“Helblasters!” shouted Grunwald.
With a crack, the cannons ignited. Grape and shot spun into the oncoming tide, punching holes in the first rank. Squeals of agony mingled with the guttural baying.
Still the beasts came.
“Gunners!”
The handgunners released their first volley. In the wake of their lead shot, arrows whined into the fray More beasts fell, clutching at their sides in pain. They were trampled by their fellows.
Still the beasts came.
“Blades!”
The pikemen lowered their poles and thrust them forward. The front row of creatures slammed into them. Some were impaled, seemingly heedless of the pain. Others leapt over the steel tips, just as far as the waiting line of halberds. The blades whirled, and the beastmen were thrown back. As long as the ranks held, there was no way through.
Grunwald sprang from his vantage point and entered the fray. There was no point standing back once battle had been joined. Now the assault was on them, and every sword was needed. With his last glance towards the forest edge, he saw the scale of the task. There were more beastmen then ever. The ground beneath the ridge boiled with grotesque bodies. They were clambering over one another to get at them. They only sensed one thing, only smelled one thing, only lusted for one thing. Blood. Their blood.
“For Sigmar!” he shouted, and hurled himself into the assault.
If they wanted his, they’d have to earn it.
Verstohlen hurried through the ranks towards the command enclosure near the summit of the Bastion. On either side of him, close-knit detachments of troopers waited nervously. They had the advantage of high ground, but little else. The beastmen could scale the slopes with ease, and there would soon be scores of them. The Imperial advance into the forest had roused the whole Drakwald. Verstohlen was as versed in the lore of the wilderness as any seasoned general. When there was blood to be spilled, they would come.
Ahead of him, the massed flags and standards marked out the general’s vantage point. Functionaries were scurrying around it, desperately conveying last-minute orders to the field captains. The ornate battle-standards flapped wildly, driven by the wind. There was no sign of the commander. Verstohlen looked around in vain, before catching sight of Tierhof, the Master of Ordnance.
“Where’s the general?” asked Verstohlen. Tierhof looked at him coldly. They all did, these soldiers. For some reason, he seemed to repel them. One day he would have to work out why and do something about it.
“With the Knights Panther,” said Tierhof. “What do you want him for? He’ll be riding to the front in moments.”
Verstohlen sucked his teeth irritably.
“Then I’m too late,” he said. “Have you had word from Herr Grunwald?”
“Not since the morning.”
“And from the Marshal?”
Tierhof laughed. It was not a merry sound.
“You’re still expecting him? We’re alone here, Verstohlen. You’d better get used to it.”
The Master made to leave, but Verstohlen was insistent.
“If we no longer expect Helborg, then we must send word for Grunwald to withdraw. The forest is alive with beastmen. He cannot hold his position.”
Tierhof gave him a disdainful look.
“The plans have been drawn up. The southern flank is held by Grunwald. Whether or not Helborg arrives, he must hold the line until the deployment is complete. There’s no time to give you a lecture on tactics, Verstohlen, I’m needed with the gunnery crews.”
Tierhof gave a brief nod, and was gone. Verstohlen stood alone, forgotten amongst the bustle of the senior officers. From far down below, cries of alarm rose into the air. The scouts had sighted something. Trumpets rang out across the bastion, and the clash and scrape of steel blades being raised echoed around the defensive lines.
“So this is it,” said Verstohlen to himself, taking a flintlock from his holster and checking it over. “Too late for Helborg now. And maybe for all of us.”
“Fall back! Fall back!”
The beastmen had broken through the defenders and on to the ridge. The huge bull-like monsters, blood-red and rearing furiously, shattered the fragile defensive lines. Even as Grunwald raced towards it, he could see the defences around him disintegrate. As long as they maintained a solid line, backed up with artillery and archery, they could hold out. Once a melee had formed, there were too few of them. The beasts numbered in their thousands.
The breach became a rout. Pikemen and halberdiers, hurrying to escape the swelling tide of beastmen, were trampled in their wake. The Helblasters roared a final time, and then the monsters were among them. Tusks gored with a blind fury. They hated the machines more than anything.
