As they made their way around the castle wall, Ratboy looked out over the battlements, down into the valley below. It was now mid afternoon and there was no hiding the size of the army moving towards them. The attack had already begun, he realised with a jolt. Countless rows of bare-chested northmen, were running towards the castle with shields over their heads and ladders under their arms. As Wolff continued, the captains on the wall signalled for the archers to take their positions, but Ratboy could not help wondering if they had enough arrows to take down so many men. It looked like there was a whole ocean of jagged metal and scorched wood rushing towards them. Why don’t they shoot? he wondered, as the marauders raced closer and closer. They must be in range by now.
Captain Felhamer was perched at the top of a bell tower that looked down over the wall, and as the charging marauders approached, the sergeants all watched for his signal. His hand was raised above his head, ready to launch the defence, but as the marauders sprinted across the bloody ground towards the castle, he kept his hand aloft, as though waiting for some invisible sign. Finally, as the enemy were almost at the castle gates, he brought his hand down in a cutting motion.
Ratboy immediately saw the reason for his delay.
The earth around the castle collapsed with an immense explosion of mud; disappearing from beneath the feet of the charging marauders with a booming groan of collapsing boards. They toppled in their hundreds down into a broad trench, letting go of their shields as they crashed helplessly onto a bed of thick, wooden stakes. As the marauders screamed and howled with rage and panic, the archers finally launched their first volley from the castle walls.
“It’s the old moat,” cried Ratboy. “They’d hidden it!”
Wolff took a break from his prayers, to give his acolyte a short nod. “Captain Felhamer has been preparing this wreck for weeks. I believe he has quite a few such tricks up his sleeve.”
Banks of arrows arced down into the writhing mass of stranded, thrashing figures. The dazed marauders tried to crawl back out of the moat, but the archers fired with incredible speed and accuracy, loosing arrow after arrow into the river of flailing limbs. The moat quickly became clogged with the dying and the dead.
The enemy were charging forward in such massive numbers, that the men further back had no idea what had happened at the foot of the castle wall. Waves of them rushed unwittingly towards the trench. As the first group tried to clamber back to safety, their comrades crashed into them from the other direction and the crush of bodies, spears and ladders all tumbled down into the moat, to the cheers of Felhamer’s archers.
Ratboy looked down on the confusion in amazement. The scene quickly took on the appearance of a slaughterhouse as the moat filled up with broken weapons and bodies. Despite their aching arms the archers kept up the furious pace and it seemed as though the whole army was going to pour into Felhamer’s trap.
Finally, Mormius saw what was happening and horns began to sound along the enemy lines, calling a retreat. The warriors nearest the castle were so enraged by the waves of arrows, that they continued trying to reach the walls, clambering over the mounds of skewered corpses and slamming their ladders against the old stone. A few of them even managed to start scrambling up towards the archers, but before they had climbed even a few feet, Felhamer brought down his hand a second time and barrels of hot oil poured down from the embrasures, sending the marauders screaming and gambolling to their deaths.
The horns continued to blow, but the northmen were now so consumed by rage and bloodlust that many of them broke ranks and continued ploughing forwards through the mayhem. The charge quickly became a directionless rout and still the endless clouds of arrows rained down on them.
Finally, Wolff blessed the last soldier in the line and turned to stand beside Ratboy. They both looked down on the massacre below. “Barbarians,” the priest muttered, shaking his head in disgust. “If only all our enemies were so undisciplined.” He held his hand up to shield his eyes against the light and then cried out in alarm. “Down!” he yelled, throwing Ratboy to the ground as a cloud of arrows whirred angrily over their heads.
All along the wall, soldiers howled in pain as the enemy’s arrows found their mark. Dozens of men tumbled back from the wall, spinning down towards the courtyard below, or dropping to their knees and clutching at pierced throats and chests.
Ratboy looked up at the crumbling bell tower. Felhamer and the other officers had vanished from view and he prayed they had ducked in time. His fears were quickly allayed. As the clouds of enemy arrows dropped away, Felhamer rose up and held his two-handed sword aloft, signalling for his archers to return fire.
