With a scrape of metal, the priest slid his great warhammer from his back and pointed it down at the battle. “Feast your eyes on this scene, my friends. Fix it deep in your hearts for all eternity. You will never again see such a beautiful display of pure, unshackled faith.” As Raphael’s followers bathed in the blood of their foes, Wolff crossed himself with the sign of the hammer and muttered a prayer for them. “You’re witnessing Sigmar’s legacy in all its unstoppable glory. These people have His blood in their veins and His strength in their hearts. While such devotion still exists, this blessed Empire will never fail.”
He turned towards Gryphius. “Are your men ready, my lord? Our time is short. Their passion will only carry them so far. A few more minutes and the enemy will start to realise what a small force they’re facing. Then things will be over very quickly.”
The general’s eyes glistened with excitement as he fastened his winged helmet onto his head. He turned to his waiting army, arrayed on the hillside below. The yellow and black of their banners whipped gaily in the dawn light, and a thousand expectant faces looked back at him. “Sons of Averland,” he cried, lifting his sword and turning his face to the sky. “Ride for your life! Ride for the Empire! Ride for Sigmar!” With that he turned his horse and charged down the hill towards the enemy, screaming with fear and delight.
With a great thunder of hooves and armour, his troops charged after him.
“Stay close,” barked Wolff to Ratboy, as he snapped his reins and disappeared over the brow of the hill.
It was all Ratboy could do to cling desperately onto the reins of his horse as it careered wildly after the others. The general’s quartermaster had buried him in armour way too big for his wiry frame: an oversized hauberk, a billowing yellow tabard and a helmet that immediately fell down over his eyes, leaving him blind and helpless as he plummeted towards the enemy.
He dared to loose a hand from the reins and lift his visor. The eyes of the surrounding horses were rolling with terror as the army plunged into the valley at incredible speed. The world rushed by in such a sickening blur that Ratboy thought he might lose his breakfast. Wolff was directly ahead, leading the charge with Gryphius, holding his hammer before him like a lance and bellowing commands as he went.
Where’s Anna? wondered Ratboy suddenly, remembering that she had refused the offer of armour. He tried to look back, but it was too late. With a deafening crash, Gryphius’ men slammed into the enemy troops.
Shreds of steel, teeth and bone exploded around them as they collided with the stunned marauders.
Ratboy clamped his legs tightly around his steed and ducked low in his saddle as violence erupted all around him. Horses fell and pieces of armour whistled past his face. A chorus of screams filled his ears, but in the chaos it was impossible to tell if they were war cries, or the howls of the dying.
As his horse’s hooves drummed furiously beneath him, Ratboy tried to take in his surroundings. It was hard to be sure what was happening, but things seemed to be going to plan. The formation of the troops was still vaguely intact: pistoliers in the vanguard, followed by ranks of flamboyantly dressed knights and then, at the rear, the dark-skinned freelancers from Tilea. As Wolff intended, Mormius’ soldiers had all been rushing towards the screaming fanatics, so this new attack had caught them unawares for a second time.
The Averlanders did not pause to press their advantage, however. They ploughed onwards at a furious pace. The plan was simple: race for the citadel; keep their heads down; pray for deliverance.
A succession of snarling faces flashed before Ratboy. They howled curses as they rushed by, barking at him in the thick, guttural language of the northern wastes. Their savage weapons clattered uselessly across his borrowed armour, but he felt far from heroic. A broadsword hung at his belt—another gift from Gryphius’ armoury, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove his hands from the horse’s reins. Terror locked them to the leather straps. The noise and fury of the battle was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Fortunately, his steed was more experienced than its rider, pounding across the valley floor in an unwavering line and smashing straight through everything in its path.
He heard Wolff calling out from somewhere ahead. “Raise the corpse,” he was crying, his voice already hoarse from shouting. “Raise him up so his followers can see.”
Ratboy risked a glance up from his horse’s neck and saw his master.
