Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  Wolfenburg had been easy compared to this. Taken by surprise, the defenders had fallen back from the main gate and from there they’d slowly lost the town. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, they’d been easy prey. But this was more difficult. The battle with the humans on the forest road had blunted his momentum and given them time to fortify and make ready. The lands around Hergig had been turned into a killing ground, full of traps and obstacles. Speed had been his primary weapon, and now it was lost. He glanced to the side at his chieftains – they traded looks among each other, grumbling and gripping weapons that might, at any minute, be turned against him. Even the blessings of the Dark Gods could only protect him from so much.

  Idly he stroked the tattoos and brands that criss-crossed his hairy flesh, tracing them with one blunt finger. Each mark had been earned in battle with one enemy or another… there, the memory of his battle with a chaos-giant as a youngling. Now he had a half-dozen of the beasts serving him. There, where the razor-fingers of one of the brides of the Goat with a Thousand Lovers had caressed him before she’d tried to devour him. Her sisters danced now at his beck and call. And had he not slain a mighty Black Orc warlord only weeks before, and set an army of the creatures to flight? In each battle, one common factor – he’d known the gods were watching over him. But now, now he wasn’t so sure.

  Every rudimentary strategic instinct the Beastlord possessed had screamed at him to ignore the walled city of Hergig and continue on, even as they now pleaded that he ignore the palace. But the gods he served demanded that the sack of this town be complete. Thus, it must be done… but it would be done well. Experience had taught Gorthor there was always a weak point in any defence… a crumbling wall, a fire-weakened gate, loose stones, something. Anything. Like the bared throat of a defeated enemy, the weak point could be torn out and the battle won in one swift blow. He just had to find it. ‘Prisoners?’ he grunted.

  ‘Many-many,’ Wormwhite said, holding up his claws. ‘Not good though. Not many live long.’

  ‘Show me,’ Gorthor snarled, slamming the butt of his spear against the chariot base.

  A few minutes later a captive screamed shrilly as he was dragged before Gorthor, blood staining his red and green livery. Arms stretched to the point of dislocation between the fists of a Minotaur, he hung awkwardly. His legs were shredded masses of meat and malformed hounds pulled at them hard enough to cause the Minotaur to stumble. With a grunt, a goat-headed gor chieftain slapped the dogs aside with the flat of his axe and kicked the stubborn ones into submission with his hooves. Then he grabbed the dying man’s chin and jerked his head up.

  ‘Whrrr?’ the gor rumbled, placing the notched edge of the axe against a hairless cheek. ‘Whrrr?’

  The man sucked in a breath as if to answer and then, with a shudder that wracked his ruined frame, he went limp, his eyes rolling to the white. The gor shook him, puzzled. Then, with a roar, he swept the corpse’s head from its broken shoulders. The head bounced along the filth-covered ground, pursued by the snapping hounds. The gor spun and shook his axe at Gorthor’s chariot.

  Gorthor stroked Impaler like a beloved pet as he eyed the body with something that might have been consternation. Another captive dead was one less who could tell Gorthor what he needed to know. He made a disgusted noise and turned to Wormwhite, crouching nearby. ‘Weak, Wormwhite,’ he grunted.

  ‘Men are weak,’ the shaman replied, bovine lips curling back from the stumps of black, broken teeth. Wormwhite’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘I talk, yes?’

  ‘Dd!’ the gor trumpeted, stomping a hoof onto a cobble, splintering it. He waved his axe at the shaman, spattering the latter’s ratty cloak with blood. ‘No tlk!’

  ‘Talk,’ the shaman said. He looked at Gorthor.

  ‘Yes,’ Gorthor snorted. ‘Talk.’

  Nodding, the shaman hopped towards the body. Grabbing a hound by the scruff of its neck he yanked it up and pried the gnawed skull out of its jaws and flung the beast aside. ‘Make talk easy. Not dead long.’

  With that, he drove two stiffened talons into the ragged neck stump and swung the head around to face the herdstone Gorthor had commanded raised two weeks previous, on their first night encamped before Hergig’s walls. Muttering, the shaman raised the head and held it as a chill mist seeped from the surface of the herdstone and crept towards him. The tendrils of mist found the stump of the head and began to fill it. Wormwhite jerked his fingers free and let the head drop. Only it didn’t. Instead, it hung supported by the clammy mist, and slowly it rose, turning the head around. Mist seeped from the punctured eyes and dripped from the slack lips and Wormwhite howled and capered.

