well for you, but a poor name will displease her.'
The count stood in thought, stroking his chin and looking at the crowd, who shouted helpful suggestions, and some not so helpful. The count walked over to the gun and patted a hand against its barrel, and then turned to the crowd.
'I have a name.' he called out to them, and they quietened, eagerly awaiting his proclamation. 'She shall be named Maiden of Sigmar, in honour of the greatest gift we have been given in the these dark times.'
The roar from the crowd was spontaneous and deafening, and Vapold was taken aback as the gathered people began to cheer his name as well. With a nod to the Reikland captain, he walked back to his horse, but before he could ride away, the crowd surged forward, surrounding him. Those at the front reached up and patted at his horse and the counts legs, and cries of blessing and thanked sounded out over the din. He reached down to grasp the proffered hands, sharing the moment with his people. As the cheers subsided and the throng withdrew, he raised his hand and stood in his stirrups. He looked out over the mass of humanity, eyes gleaming.
'There can be no better people than the folk of Ostland.' he said, the statement met with a cheer of gratitude. 'You do yourselves great service, and you have made me proud. Proud as a man, and proud as your lord. In five days we march forth to battle a foe as yet unknown to us in strength and malevolence. With your help and your prayers, there can be none that stand before us. With such strength and faith, we cannot fail. We will march to victory!'
Ruprecht felt himself swept up in the moment and his own bass cheers joined the yells and whistles of the throng as the count punched his hand into the air. In the days to come, Ruprecht would often think back on that moment. In the bleakest moments, when all hope had left him, he would cast his mind back to that sight, Vapold with one fist raised, a sea of grateful faces surrounding him. Of all the things he had witnessed in his life, and many of them had been truly remarkable, it was this one memory, this moment of honest hope and adoration and courage, that would give Ruprecht the strength he needed in the dire times to come.
THE ARMY WAS assembled as planned, and as the regiments mustered outside the east wall of the city, those who would remain behind gathered to see the soldiers depart. Wives and mothers cried to see husbands and sons going, perhaps never to return. Those too young, too old or too infirm to go with the brave men of Ostland stood and watched, some cheering, others saying prayers, many simply standing in sombre silence.
Rank after rank, regiment after regiment, nine thousand in all, the army lined up in blocks of two and three hundred men. The summer sun was waning and the first chill northern winds fluttered the forest of black and white banners upon their poles. Ahead, on the road, the cavalry waited, some three thousand knights and other horsemen, their mounts stamping their feet and trotting back and forth with brisk energy.
A clattering of hooves echoing in the gatehouse signalled the arrival of the Osterknacht, who had remained in Wolfenburg for the past months. Three wide, they galloped from the gateway, their armour polished to a gleaming sheen, long lance pennants streaming above them. At their fore, his face stern, rode Lord Bayard, sword held upright in front of his face in salute to the soldiers he passed.
Behind them came Count Vapold and his twenty-strong bodyguard, mounted on black stallions armoured in white-painted barding. Beside him rode Ursula, her golden armour easily visible amongst the lacquered black steel of the knights around her. Vapold appeared relaxed, as if he were merely riding out to his hunting lodge rather than embarking upon a war that might see him killed and his
lands ravaged. Ursula's expression was one of serenity, her gaze taking in the massed soldiers of the Ostermark as she rode past them.
A blare of horns and trumpets signalled the start of the march, and with the heavy rhythm of drum beats resounding from the city walls, the gathered regiments wheeled out onto the road, following behind the knights. The tramp of booted feet resounded in time with the drumbeats, the ground beginning to tremble as more and more units fell into the column. For many minutes the infantry marched onto the road, forming a line that stretched for nearly two miles.
Axles grinding heavily over the rutted road, the count's six new cannons formed the beginning of the rear guard, long teams of horses straining at the traces to get the bulky artillery pieces moving. Behind them light cavalry formed up, a swift moving detachment that could quickly move forward if needed.