Wolff was still at the head of the charge, smashing through the thick press of bodies like a vision of Sigmar Himself. He was stood high in the stirrups, swinging his warhammer from left to right in great sweeping arcs, leaving a trail of splintered limbs and shattered armour in his wake. “Sigmar absolves you,” he cried repeatedly, slamming his hammer into faces and shields with such force that his broad shoulders jolted back with the impact of each blow. Hastily fired arrows whirred towards him, clanging against his breastplate, but he rode on oblivious, dealing out Sigmar’s judgement with ten pounds of bloody, tempered steel. The priest vanished briefly behind a flash of claret, and Ratboy thought he had fallen; but then he reappeared, swinging again and again as his warhorse galloped towards the citadel.
Gryphius was next to him, laughing hysterically as he fired his flintlock pistol blindly into the rolling clouds of dust and gore that surrounded him. His wavering tenor rang out through the screams. “For Averland! For the Emperor!”
Ratboy looked back over his shoulder and saw that they were already half way across the valley. We’re going to make it, he thought with a rush of excitement. The ragged line of charging horses was unbroken. The vivid black and yellow banners had already cut a swathe right through the heart of the reeling marauders. The speed of the charge was so great that hardly a single knight had fallen. Most of the marauders were still busy with the frenzied figures at the other end of the valley. To Ratboy’s amazement, he saw that dozens of the penitents were still hacking their way across the field. The fury of their attack had carried them almost to the command tents in the centre of the valley, but it looked as though their luck might soon run out. Mormius’ army was finally on its feet, swirling like an ocean around the villagers; hungry for vengeance.
Hot, blood-slick hands snapped Ratboy’s head back and his horse suddenly staggered under the weight of a second rider. Ratboy clasped desperately at his throat just in time to stop the blade that was shoved towards it. His hand split open like a ripe fruit and a thick torrent of blood pumped up over his face. He felt rancid breath on his ear and a steel-hard grip tightening around his neck. His attacker tried to draw the knife back for another attempt, but the blade locked between Ratboy’s splintered finger bones. However furiously the knife’s wielder wrenched at it, it would not come free.
The pain seemed remote and unreal. Ratboy knew he was seconds from death and clutched at his sword with his one good hand, swaying wildly in the saddle as he loosed the reins. He grasped the hilt of the weapon and began to slide it from his belt, but before he could use it, his assailant hurled him from the saddle and he slammed onto the rock-hard ground.
Agony stabbed into Ratboy’s face as it crunched into the dry earth. He felt something click in his neck as the whole weight of his armoured body piled down on it. Instinct forced him to roll to one side, just in time to avoid the marauder’s axe as it slammed into the ground beside him.
He lurched unsteadily to his feet, feeling as though his head was the size of a cart. His eyes were full of blood and the world swam wildly in and out focus, but he couldn’t miss the figure striding towards him. It was the marauder who had destroyed his hand: a beetle-browed goliath, with a neck as thick as a tree and a great two-handed axe clutched in his meaty fingers. His scarred flesh was naked apart from a ragged loincloth and a battered iron helm topped with a long, curved tusk. “Wolff,” gasped Ratboy, as he drew his sword to defend himself, “help me.”
The marauder grinned down at his prey, revealing a mouthful of blackened stumps as he leant back and swung the axe at Ratboy’s head.
Ratboy tried to block the blow, straining to lift his sword one-handed, but the marauder’s taut, knotted muscles were the result of a lifetime devoted to war. The axe slammed the sword aside with such force that the impact made Ratboy howl. His forearms jangled with pain as the sword buckled and bounced from his grip. He staggered backwards and tumbled to the ground.
The grinning marauder advanced on him, drawing back his axe for another blow. Horses and soldiers screamed past, heedless of Ratboy’s fate and he raised his hands feebly at the approaching warrior, horrified that no-one would even witness his death.
The marauder’s head collapsed with a wet crunch as Wolff’s hammer pounded into his face.
“Sigmar,” gasped the priest, dealing him another hammer-blow to the head, “absolves you.”
The marauder swayed back on his heels and gave a bovine ramble of pain. Then he righted himself and grinned up at Wolff, snapping his nose back into place and laughing as he spat his few remaining teeth from his rained mouth.