  ‘Ask it,’ Gorthor grunted.

  ‘Where is weakness?’ Wormwhite shrilled, dancing around the column of mist and the bobbing head.

  The mouth moved loosely, as if it were being manipulated by stiff fingers. ‘N-nor-north wuh-wall… s… stones… luh-loose…’ it said in a voice like a whisper of air. Wormwhite cackled and jerked his hand. The mist abruptly retreated and the head fell with a thump. The hounds leapt on it in a snarling pile as the shaman turned back to his chieftain.

  ‘North wall,’ Wormwhite said, stamping a hoof. ‘Lead attack, crush the hairless,’ he continued, his eyes blazing. The gathered warriors of the herd rumbled in assent, and weapons clattered.

  Gorthor’s lips twitched. ‘Attack when I say, Wormwhite. Not before,’ the Beastlord snorted with false laziness. His dark eyes fixed on the shaman and then passed across the muzzles of the half-dozen wargors who made up his inner circle. The gor who had been questioning the dead human was one of their number, a brute named Crushhoof who shook his axe at Gorthor in a vaguely threatening manner. ‘Ttack now!’ he snarled. ‘Gds wnt t’ttack!’

  ‘I speak for gods,’ Gorthor said, shifting on his throne. ‘Not you, Crushhoof.’

  Crushhoof reared back and brayed loudly, foam flying from his jaws. He pawed the ground and his warriors howled and rattled their spears. ‘Ttack! Ttack! Ttack!’ they shrieked in unison. Other herds picked up the chant and Gorthor suddenly thrust himself up out of his seat. Silence fell.

  Crushhoof glared up at him, his gaze challenging. It had been coming for a long time now, and Gorthor wasn’t surprised. Crushhoof swung his axe through the air and grunted ‘Defy gods?’

  ‘Said before, gods speak through me,’ Gorthor said slowly. ‘Challenge, Crushhoof?’

  ‘Chlnge!’ Crushhoof cried and bounded up onto the dais, his axe swinging. Gorthor stepped aside with an ease that was surprising for one of his size. As he moved, he grabbed Impaler. Crushhoof reacted quickly, twisting around and slicing at Gorthor. The axe scratched across the surface of Gorthor’s patchwork armour, leaving a trail of sparks.

  Impaler slid across his palm smoothly and, almost of its own volition, the blade shot into Crushhoof’s belly. He brayed in shock as Gorthor jerked him into the air. Impaler wriggled deeper into the wound and the tip exploded out through the dying gor’s back.

  Blood sloshed down onto Gorthor and he opened his jaws to accept the offering. Then, with a grunt, he tossed the twitching body to the ground, jerking Impaler free in the process. The butt of the spear thudded into the dais and Gorthor glared at his army. One big fist thumped his chest. ‘I lord here! Gorthor! Not Crushhoof! Not Benthorn or Splaypaw or Doombite! By this spear, Gorthor rules!’ he roared and hefted Impaler over his head. The gathered beasts howled in reply.

  Krumholtz watched as the first volley of fire-arrows were loosed from the walls of the palace. His soul cringed at the thought of what would happen to any of the city’s citizens who were left out there, crouching in cellars or attics. But he said nothing. Mikael had moved beyond wanting to save the city into wanting to deny it to his enemies in the two days since they’d fallen back to the palace. He shared looks with the other counsellors, all of whom had similar looks on their faces. Worry, mingled with apprehension.

  Ludendorf had many virtues, among them a savage zeal that made even battle-
hardened priests of Sigmar give way. But his flaws were just as fierce at times, and zeal could become blind stubbornness as easily as courage. It had ever been such with the Ludendorfs; Hochland’s nobility were fiercer than almost any in the Empire. Such was the reason that the position of Elector’s Hound had been created. A second head, one to remain level when the Elector inevitably gave vent to the rages of the blood. Of course, the position’s authority rested on the holder’s ability to get the Elector in question to listen.