“To me!” cried Grunwald, swinging his broadsword wildly over his head. They had to stay together. An orderly retreat could still be salvaged, but the moment was slipping.
He stood at the summit of the ridge, eyes flickering as he assessed the situation. The regiment standard-bearer was soon beside him, sliding in the mud. All around, men toiled to escape the frenzy behind them. Some still fought. Ackermann was right in the thick of it, hammering away at the advancing beastmen with a fury nearly as savage as their own.
“Retreat, Morr damn you!” bellowed Grunwald.
The disengaged Imperial forces began to run down the far side of the ridge, down past the road and into the waiting maw of the forest below. There was no mad dash. Companies kept close together, their halberds and pikes in formation. They knew they’d have to cut their way out. Panic would finish them for good.
Cursing, Grunwald ran over to Ackermann. The man was holding his ground, trying to give the breaking ranks behind him more time. A goat-faced monster towered over him, raining down blows with a cudgel. Ackermann raised his shield to parry, but it was knocked from his grasp. The goat-creature bared its yellow teeth and swooped for the kill.
Grunwald barrelled into it, knocking it sideways. He felt his bones jar as the beastman reeled. It recovered quickly, whirling around. But Ackermann had recovered too. With a vicious slice, his blade took the creature’s distorted head clean off its shoulders. For a moment, that opened a gap. Grunwald grabbed Ackermann and pulled him from the fighting. The beasts were trampling the Helblasters in an orgy of rage. This was their opportunity. They had to withdraw.
“I can hold them!” spat Ackermann, regaining his balance and running alongside Grunwald.
“Use your eyes!” snapped Grunwald. There was no time to argue. As he ran, one of the swifter creatures, skinny with legs like a dog’s, tried to drag him down. He smashed his pommel into its face, barely breaking stride.
Ahead of him, the bulk of the regiment was streaming down the far side of the ridge. The foremost were already in the trees beyond. Those too slow or unlucky were caught by the beastmen, now swarming over the defences. The sound of their flesh ripping was like a stab in Grunwald’s stomach. The vantage point had been lost. Their only hope was to keep ahead of the pursuing beasts. If they were surrounded in the deep forest, there was no hope.
He and Ackermann reached the base of the ridge and plunged into the shadows of the trees. Grunwald’s earlier fatigue had left him. Now all that was left was the sharp fear that came from being hunted. They were at his heels. Even as he sped through the forest, leaping over fallen trunks in the semi-dark, he could hear them crashing through the undergrowth. The bellows had risen in ferocity. The Helblasters were forgotten. Now they were after human prey.
At his side, Ackermann laboured. He was a thick-set man clad in chainmail. Already his face was red and streaming with sweat. Ahead of him, he could see the rearmost ranks of the halberdiers. To their credit, they were still holding together. Maybe half of them had made it down, perhaps more.
“How far?” gasped Ackermann.
“A mile to the Cauldron’s edge, then more to the Bastion. But we’ll be seen by the sentries.” Ackermann spat as he ran. “If they’re still there.”
Grunw
ald felt the creepers snag at his feet. His heart hammered. One false step, and he’d be down amongst the briars. The light was poor. Little rain penetrated the thick canopy above, but the ground was a treacherous mire. He could hear his own breathing, heavy and thick. His muscles protested. His legs felt as heavy as lead. But he had to keep going. “Commander!”
The voice rang out through the trees. Grunwald spun round. A detachment of troopers had lagged behind. They were in the very jaws of the pursuit. Even as he watched, two of them were cut down by the lumbering beasts behind. They would never make it.
Ackermann responded instantly. He abandoned the flight, and ran back to their aid.
“Morr damn his eyes,” muttered Grunwald, struggling to stay with him. He knew he should keep going, marshal the retreat. But he couldn’t leave a man behind. Ackermann would be the death of him.