Wolff dropped from his horse and the two men circled each other, panting and looking for a chance to strike. There was little between them in bulk, but Ratboy could see that his master was exhausted. His breath was coming in short, hitching gasps and the joints of his armour were clogged with mud and gore.
The marauder saw a chance and swung for Wolff’s legs.
The priest dodged the blow with surprising agility for such a large man, leaping high in the air and bringing his hammer down with a grunt. It thudded into the marauder’s thigh and the warrior’s femur disintegrated beneath the weight of the blow.
The marauder howled and fell to his knees, with vivid shards of bone erupting from beneath his leathery skin. His cry became a death croak, as a second hammer-blow knocked his head back, snapping his neck like kindling and killing him instantly. He thudded to the ground with a whistling sound, as a final breath slipped from his severed windpipe.
The momentum of Wolff’s strike sent him staggering forwards into the fray and for a second, Ratboy lost sight of him. Then he lurched back towards him with a look of wild fury on his face. “I told you to stay close,” he snapped, grabbing the whimpering acolyte’s arm and wrenching him to his feet. “You could’ve been hurt.”
More marauders were sprinting towards them as Wolff climbed back onto his horse and hauled Ratboy up behind him. He floored the nearest with a fierce blow to the side of his head, then charged after the Averlanders.
The pain in Ratboy’s hand was growing quickly. He held it protectively to his chest, not daring to look at the damage.
“Obermarshall,” cried Wolff, banking his horse from left to right as they pursued the receding line of Empire troops. “No!”
Ratboy strained to see around his master’s bulky plate armour. He saw immediately that the situation had worsened. The Averlanders were still ploughing through the enemy at a fantastic pace, but the marauders were now massing around them in much greater numbers. Within the space of a few seconds he saw several of Gryphius’ men torn from their saddles and dragged down into a fury of hacking, tearing blades. The Obermarshall’s adjutant, Christoff was riding alongside Wolff when he suddenly jolted back in his saddle, clutching at his throat. He tumbled from view before Ratboy had chance to see what had killed him.
Then he saw Gryphius and understood Wolff’s alarmed, cry. The general had broken away from the main column and was veering off to the centre of the valley Along with thirty or so of his men he was attempting to make a dash for Mormius’ command tents. “What’s he doing?” he gasped into Wolff’s ear.
“Risking everything,” grunted the priest, racing after the general. “He’s forgotten that Raphael’s followers are just a decoy.” He pointed his hammer north towards a small bedraggled group, still tearing their way towards Mormius’ tents. “Gryphius thinks he can join them in beheading this invasion.” He drove his horse even harder. “He’s a damned fool, and he’s going to lead his whole army to its death.”
Ratboy looked back and saw the truth of his master’s words. The main column was already faltering and splitting in confusion. The soldiers didn’t know whether to do as they were ordered—keep making for the citadel, or rally around their valiant general instead. As the Averlanders floundered, the marauders tore into them with renewed vigour. Howling obscenities as they dived into the confused rout.
“Obermarshall,” cried Wolff again, as they closed on the general. “We must make for Mercy’s End!”
The general looked back, his eyes bulging with passion and fear. “We can take them, Wolff,” he called, blasting his flintlock into the face of another marauder. “I know it! We can reach Mormius!”
The command tents were still several minutes’ ride away, however, when the sheer volume of howling, spitting marauders slowed Gryphius and his captains to a canter. The general’s battle cries took on a more desperate tone as the grotesque shapes pressed around him. The marauders here seemed even more corrupted and deformed than the others. Ratboy saw men with drooling mouths gaping in their chests, and gnarled, eyeless beaks where faces should have been. It was like descending into a nightmarish bestiary.
They had nearly reached Gryphius when the general flopped back in his saddle, clutching his side with a high-pitched yelp of pain. His horse spun in confusion and Ratboy saw the thick shaft of a spear embedded in Gryphius’ side.
“Thank Sigmar,” muttered Wolff under his breath.
