3 the heart of chaos

by ich du

  The Gold Company and the Wolfenburg Heavy Spear had been designated as the rearguard, and they held on grimly against the beasts and northmen that threw themselves against the town's defenders. Before the battle, they had received the blessings of the priests of Morr, their souls already consecrated to the god of death. They knew they were going to die on the banks of the Urskoy, and fought to sell their lives dearly.

  Ruprecht had other plans, and pushed his way through the swordsmen and called to Ursula, but she either did not hear him or chose to ignore him. Pushing his hammer into his belt, he plunged into the melee and grabbed the woman, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back from the fighting. She struggled, smashing an elbow into his face.

  'Easy!' he shouted, dropping Ursula to her feet.

  'What are you doing?' she snarled. 'My place is here, with the fighting! I'm needed here.'

  She turned and took a stride back towards the clashing weapons and shouts of the dying but Ruprecht pointed across bridge towards the regiments marching back through the town.

  'Your place is with your people,' he told her, dragging her towards the bridge. 'They need you! This battle is just beginning, not ending.'

  'I have to fight!' she screeched, ripping her arm free.

  'If you die, this army will fall apart!' Ruprecht roared at her, stopping her short.

  Ursula looked up into his face and then back to the fighting. He could see her pain in her expression. Slowly, reluctantly, she walked backwards across the bridge, watching as the last few dozen men held the crossing, buying time for the army to re-organise at its rally point.

  COUNT VAPOLD HAD suspected that the bridge would fall and had drawn up plans for the army to retreat to the hill on which the guns were stationed. He silently thanked the gods and the Osterknacht that the defensive position was still in Imperial hands. The knights had charged forwards again as the Chaos forces had poured out of the town gates, covering the retreat of the last regiments who were still marching up the hill.

  Both armies were significantly smaller than they had been when the fighting had begun, their dead choking the streets and alleys of Mursk. Now as the northmen and their bestial allies advanced up the hill, Vapold looked longingly to the east. He prayed that Steinhardt had been victorious and would arrive in time, otherwise this hill would become his grave.

  JAKOB WATCHED THE fighting dispassionately. The Empire soldiers had fought valiantly, but their resistance was in vain. Soon Undar would be here with his warriors, and with their extra numbers the outcome was inevitable. That was if he arrived before Sutenvulf returned, Jakob thought. If Undar delayed, he might miss the fighting altogether.

  The sound of hoof beats trembled along the ground and Jakob looked along the line of embattled fighters. The Imperial knights had smashed a hole through Hors's marauders, and swung around the back of the Chaos army. If they were not stopped, they could charge into the rear of Sutenvulf's men.

  Jakob began to summon the energy of the gods again, preparing to unleash a storm of devastating power against the knights. The knights wheeled along the hill, coming straight towards him. As the breath of the gods swirled around him, Jakob could see a gold-armoured figure at their head. Barking words of power, Jakob unleashed the power of the gods towards the knights.

  Nothing happened, the magic dissipated harmlessly back to the mystical winds. The knights were coming straight for Jakob and fear gripped his heart. He turned and tried to hobble away, but the swift-moving cavalry were quickly upon him. He felt something hard strike him in the back and he toppled forward, his head smashing into a rock, stunning him.

  Awkwardly rolling to his back, he saw the gold-armoured figure dismounting as the knights thundered onwards towards Hors's battle-line. The shaman could feel a trickle of blood running down his knobbled forehead.

  He looked up into the face of the Imperial warrior and saw that it was Ursula. She had changed, not physically, but in her demeanour. Her hard eyes bored into the shaman as his smiled cruelly.

  'It's been a long time.' Jakob said, his Reikspiel heavily accented.

  'Where's Kurt?' she demanded, drawing a blazing sword, its point directed at Jakob's throat. The light of the blade hurt Jakob's eye.

  'Where is he?' she asked again, grabbing Jakob's furs and pulling him forward, the sword tip hovering inches from his throat.

  It was a good question, Jakob thought. Where was the Sutenvulf?

  A reflection in Ursula's silvered armour caught his attention. It was his magical eye, a golden disc, looking like a shimmering sun against the blue steel of the armour. In the reflection, blood trickled down across it, and Jakob began to laugh.