Then he fell. Something twisted round his feet in the murk, and he staggered forward. He landed heavily in the stinking gunge, his sword spinning into the gloom. He rolled over quickly, only to see the towering shape of a beastman above him. It whinnied with triumph, and raised its blade.
“Merciful Sigmar…” whispered Grunwald, scrabbling backwards. Too slow. He’d never make it.
The blade fell.
The full force of the storm hit the Cauldron. All across the northern horizon, thunder rumbled. Forks of lightning lit up the trees in savage relief and insubstantial, bestial shapes seemed to march across the heavens. It was barely after noon, but already as dark as dusk. The sun, ever the friend of man, was hidden. In its absence, the horrors of the forest would come out to play.
Bloch peered down from the Bastion. The beasts had not made themselves known yet. The expanse below them was still empty and howling with wind, but he knew they were there, just on the edge of sight, sheltering in the eaves. As he watched, the last of the scouts rode hard across the Cauldron’s base, anxious to get back to the safety of the rock before the beasts came after them.
One of them made it to safety and rode up towards Bloch’s position. As the incline became too steep, he dismounted and walked the horse up through the defensive lines.
“How many?” demanded Bloch as the man passed him.
The scout looked back blankly for a moment before answering. His steed’s flanks were coated with sweat and rainwater, and it shivered as it stood. The man’s cloak was sodden, and his face was grey. Bloch noticed that his hands shook too as they held the reins.
“More than I’ve ever seen,” he said weakly. He looked resigned. “Thousands. Thousands.”
Bloch looked uneasily over at his men. He didn’t want to get them more scared than they were already. He laughed casually, hoping it sounded convincing.
“Lots of them, eh?” he said, and gave his halberdiers a knowing look. “Just like at Kreigschelff, I’ll warrant. And they ran back into the woods with their tails between their legs, then. It won’t be any different this time.”
The scout didn’t respond to the bravado. His long dark hair hung slick against his face. He was still shaking, and it wasn’t from the cold.
“The whole forest’s alive,” the scout murmured, not really looking at anything in particular, lost in his own private horror. “D’you hear me? They’re coming for us. They’re numberless. The forest is alive.”
Bloch wanted to respond, but something in the scout’s expression stopped him dead. The man had lost it. He’d stared into the abyss, and it had got to him.
“Go on,” he snapped. “Get up to the command post. They’ll want your report, if you’ve the stomach to deliver it.”
The man didn’t reply, but turned back to his horse and trudged up the slope towards the limp row of standards at the summit.
Bloch felt disgust well up within him. Giving in before a blow had even been struck was spineless. That was the problem with the Empire of his time. If Magnus the Pious had had to work with such weaklings, Praag would never had been recovered.
He turned to his men. They looked up at him expectantly, like children to their father. Some of them were barely more than boys. A few clasped their halberds in fear, their knuckles white. The scout’s mood was contagious.
“Don’t listen to that filth, lads,” said Bloch, sweeping his gaze across them, daring any not to meet it. “He’s been out on his own for too long. We’re all in this together. Remember, no backward step. No surrender.”
He lifted up his halberd and planted it firmly against the stone.
“There are thousands of us here, all good men of the Reikland. They’ve no answer to honest courage, these beasts. And you know who’s leading us: The big man. He’ll see us—”
His speech broke off. All around the Cauldron, a low drumming had started. Long, deep rolls began to thud out from the trees. It grew in volume. Across the Bastion, men halted their chatter, and fell silent. The drums were coming from everywhere. North, east, west. The Bastion was almost entirely encircled. The floor of the Cauldron seemed to resonate with the rhythm. Only from the south was there no noise. Where Grunwald had been stationed. The beastmen still hadn’t closed off those approaches. Perhaps the commander still held his position. He should have been called back. He was doomed.
Despite himself, Bloch felt his nerve begin to go. How many must there be, to make that much noise? He remembered the ashen face of the scout.
The forest is alive.
He took a deep breath and clutched the shaft of his halberd.