Gryphius’ officers rallied round him, slashing frantically at the sea of blades surrounding their wounded general.
“Lead him back to the others,” bellowed Wolff, still racing towards them. As they neared the crowd around Gryphius, Ratboy saw the terror on the men’s faces. They were completely encircled. However fiercely they swung their weapons, there was no way they could hack their way back to the main force. One by one the knights tumbled into the bristling mass of swords, as the marauders cut away the legs of their horses and pulled them down into the slaughter.
“Master,” cried Ratboy, as he saw that they too were completely hemmed in. Countless rows of marauders were swarming around them. “We’re trapped!”
Wolff planted his boot in the face of nearest marauder, grabbing a broadsword from his flailing hands as he toppled to the floor. “I know,” he grunted, handing the weapon to Ratboy. “Do something useful.”
As the misshapen figures reached out towards him, Ratboy lashed out with the crude weapon. Fear gave him strength and his blade was soon slick with blood as he hewed limbs and parried sword strikes. His mind grew blank as he fought. He was aware of nothing but the screaming pain in his muscles and his desperate desire for life. The odds were impossible though. Gradually the wall of vicious, barbed blades pressed in on them. For every marauder that fell, ten more leapt to take his place, each more fierce than the last.
Finally with an awful, braying scream, the horse’s legs collapsed beneath it and Wolff and Ratboy crashed to the ground.
A tremendous roar of victory erupted from the marauders as they saw the priest drop from view.
Ratboy’s sword flew from his grip as he rolled clear of the thrashing horse. He wrapped his trembling arms around his head and clamped his eyes shut, waiting to feel the cool bite of metal, slicing into his flesh.
Heat washed over him instead.
As Ratboy curled into a ball, gibbering incoherent nonsense to himself, he felt fire rush over him, shrivelling the hairs on his forearms and scorching his broken fingers. He looked up in confusion to see Wolff kneeling beside him, with his head lowered in prayer and his gauntleted hands resting calmly on the head of his warhammer. The light pouring from his flesh was so bright that Ratboy’s eyes immediately filled with tears. He squinted into the incandescent halo and laughed in wonder. It was like looking into the sun, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Slowly, the nimbus of light expanded, washing over the confused marauders. As it touched their flesh they lit up like candles, blossoming
in thick white flames that leapt from their skin and engulfed their flailing limbs. Their cheers of victory became wails of despair as their eyes exploded, bursting in their sockets with a series of audible pops.
Ratboy looked down at himself in dismay, expecting to see the flames covering his own body, but there was just a pleasant heat; no more painful than a fierce midday sun. Unlike daylight, though, this heat seemed to seep in through his pores, rushing through his veins and flooding his heart with passion. He leapt to his feet and flew at the stumbling, burning shapes; tearing into them with his broken fingers and howling in a voice he could barely recognise. As he kicked and thumped at the screaming marauders, a phrase came unbidden to his lips. The words were unfamiliar, but he howled them with such vehemence that his voice cracked. “Every man hath heard of Sigmar!” he cried, grabbing a knife from the ground and thrusting it into bellies and faces. “Every man hath learned to fear His blessed wrath.”
Ratboy gave himself completely to the animal rage and later, he found it difficult to say how long he had fought, or how many marauders he had butchered. It always chilled him to consider what might have happened if he had not been interrupted.
Wolff’s calm voice brought him back. “I think they’ve learned enough, for now,” said his master, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Ratboy lurched to a halt, looking down at his gore-splattered limbs in confusion. Then he turned to face the priest. Traces of the holy light were still streaming from his eyes and, as he smiled, it poured from between his teeth. All around them the ground was flattened and scorched, as though Sigmar had sent a comet to smite his foes. Ratboy tried to speak, but his voice was ruined and he could only emit a pitiful squeak.
Wolff nodded, as though he understood, then gestured to Gryphius’ officers who were still circling around them. They were leading a riderless horse and as Wolff jogged towards it, he dragged Ratboy behind him. “We don’t have long,” he said, mounting the horse and lifting Ratboy up behind him.
05 - Warrior Priest Page 11