Ratboy peered out through a loophole and saw that the marauders were finally backing away from the trench and staggering towards their own lines. Before they had got very far, the Empire archers loosed another volley down on them, dropping dozens more of the northmen in their tracks. Ratboy counted no more than fifty or so survivors who reached the safety of the main army.
A roar of victory erupted all along the walls of Mercy’s End. Almost a thousand marauders lay dead or dying in the ditch below them, and only a handful of Ostlanders had fallen.
Ratboy noticed that his master did not join in with the celebrations. The priest was peering out over the battlements and frowning. “Something else is coming,” he muttered.
Ratboy followed his gaze and saw a vague shape break away from the bulk of the enemy army and start rushing across the valley floor towards them. “What is that?” he asked. The shape was charging towards them so fast and with such strange, spasmodic movements that he could not be sure what he was looking at. Strangely, as it neared the castle, the shape became harder rather than easier to define. Ratboy had an impression of limbs and maybe even faces, but rather than troops, it seemed more like a mass of pink and blue energy, rippling across the ground. Ratboy turned to his master for an explanation, but Wolff had opened one of his holy books and was leafing through the pages with such a grim look of concentration on his face that Ratboy didn’t dare interrupt him.
The cheers along the wall faltered as the soldiers noticed the strange sight rushing towards them. As the pink and blue shape reached the trench, the ground seemed to warp and bulge, as though reflected in a curved mirror and even the corpses appeared to writhe and shift like smoke.
Felhamer signalled for the archers to open fire, but it was too late. The pink shape washed over the moat like quicksilver and flooded up against the castle.
“Sigmar help us,” gasped Ratboy as he finally saw what was heading towards them. The pink mass was made up of hundreds of twisted, writhing limbs and wide gaping mouths that oozed and coagulated with a peculiar elasticity. The figures giggled and snarled as they billowed upwards in a torrent of rippling flesh. Faces appeared in bellies and contorted into long arachnid limbs before bursting and reforming into other shapes. It looked like a sea of pure Chaos was rushing up towards the ramparts.
Screams of horror erupted from the Empire soldiers as the shapes flooded over the battlements and washed down onto them.
“Hold your line!” cried Felhamer, as he sliced one of the creatures in two with his greatsword. The thing immediately became two smaller shapes and leapt up at him again. He staggered backwards, wrestling frantically as the writhing mass enveloped his chest. Then he disappeared from view.
“Master,” screamed Ratboy, as one the shapes flew at him. It cackled as it latched onto his neck with dozens of slippery, grasping tentacles. Pink energy hissed around its torso and a wide mouth burst from its flesh, baring rows of serrated teeth as it struggled to press its twitching body against him.
Wolff gave no reply, but as Ratboy stumbled past him, fighting for his life, the priest rose to his feet and smashed his hammer down onto the ancient stonework. White fire erupted along the entire length of the wall, enveloping the pink creatures in a dazzling inferno of energy. As the flames touched their jerking, snapping bodies, the creatures screeched in pain and dropped to the gr
ound, contorting as they floundered, trying to escape from the blinding light.
The soldiers needed no order from the tower. They fell on the stunned shapes with knives, spears and swords, hacking the monsters limb from limb until nothing remained but a mess of purple viscera.
The creatures’ organs continued to writhe and crawl across the ground and for a few moments the only sound was the squelch of boots, grinding the remains into the stone, as the soldiers ran about, stamping on rows of snapping teeth and pulling grasping fingers from their armour.
Once the shapes had finally become still, the soldiers looked around at each other with ashen faces. They were hardened veterans of countless wars, but none of them had ever encountered anything quite so sickening as this.
Howls began to echo along the wall once more and Ratboy looked to see if there was another wave of creatures coming up the walls. It was worse than that. Some of the men who had been attacked by the monsters had begun to change. Where the creatures had gripped them for several minutes, or sunk teeth though their armour, the men’s flesh had become oddly deformed: sprouting serpentine growths that quickly grew in strength and size as the soldiers looked on in horror.
One of the mutated men was standing near Wolff. The soldier groaned in disgust as the skin on his neck and face rolled and bubbled, struggling to contain the frantic changes occurring beneath. His groan turned into a muffled wail, as glistening pink tendrils rushed from behind his eyes and enveloped his face, sliding back into his head through his mouth and beginning to suffocate him.