  'He'll be here soon enough,' he sneered. 'He'll be here soon enough.'

  Ursula pushed him back to the ground and plunged the magical sword into his chest. Pain flared through Jakob at the touch of the enchanted blade, but he did not mind. As his blood bubbled away, he watched Ursula mount her horse and turn back to the fight. The vision of the reflection hovered in Jakob's mind as the last of his life force seeped from his twisted form, and Sutenvulf's words came back to him.

  'Look for me when the sun is drenched in blood and I will be there.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ostland

  URSULA GALLOPED UP the hill, Ulfshard in hand. She rode across the corpse-strewn ground in the wake of the Osterknacht, who had discarded their lances and were fighting their way through the minions of the Chaos gods with swords, maces, axes and warhammers. Ursula joined the attack, sweeping off the head of a savage marauder with a sweep of Ulfshard.

  From the back of her horse, Ursula could see a group of two dozen or so halberdiers. They had been cut off from the main battle-line and were surrounded by a constricting ring of Kul horsemen, their scalp-locks waving as they circled in for the kill. Beside the halberdiers' standard bearer Ursula spied a flash of white and saw Brother Helgurd, one of the warrior priests that accompanied the army. The halberdiers were hopelessly outmatched by their mounted foes, who darted close and hurled throwing spears into their ranks.

  With a shout, Ursula dug her heels into the flanks of her mount, swinging Ulfshard left and right. With half a dozen blows she had cut her way clear of the melee and was heading towards the priest and his guards. Even as she closed, the Kul drew their swords and charged towards the bristling blades of the soldiers. Unaware of the warrior woman bearing down on him, the first horseman fell from his saddle without a sound, his back opened to the ribs by Ursula's magical blade.

  Seeing his kinsman fall, another of the riders turned, just in time to catch the point of Ulfshard in the face. Screaming, he fell from the saddle, trampled by the hooves of Ursula's horse as she urged it on, swinging Ulfshard in wide arcs around her head.

  She broke through just as Brother Helgurd fell, a Kurgan spear puncturing his shoulder. The halberdiers closed in around the wounded priest, protecting him from further attack. They parted to let Ursula pass into the centre of their formation.

  'We're done for, but get him out of here!' the sergeant yelled to her, helping the warrior priest clamber belly down on to the horse behind Ursula. Sheathing Ulfshard, Ursula held him in place with her right hand and gripped the reins with the left. The halberdiers gave a shout and pushed forwards, opening a gap for Ursula to rid through. As she raced free from the Kul, one of them turned his horse and set after her. Laden with two people, her steed could not match the steppe warrior's mount for pace. He overhauled Ursula and swung his mount across the nose of her steed and Ursula swayed back, the edge of the Kurgan's sword slicing past barely inches for her face.

  'Here,' Helgurd yelled through gritted teeth, thrusting his hammer towards Ursula. Releasing her grip of the priest's robes she snatched the weapon from him and swung it at the horseman's head.

  The Kurgan was a more skilled rider than Ursula and veered his horse away, slashing at the hamstrings of her steed as he rode past. Whinnying shrilly her horse fell to one side, its gashed leg twitching
, throwing Ursula and Helgurd into the snowy ground. Helgurd struggled to his feet and was thrown back a moment later as the steppe marauder twisted his mount quickly and slashed the tip of his sword across the priest's throat. Helgurd's blood spattered across her face, Ursula screamed and launched herself at the rider, the hammer smashing into his thigh, crushing bone.

  Knocked sideways by the attack, the Kul warrior struggled to maintain his balance and Ursula grabbed hold of his tattered cloak, pulling him from his horse. She kicked him in the face as he tried to rise and brought the hammer down onto his shaved scalp, cracking his skull and driving the back of his head into the sodden earth.

  The dead Kurgan's horse stood close by and Ursula walked over and climbed up onto its chequered saddlecloth. As she turned the horse's head towards the Imperial army it gave a terrified whinny and tried to bolt.