  ‘We’ll burn them out like rats,’ Ludendorf growled, glaring at the city as new smoke clouds began to billow up to join those created by the fires that the beasts had already started. Nearby, men poured water drawn from the palace’s cistern onto the walls, to ward against the fire. ‘I’ll not let him have it. Not after all we did to make this place impregnable,’ he continued gesturing to the stout walls that surrounded the inner town of Hergig. ‘We can take back the city from here, Aric, after they’ve been driven out by the fire. We can take back the province. Drive the beasts into the Talabec, even!’ He looked down at the cramped courtyard at the huddled groups of civilians and soldiers without really seeing them. Krumholtz watched him rant. None of the other counsellors met his eyes, and he knew it was up to him.

  ‘We can’t hold the city, Mikael,’ he began evenly. ‘The North Wall is unstable and the rest of the keep isn’t much better. We have to retreat, and pull that monster and his herd after us. We can give our people – the people of Hergig – time to flee.’ Seeing the look on the Elector’s face, he said, ‘We would not be abandoning Hergig, Mikael… we are preserving Hochland.’

  ‘Preserving yourself, you mean!’ someone yelled from one of the surrounding buildings. Rotten fruit, broken bricks and the contents of bedpans flew at the men on the wall from the surrounding rooftops. At a barked command from Krumholtz, several men peeled off from a group below and hurried into the cramped buildings, kicking in doors and shattering windows along the way. Krumholtz watched as screaming people, starving and frightened, were dragged out of their homes and tossed into the street. Six in all, five of them labourers by their clothing. The sixth was a boy, thin and fragile-looking. He knew that they likely weren’t the hecklers. It didn’t matter. Krumholtz followed the Elector down into the courtyard towards the prisoners.

  ‘Cousin?’ Ludendorf said, in the sudden silence.

  Krumholtz swallowed and laid a hand on the hilt of the Butcher’s Blade. ‘My lord Elector?’

  ‘Do your duty,’ Ludenhof said.

  The Butcher’s Blade sprang from its sheath with startling speed and five heads rolled into the gutter. The blade halted above the neck of the sixth, the stroke pulled inches from the boy’s neck. Krumholtz stepped back, his face stony. ‘Five is an adequate example, I think.’

  ‘Do you?’ Ludendorf said, teeth bared. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his Runefang and for a moment, Krumholtz feared he would complete the execution himself. Then his hand flopped limply, draped over the pommel. Ludendorf looked around the courtyard, meeting the hollow stares of his people. ‘Where would you go, Aric?’ he said mildly.

  ‘Talabheim,’ someone said. The other counsellors murmured agreement.

  Ludendorf smiled. ‘Say you make it to Talabheim. And then? There’s little chance of the beasts breaching those walls, no, but they can swarm the land unopposed, which is likely what they want. The Drakwald is cancerous as it stands… imagine it in a season, when the beasts have a province to feed on; it will be a bleeding tumour in the gut of our Empire, Aric. One that will take us years to burn clean, if it’s even possible. Civilisation will be reduced to a few mighty cities, isolated and cut off from one another. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Only the preservation of the Empire matters. And that means breaking them here,’ Ludendorf said.

  ‘And what about preserving the people of Hochland?’

  ‘There’s an old hunter’s saying… when you and a friend are being chased by a bear, don’t try and outrun it; instead, trip your friend,’ Ludendorf said, looking up at the smoke. The shapes of harpies soared out of it, wailing and shrieking. Bows and long-rifles spoke, knocking several of the grotesque shapes out of the air. ‘While the bear is busy with us, we can gut it and render it impotent.’ He looked at Krumholtz. ‘There is a method to my madness, Aric. It’s not just stubbornness.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Krumholtz said, his voice pitched low. ‘Be honest with me Mikael. Is this pride talking?’

  ‘Don’t presume too much on our kinship, Aric,’ Ludendorf said, not looking at him.

  ‘Mikael, Ostland has already fallen. Even if reinforcements were coming, it’s unlikely they’ll reach us in time. Especially not with you burning the city out from under us!’ Krumholtz said, his voice growing louder. ‘But we can save our people now. All we have to do is–’

  ‘What? Abandon the capital? Flee into the wilderness?’ Ludendorf said. ‘And just how would you go about that, cousin?’

  ‘We parley,’ Krumholtz said. Ludendorf’s face flushed.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Krumholtz took a breath. ‘We parley. That monster out there is many things, but he is not dumb. The more time he takes on us, the greater the likelihood his army will be diminished by desertion, infighting and attack. But if we offer him the city, we could escape! We can escort the survivors out, let them scatter into hiding and then march towards Talabheim to join up with their forces!’