At the rear, another mile-long column assembled, formed by wagons and carts laden with the supplies needed to sustain the host. They carried farriers and smiths, carpenters and woodsmen, cooks and brew-masters, and many others besides including scribes and messengers who were no less essential to the smooth operation of any military effort.
With no river north of the Middle Mountains to bring them supplies, the army was forced to take all it needed on the winding forest road. It was this, more even than the mustering of the armed force, that had been so slow and ponderous and yet remarkably achieved. The baggage column was almost as numerous as the army itself, swelled by the wives and families of the soldiers who had been fortunate enough to bargain their way into the train, as well as those whose services were perhaps less noble and yet would sustain a man on a long march away from his loved ones.
For the whole morning the people who were to remain watched the army depart, and into the afternoon as the last carriages and drays disappeared along the road, moving beyond the fields and farms and out of sight into the dark forests beyond. Now, perhaps, would be the hardest time of all for those who were parted from friends and families. Now the waiting had begun, the long weeks without news, endless days spent fearing the worst and praying for the best. None knew how many of the thousands who had set out would return, if any.
FOR FIVE DAYS the army marched north and east, following the rutted, worn road that led to the Kislev port of Erengrad. Along the way they passed ruined farmsteads and towns, victims of the bestial hordes that were gathering in the depths of the forest. Sensing the carnage to come, made bold by the cold northern winds that heralded the coming storm of war, they raided from their lairs and camps, striking without warning and then disappearing back to their hidden retreats before reprisal.
A few hundred men further swelled the army as it advanced, joined by members of the militia and free companies of the towns and villages further east who had not travelled to the capital. They brought with them tales of dark shadows in the woods, of beastmen and mutants that lurked close at hand. Many were afraid, worried that their homes were defenceless, and as the risk of the count's course of action became more evident, there were those whose courage failed them. Alone or in small groups, deserters avoided the pickets and slipped away in the night, risking the predators of the woods to return to their homes.
On the sixth day, as afternoon began to darken to evening, the forests thinned and then petered out into the wind-swept plains of Kislev. A vast rolling expanse was spread out before the army, a cold tundra of rocky ground and small wooded thickets. They had left the boundaries of the Empire, many of the men having travelled much further from their homes than they had ever done before.
No longer protected against the growing autumnal winds by the trees, the camp of that night was cold and quiet. The good humour of the company faded further as dark clouds gathered in the skies, obscuring the moon and stars. Rain began to fall just before dawn, and the soldiers grumbled and swore as they paraded themselves in the early morning mist, the hundreds of campfires dull pools of light spread across a grey sea.
Armour dripping, clothes sodden, they marched north once more. As the sun eventually rose, burning off the morning mist, the scouts returned from ahead. With them came a force of riders, mounted upon sturdy horses, banners of feathers fluttering from their saddles. These were the winged lancers of Kislev, five hundred in all sent by the Tsar to aid his allies. With them came twice their number of horse archers, drawn from the nomadic tribes living in the tundra between the Urskoy and the Lynsk.
Archer and lancer alike were all veterans of the constant battles against the northmen. They brought news that another force had been sent to the north to seek out the foe. Riders from near the High Pass had come south earlier in the year, telling of a great horde of Norse and Kurgan gathering in the mountains. With them were beasts of the forests, twisted, monstrous creatures from the Troll Country and even mighty dragon ogres brought down from the highest mountain peaks by the lure of war.
Though he had feared as much, it was grim news for Vapold. The tribesmen reported that the army had been encamped in the pass for many weeks, growing larger every day. On the day of the Dark Sun, as the Kislevites referred to the eclipse, the horde had begun to advance out of the pass and they had fallen back before its endless numbers. No more news had been heard from the north in several days.
They also brought more welcome news. To the east, two days' ride away at Getzholm, Steinhardt waited with eight thousand men. Though he had not voiced his doubts to any of the others, Vapold had wondered whether the new Count of Ostermark would uphold his part of the pact they had signed. It seemed that, contrary to Vapold's impression of Steinhardt, he had stayed true to his word.