“Come and get it then, you bastards,” he hissed, flexing his arms in readiness. “Just come and get it.”
Grunwald couldn’t even scream. He saw the blade descend, powerless to resist. Then there was a dark shape, tearing in from his left. A man slammed into the beast, knocking them both to the floor. Ackermann.
Grunwald scrambled to his feet. All around him, there were cries of combat from the trees. His men were being slaughtered. He retrieved his blade from the undergrowth, hands slipping as he fumbled for it. The creature and Ackermann rolled through the bracken, each trying to gouge and throttle the other. Grunwald raced over to them. The shadows were heavy. It was hard to make out which was which. But then, from the north, a flicker of lightning penetrated the gloom. A twisted, tooth-filled face leered up at him from the forest floor, sneaked with blood and rain.
Grunwald plunged his sword down. There was a scream, a twisted mockery of a man’s pain. Then a gurgling. Then limpness. Grunwald withdrew the blade and grabbed Ackermann’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he hissed. “They’re all around us!”
Ackermann rolled over. Where his face had been, there was nothing but a pulpy mass. One of the creature’s teeth had broken off and gleamed within the exposed slick of muscle and sinew.
Filled with horror, Grunwald let Ackermann’s body drop. He could hear more beasts coming up fast.
He ran.
On either side, the trees flitted passed him like shades of death. Grunwald didn’t dare look back, though he could hear the heavy panting of the creatures close by. They were on his heels, loping like wolves. He gritted his teeth, willing his legs to keep working. They were all around him. They’d got Ackermann, and now they were coming for him.
He kept running. Ahead, there was nothing but shadow, nothing but more trees. He’d lost sight of his men. All those behind him were dead or scattered. He was prey, alone in the woods.
Then, against all hope, he saw the break. It wasn’t over yet. He’d come further than he’d thought. There were only two places for miles around where the tree cover broke. One was the road. The other was the Cauldron.
From behind him, he could hear howls of frustration rise. They knew he was close to evading them. With a final, agonising spurt, Grunwald picked up speed. He leapt over fallen branches, barged through whipping thickets. There was no point in being cautious. If he tripped or slowed again, he was dead.
The light grew. All of a sudden, he broke out into the open.
The trees fell back. The vast plain of the C
auldron yawned away. It looked like a vision of some daemonic nightmare. Lightning licked the northern rim. Echoing drums rolled and boomed from all directions. The rain fell in sheets. In the centre of the depression, the dark form of the Bastion soared upwards. As he ran, Grunwald could see the detachments of men arrayed on its flanks, deployed just as his own regiment had been on the ridge. The entire army had been placed on the stone walls. There were rows and rows of halberdier companies arranged across the terraced flanks of the rock, all facing out across the plain. He could see artillery emplacements further up, dozens of them. He knew there were knightly companies among them too, as well as greatswords, handgunners, and all the troops that the Reikland could afford.
But it was a time of war across the Empire. In years past, the army would have been even greater. There would have been battle wizards, great cannons and engines of war. Many of these were detained north of Middenheim or on the blasted fields of Ostland. In desperate times, the general made do with what he had to hand, even for a campaign as prestigious as this one.
Ahead of him, out on the Cauldron floor, he caught sight of the broken remnants of his own forces. They were running, just like him. Like storm-tossed birds, they were fleeing before the deluge hit.
Grunwald felt his vision begin to waver. He was exhausted. He could feel his final strength giving out. The hours of fighting had taken their toll.
He risked a look backwards, expecting to see a few dozen beastmen pursuing him. But there were more. Many more. He was flying ahead of the horde itself. From left to right, his vision was filled with hollering, baying, snarling creatures. They had chosen their moment, and the woods were emptying. On all sides of the Cauldron, they poured towards the Imperial bulwark.
Grunwald kept going. His fear was giving way to despair. He’d never reach the Bastion. Neither would his men. At the last, they’d be overtaken. So close.
His features twisted in pain. His lungs felt fit to rupture, his legs ready to give out.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 2