Wolff stepped calmly forwards and slammed his hammer into the man’s head. The soldier was dead before he hit the floor. Writhing shapes squirmed from his shattered skull, reaching out for something to latch onto, but Wolff stamped down on them with his iron-clad boot until they were still. Then he looked up at the horrified circle of onlookers. “Kill the corrupted,” he said, loud enough for his words to carry all along the crowds of shocked soldiers. “They’re beyond saving.”
The soldiers whose flesh had been changed raised their hands protectively as the other men surrounded them, raising their swords but still unsure whether to strike.
Wolff leapt up onto the wall and cried out in furious, commanding tones. “Do it now, or we all die!”
For a second, the soldiers still hesitated to kill their former friends, but then one of them screamed out in dismay as a forest of pink tendrils burst from the man nearest to him and latched onto his head, dragging him towards a gaping mouth that had suddenly opened in the mutant’s neck. The soldiers attacked the men with axes and swords, slicing desperately at them before they themselves became corrupted. This was the only signal the others needed. All along the wall the Ostlanders attacked anyone who showed the merest hint of mutation, eager to save themselves from the same fate.
Ratboy reeled in horror as he watched the Ostlanders hacking at their own countrymen. To see former comrades turn on each other in this way was more than he could bear and he covered his eyes.
Wolff grabbed his hand and pulled it firmly away from his face. “This is Sigmar’s work, boy,” he gasped, glaring at his acolyte with such fury that Ratboy struggled to meet his gaze. “Don’t you dare avert your eyes.”
Ratboy nodded, and dutifully took in the full horror of the scene. The soldiers were eyeing each other warily as they backed away from the dying mutants. In just a few short minutes, they had gone from being a unified fighting force, to a collection of rabid individuals, terrified that some subtle transformation of their flesh might mark them out for execution. Rather than looking out towards the massing ranks of the enemy, they circled each other, clutching their blood-drenched swords in fear.
We’re lost, thought Ratboy, watching as old friends become wary strangers and rows of drilled soldiers splintered into a paranoid mob. He looked to his master for guidance, but Wolff had slumped weakly against the wall, gasping for breath, his face drawn and grey with exhaustion. Accusations began to fly back and forth between the terrified men as they rounded on anyone who displayed even so much as a limp.
“Wait,” cried Ratboy, but his voice was lost in the general tumult. He leapt up onto the stonework and called out again. “Wait,” he cried with more determination. “The enemy is out there, don’t do their work for them! Remember who you are, men of Ostland!”
A few faces turned to see who had spoken, and Ratboy noticed that one of them was the sharp-featured officer named Meinrich who had earlier accused Wolff of cowardice. His black and white tabard was torn and scorched, but his monocle was still firmly in place and he nodded grimly back at Ratboy.
Meinrich stretched up to his full height and his willowy frame towered over most of the men that surrounded him. “The boy’s right,” he yelled, clanging his sword on his breastplate. “Hold your swords. Resume your positions. Man the wall!” The soldiers looked shamefully from Meinrich to Ratboy and lowered their weapons. They picked the crackling remains from their armour with distaste and stepped back into line, readying themselves for the next assault.
Ratboy dropped back down from the wall and saw Wolff, still stooped and straining for breath, but looking up at him with a grim smile. The priest nodded and gripped his arm in silent approbation, before standing up and looking out towards the enemy.
“Sigmar’s blood,” he muttered, opening his prayer book once more. “This is going to be a long night.”
Ratboy looked out over the battlements and saw another pink mass of swirling shapes rushing across the valley towards them. He gasped in horror and backed away.
Wolff was still holding his arm and pulled him close. “I have the measure of you now, boy,” he said, squeezing his arm so hard that his metal-clad fingers bit into the boy’s flesh. “You were born for this. I thought it before and I know it now.” The priest looked deep into the acolyte’s eyes. “Keep close by my side, Anselm. Sigmar’s grace is written all over you. I can see His holy wrath in your eyes.” He tightened the straps of his armour and looked up at the darkening sky. “These fiends are no match for two blessed sons of the Heldenhammer.”