  A moment later Ursula felt the ground tremble. Overhead the sky darkened and the air became thick and oppressive. The clouds began to spin, spiralling down towards the ground in a whirlwind of crackling energy. Fell voices screamed on the rushing wind and shapes moved amongst the seething energy - dark shapes, seen only in nightmares.

  With a thunderous crash the portal opened, a gaping maw of energy tearing though into the world of mortals from the Realm of Chaos. A tide of daemonic warriors and creatures burst forth, a wave of magical malevolence sweeping over the Ostland army. Inside the vortex titanic energies crashed and men began to turn and run, crying in fear, whispering prayers to the gods. Ursula forced the horse into a gallop, swinging around the flank of the battle.

  'Do not run!' she cried, and the fleeing men, now numbering in the hundreds and growing with every moment, slowed and turned to her. 'If you run now, then you must run for the rest of your lives. You may survive the day, but the threat of Chaos is never defeated by retreat! Only by staying and fighting can you ever defeat these foes. They are fell and unnatural, but they are not undefeatable.'

  'Faith and steel, my brave warriors! Faith and steel will turn this misfortune to our glory. The Dark Gods shall rue the day they pitted themselves against the men of Ostland!'

  The heartened soldiers began to return to their units, and Ursula turned to watch the gibbering, baying, howling morass of nightmarish creatures charging towards the Empire soldiers. From the portal a winged shadow emerged, larger than even the dragon ogres. It swept across the sky and circled once before landing behind the daemonic legion.

  Ursula felt a sense of horror drain her strength as she looked at the daemon prince and recalled Jakob's dying words. Her momentary despair was soon replaced with anger. Dismounting, she walked among the frightened troops.

  'Men of the Empire!' She shouted, raising the hammer of the dead priest above her head. 'Let your deaths not be in vain! Strike down these abominations with happiness in your heart, and if you should fall be content that the gods have seen your sacrifice! Destroy them all! For the Empire! For Sigmar!'

  THE BODIES OF the dead littered the snow-covered ground. In half a day of bitter fighting, twenty thousand already lay dead or wounded and still the battle raged. Sutenvulf Daemonkin surveyed the carnage with a smile twisting his inhuman lips. The daemon prince stretched out his leathery wings, and leapt into the air, his mighty pinions beating slowly, carrying him down the slope on which he had been standing. All around was the din of war, a pleasing melody of battle cries and screams, the ring of metal on metal, his unnatural ears delighting to the sound of axe blade in flesh and sword through bone. The battle had ebbed and flowed for seven hours now, and as the cold northern sun dipped over the eastern mountains, the daemonic general felt it was time to finish off the upstart warriors from the Empire of the south.

  He looked with great pride over the army that he had gathered. Warbands of the gods' champions fought side by side with legions of daemons he had brought forth with his own powerful magic, alongside the savage, undisciplined beastmen, bull-headed minotaurs, scaled dragon ogres and other monsters of the Chaos Wastes. This was his all-conquering force, and when the incursion of the foolish mortals was dealt with, he would sweep further south, sacking and burning, offering up thousands in sacrifice to the Dark Gods who had granted him such power and his immortality.

  Looking with his daemonsight, Sutenvulf could sense the emotions that swirled across the bloodied glacier: the rage of the champions of Khar; the fear of the Imperial knights as he swept towards them; the loathing of the weakling Sigmarite priest who hid behind the armour-clad horsemen; the ferocious, instinctual bloodthirst of the beastmen who hacked and slashed at the halberdiers protecting the Imperial clergyman.

  The daemon prince savoured it all, landing in front of the knights with a great bellow. Opening up his immaterial form to the magical winds that poured from the north, Sutenvulf pulled the power of raw Chaos into himself, feeling invigorated and strengthened. He drew his sword, longer than a man was tall and forged with runes in the Dark Tongue, which twisted in on themselves when seen by mortal eyes, and held it above his head. Exerting some of the energy that coursed through his unnatural form, he pushed his power outwards, causing the blade of his daemon weapon to explode with flame. It seemed such a petty trick now, requiring the minutest amount of his power, but the thrill of dread that flowed from the knights and the surge of exaltation from his followers was justification enough for the simple parlour trick.