With Kislevite guides to lead them northwards, the army marched on for another day, and before dusk the glittering waters of the Lynsk could be seen in the distance. Here they would stand and face the storm to come. Here they would fight and if necessary die. In this cold bleak land, a hundred miles from their homes, the men of Ostland and the Ostermark would give their lives to protect their families.
CHAPTER SIX
The Storm Unleashed
Troll Country, Early autumn 1712
THE ARMY OF Sutenvulf Daemonkin spread across the tundra like a swarm, a swathe of men and beasts a mile across, moving further west and south with every passing day. A few miles ahead his Kurgan horsemen hunted the animals of the Troll Country, and pillaged the small communities that lay north of the Lynsk.
For now the tribes were as one, united under the daemon prince and their gods. Norsemen of the Raeslings marched beside their ancestral enemies, the Skeld. The dark-feathered banners of the Bloodravens were carried alongside the golden discs of the Sunhawks. Kul tribesmen on steppe ponies foraged with the tall, gaunt riders of the Saxin. Goat-headed beastmen and bull-headed minotaurs lurked on the edges of the mighty host, bickering and fighting amongst themselves. Their braying challenges to each other echoed across the frozen plains. Misshapen, shambling creatures like Orst, champions of the past that had been unable to resist the gods' gifts, slithered, bounded and crawled amongst the warbands, their hoots and lowing cries adding to the cacophony. From north and east they had all come together to wage war upon the south.
Sutenvulf himself strode at the head of the host, a dark, towering presence flanked by his eight flesh hounds. Jakob rode alongside him, grateful not to be walking the many miles every day. With them walked Undar, too large and heavy for any steed to carry, and Hors of the Skaldings, who had fallen to his knees and sworn oaths of fealty when Sutenvulf had manifested himself, as had every other champion in the pass. Bjordrin and Gird accompanied the daemon prince as well, his comrades who had journeyed with him into the far north and been his companions before his ascension. Their loyalty had been remembered, and each had been given command of a dozen warbands in the name of their daemonic general.
At dawn on the fourth day since they had journeyed out of the Pass of Kings, Jakob summoned the other shamans of the host to him. They were perhaps two days north of the Lynsk, and the Kurgan outriders had reported seein
g Kislevite tribesmen in the distance, more of them in the last two days than before.
Sutenvulf would brook no distraction or delay, and had made it known to Jakob that he wished for no interference from the Kislevites. His goal was the Empire, and nothing would stand in his path.
The seven shamans gathered in a circle. Jakob stood at their centre within a smaller circle of his rune-stones, the ragged holes left in his flesh by their removal leaking thick blood into his furs. Around them the other marauders kept their distance, wary of the powers wielded by the wizards. Sutenvulf stood close at hand, watching intently. As the light of the sun could be seen through the clouds above the World's Edge Mountains to the east, Jakob closed his eye and raised his hands into the air.
He began to chant words of the Dark Tongue, the language of Chaos itself, magic given sound. Jakob could feel the closeness of the daemon prince, a fierce blaze of magical energy, draining the skies and ground of its power. He reached further afield, spreading his thoughts out beyond the presence of Sutenvulf, drawing in the breath of the gods. They were sluggish at first, but with gathering power they converged on Jakob, swirling in eddies around Sutenvulf, but drawn past his devouring incorporeal body by Jakob's spell. Around him the other shamans began their own chants, their voices raised discordantly against Jakob's. Their energy filled him, their power was passed into him as he stretched upwards, his soul carving up through the clouds above him.
From below he could feel the building vortex of magic, and as the mystical winds blew stronger, the air began to shift and turn at his command. The breeze grew in strength, building in ferocity until the army was engulfed by a raging gale. Men fought to hold their standards aloft, horses whinnied and bucked in fear, their owners holding tightly to their harnesses to stop them bolting.