  ‘Just give him the city? My city?’ Ludendorf said.

  ‘Better the city than the lives of our people!’

  ‘Their lives are mine to spend as I see fit!’ Ludendorf shouted. He gestured to the clumps of huddled survivors. ‘I would spill every drop of blood in the province to destroy that animal! That beast that dares think to challenge us! And you want to surrender?’

  ‘For Hochland–’ Krumholtz began.

  ‘I am Hochland!’ Ludendorf roared. His voice echoed through the courtyard.

  ‘No! You are a prideful lunatic!’ Krumholtz shouted back, the words leaving his mouth before he realiSed it.

  Ludendorf froze. Then, he pointed a shaking hand at Krumholtz. ‘Give me your sword.’

  ‘What?’ Krumholtz blinked. He was suddenly aware of the others pulling away from him, and he felt a sinking sensation deep in his gut.

  ‘Your sword. Give it to me. I’ll not have a coward as my Hound.’

  Krumholtz’s face went stiff. ‘I’m no coward.’

  ‘No? Retreat this, fall back that. Always running, Aric, never holding. Never standing,’ Ludendorf hissed. His hands curled into fists. ‘Run then, Aric. Run right out those gates. Let’s see how far you make it, eh?’

  ‘Mikael…’

  The Runefang slid out of its sheath with an evil hiss and Krumholtz stumbled back, reaching unconsciously for his own blade. He stopped himself from drawing it and let his hands fall. ‘Go,’ Ludendorf said. ‘Go and be damned.’

  Krumholtz straightened and unbuckled his sword-belt. ‘As you wish, my Count.’ Without looking at his cousin, he dropped the Butcher’s Blade in the dust and turned away. As he made for the gates, he was aware of the world closing in around him, narrowing his vision to a pinpoint. Outside the gates, damnation waited and capered. At the back of his mind, a tiny voice wondered which was worse, what awaited him outside, or what he’d seen inside.

  No one tried to stop him.

  No one called him back.

  And when he died, no one was watching.

  Ludendorf sat in his palace, the Butcher’s Blade resting over his knees, the Runefang sunk into the polished wood of the floor. He heard a distant roar, and knew his cousin was dead. His fury had abated, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘You have to understand, Aric,’ he said to the empty room. ‘It’s not pride keeping me here. It’s not.’

  He waited for a reply. When none was forthcoming, he closed his eyes. ‘It’s not,’ he said again.

  Th
e giant was a malformed thing, with jagged curls of bone bursting through its tortured flesh. It moaned as it uprooted another roof and tossed it aside with a crash. Four of the mammoth beasts worked steadily, pulling down buildings and slamming them into pieces even as hundreds of gors crawled across the shattered timbers, lashing them together. It had taken them three days, and the fire hadn’t helped matters. But Gorthor watched, and was pleased. He had enslaved the giants personally, his crude magics binding their weak minds to his own. Their thoughts fluttered at the edge of his consciousness like moths caught in a storm.

  ‘Waste of time, waste of time,’ Wormwhite muttered.

  Gorthor tossed a lazy glance at the shaman. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We will take the town, as the gods want. But we will do it my way. Gorthor’s way.’

  ‘Stupid,’ one of the chieftains said. It wasn’t the first time that one of his sub-chieftains had commented on Gorthor’s insistence on building siege towers and battering rams, as opposed to simply forcing the gates in the traditional fashion.

  Gorthor grunted and reached out. He grabbed the scruff of the chieftain’s neck and jerked the startled gor into the air. Muscles bulging, Gorthor shook the critic the way a hound shakes a rat and then tossed him into the dirt. ‘One gate,’ Gorthor growled. ‘One!’ He glared at them and gestured at the platforms being built. ‘Many,’ he said. ‘Cannot crush with only one finger.’ He made a fist. ‘Must use all at once.’ His lips quirked and he laughed. ‘One herd cannot destroy them, but many – all at once?’ He looked at them, wondering if the lesson had sunk in. He caught Wormwhite looking at him strangely, and Gorthor glared at the shaman. ‘Speak, shaman.’

  ‘This is not the way of the gods,’ the albino said. He spread his talons and witch-light curled around their tips. ‘We break, we do not build,’ he continued. ‘The gate is there! We should attack!’