  The knights spurred their horses forward, lances levelled, their steeds whinnying in terror yet hurtling at him under the unkind urging of their riders. Growling, Sutenvulf pivoted slightly on the ball of his right foot, balancing himself like the practiced swordsman he once was, his wings furling behind him out of harm's way. He raised his sword to the guard position in a mock salute of the knights thundering towards him, then leapt forward with a gargantuan stride, his clawed feet churning up red-stained snow. Lances shattered on his black-scaled hide, failing to pierce his immortal flesh, and with the speed of a lightning bolt, the daemon prince struck back, a snarl of satisfaction issuing from his throat.

  The flaming blade carved off the head of the first knight, whose horse buckled and fell, passed through the upraised arm and then the chest of the next, the magical flames cauterising the wounds instantly, the sweet aroma of charred flesh filling the daemon prince's nostrils. The backhand sweep sliced a horse in half from shoulder to spine, its head and forelegs spinning into the air, the rider's thigh cleaved in two by the blow, his armour no defence against Sutenvulf's daemonblade.

  Sword cuts and mace blows glanced harmlessly from the daemon's arms and torso, failing to cause even the lightest of wounds on his magical flesh. Two dozen more knights were carved to pieces by his fell sword, parts of them flung yards into the air, to topple amongst their comrades, panicking the knights and their warhorses.

  Feeling their panic building, Sutenvulf extended his will once more, pushing out a wave of pure malevolence and hatred that washed over the Imperial soldiers in a tide of terror, causing them to falter. One leapt from his horse screaming, clawing at his visored face. Another was crushed as his horse reared and fell backwards, while the man next to him slipped from his saddle to his knees and began gibbering a prayer to his upstart god, Sigmar.

  The knights routed en masse, fleeing before the daemon prince, whose guttural laughs echoed after them. The daemon turned his fiery gaze to the halberdiers and the priest who was mounted upon a fine white horse in their midst. He pointed his sword at the priest and uttered a command in the Dark Tongue. Either side of him, the animal-headed beastmen renewed their attacks, hurling themselves forward in a flurry of wild axe blows, flailing maces, gouging horns and biting fangs.

  Then something stirred on the edge of Sutenvulf's daemon vision, drawing his attention away from the hapless priest and his bodyguard. The stench of impure faith was rank in the air as he looked about the battlefield, locating a white glow from which it emanated. Here was their champion, the Sigmarite lapdog who dared to defy the will of the Northern Gods. He would rip the upstart'
s head from his shoulder's with his bare hands and crush his skull with taloned fingers made strong by the power of the Chaos gods. He would teach the soft-bellied southerners what gods rule the lands, and what manner of warriors fought for them.

  With spiteful glee in his heart, Sutenvulf once more took the skies on black-skinned wings and drifted on the waves of hate and fear, swiftly gliding over the mounds of the fallen. The Empire soldiers and their fawning Kislevite allies fled before his wrath, but the glowing figure of the Sigmarite champion remained. Anger flared through Sutenvulf's being at the audacity of the mortal, and he plunged down through the air, his sword ready for the killing blow.

  Throwing up fountains of earth, ice and blood, the daemon prince landed before the Imperial leader and snarled a curse in the Chaos tongue; words that lashed the soul to the core. Yet the shining figure that confronted him remained unafflicted, standing resolutely, a two-handed hammer in their grasp. The daemon prince towered above his foe, fully three times taller, and spread his wings with a noise like the clap of thunder. He once more exerted his immortal power in a pulse of terror-inspiring magic, but still the figure remained motionless. Sutenvulf was intrigued, wanting to know more about this courageous mortal who glowed with unholy light. Leaving behind his gift of daemonsight, Sutenvulf looked upon his foe with mortal eyes. Looking at the pale, determined faced that regarded him coolly, there was a flicker of remembrance.

  URSULA!

  The maiden of Sigmar threw herself at the daemon prince, the hammer swinging through the air towards its chest. Contemptuously, Sutenvulf brought his flaming sword down, chopping the hammer in two and spraying droplets of molten metal into the air. Ursula threw the molten remnants of the weapon at the daemon prince's face and drew her sword.