For the next three hours they fought wave after wave of the hideous, shifting shapes. As the crimson sun dropped slowly towards the horizon, Wolff, Ratboy and Meinrich dashed along the wall, rallying the men each time they faltered and hacking their way through the tormented shapes that poured over the walls.
The soldiers’ initial terror gave way to a grim determination not to be corrupted. As the prayers of Wolff and Ratboy rang constantly in their ears, they butchered the monsters with a mute, machine-like efficiency; fighting through their exhaustion and pain until the stones were slick with the blood of their enemies.
Wolff’s praise affected Ratboy even more powerfully than the holy light had done. As he strode along the battlements, his gangly frame seemed to grow in stature, and his hoarse cries rang out over the cacophony, galvanising the soldiers as they sliced furiously through the torrent of limbs and teeth.
Despite the orders yelled down from the bell tower, it was Wolff and Ratboy who became the focus of the Ostlanders’ defence. Every time the line faltered, the priest and his acolyte rallied the men and fought alongside them: Wolff with his pounding hammer and Ratboy with a borrowed sword clutched tightly in his one good hand.
As the hours rolled by, the tide of corruption slowed and then finally ceased. A sanguine dusk flooded the valley as the castle’s defenders lowered their weapons. They leant weakly against each other and looked down at their handiwork. Mounds of warped, broken shapes lay all along the wall and across the courtyard, but after the initial assault, only a handful more of the Ostlanders had fallen. Lamplighters picked their way through the corpses, setting torches and beacons alight in every corner of the castle. Captain Felhamer and the other officers descended from the tower, embracing the soldiers in fierce hugs and praising them for their bravery, while Wolff followed behind, anointing the battered swords and shields that were lifted up to him.
Ratboy noticed a white
-robed shape flitting across the wall towards them. It was Anna, and as she moved through the ranks of tired soldiers, she held a small bottle to their lips: a restorative of some kind, he guessed, from the colour it brought to their pale cheeks.
Joining Ratboy and Wolff, Anna shook her head at the grotesque shapes that surrounded them. On Wolff’s orders, the bodies were being shovelled down into the courtyard to be burned, and as a nest of twitching limbs was hurled past her, Anna recoiled. “What are they?” she asked.
Wolff looked up from his work, and shrugged. “Daemons of a kind,” he replied. “Lesser minions of the Ruinous Powers.” He shook his head. “Such things have no right to exist in our world: they’re torn from somewhere beyond the corporeal realm. Only the most powerful, unspeakable magic can wrench such horrors into the mortal world. This Mormius, or someone in his service, is a practitioner of the very darkest arts.” The priest looked out across the valley at the thousands of torches that had begun to punctuate the shadows. “He must have expended great energy summoning such unholy regiments. No doubt he will be furious that they fared so badly against the simple faith of Felhamer’s garrison.”
“So you think Felhamer still has a hope?” asked Anna, incredulously.
“Of course he has hope,” snapped Wolff. “But hope is not always enough. This is just the beginning. I doubt Mormius will have expected such fierce resistance.” He waved at the crumbling walls. “Not from such a wreck as this. He probably thought this would be the briefest of struggles—a mere prelude to the main act—but Felhamer’s men have forced him to reconsider. Mormius has wasted huge numbers by throwing his force against them so carelessly. He’ll plan his next move more carefully.”
“And what of us, master?” asked Ratboy. “Are we to stay and fight after all? What of your brother?”
The priest frowned and looked away. “Felhamer and his men are brave beyond anything I could have expected. They’re sacrificing themselves, with no expectation of survival, in the hope that others might live. They’re prepared to die for the good of an Empire that will never even know their names. These soldiers are everything that’s strong and pure about this land.” He sighed. “To abandon them is a betrayal of the worst kind—a betrayal of my own vows.” He turned to face Ratboy and Anna with doubt in his eyes. For a brief moment, his fierce mask slipped to reveal the face of a tired, confused old man. “Everything has become so clouded this last year,” he said, rolling his head back across his broad shoulders and stretching the bones in his neck with a series of audible cracks. “Sometimes it seems that there’s no clear path anymore.” He looked down at his friends’ concerned faces. “Can you understand? If I leave, these men will die, but if I stay, the whole campaign will be at risk—the whole province even.”
05 - Warrior Priest Page 14