Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  ‘The gods want the town, Gorthor will give them the town,’ Gorthor said matter-of-factly. ‘But I will not waste warriors to do so!’ He thumped a fist on his chariot. ‘One hole no good. Need many.’

  ‘Bld fr th’ bldgd,’ another chieftain growled. He slapped his brass-sheathed horn with his axe and set sparks to drifting down. Behind him, the red-stained hair of his followers bristled in eagerness.

  ‘The blood-god wants man-blood, not beast-blood!’ Gorthor countered, showing them his teeth. After Crushhoof, Brasshorn was one of the loudest grumblers. And Brasshorn’s Khorngors with him. Eager for blood and skulls and souls, and not very particular about where they came from.

  ‘Blood-god wants all blood,’ Wormwhite said pointedly, eliciting snarls of agreement from Brasshorn and his followers. ‘Gods demand our blood, Beastlord. Demand man-blood! Demand we dance on the cities of men and crush skulls beneath our hooves! Crush, not create! Burn, not build! Smash, not speak!’ Wormwhite’s voice grew ever shriller and Gorthor’s hackles rose. The other shamans joined in, uttering warbling denunciations of his procrastination.

  Gorthor had never feared the ire of the wonder-workers. As a blessed child of the gods, he had known that their magic was as nothing to his. But now, now he could feel the warp dancing along the edge of each prickled hair and he made his decision a moment later.

  Wormwhite’s skull made a wet sound as Impaler passed through it and nailed the slop of his brains to a wall. Silence fell, as it had earlier with Crushhoof’s demise. Gorthor could feel the rage of the gods in his nerve-endings, but he ignored it and jerked Impaler free, brandishing it at his advisors. ‘Gods will have blood… seas and messes of it! But Gorthor will deliver that blood! Gorthor will deliver it his way! In his time!’

  He looked around, noting with satisfaction that none dared meet his gaze. He stamped a hoof and bounded aboard his chariot. ‘And Gorthor says that time is now!’ he roared, waving his spear over his head. A spasm threatened him, but he forced it aside. He would listen to the gods after. After! Now was only for doing what they demanded.

  His chariot rumbled forward, picking up speed as the tuskagors pulling it snorted and chewed the ground with their hooves. The giants stomped past, easily outdistancing the chariots as they slammed the crude bridges down across the wall. And waiting there below were eager gors, carrying improvised scaling ladders and battering rams. They streamed like ants through the streets, some of them surrounding the gates of the inner palace even as one of the giants, peppered with hundreds of arrows, slumped against the weakened wall that Wormwhite’s necromancy had indicated and sent it tottering.

  Something flashed behind Gorthor’s eyes as he squatted in the back of his chariot, waving Impaler. Visions of brass horsemen, cutting through his ranks. He shook it off. No. No, it wouldn’t be that way! The gods were watching him. He was doing as they asked! They would protect him as they had always done! He roared and clutched Impaler in both hands, shaking it high as his chariot thundered towards the gates of the palace. A giant was already there, tearing at the door even as oil burned its skin and belching guns found its eyes. It screamed piteously as it fell, taking the great wooden doors with it and only stopped when the iron-bound wheels of Gorthor’s chariot pulped its skull.

  The last defenders of Hergig were waiting there for Gorthor and he roared as his chariot crashed into them. Impaler flashed out, lopping off limbs and piercing bodies, staining the stones red. Men fell beneath his wheels and were gored by his tuskagors. More chariots followed him, filling the wide avenue with a rolling wall of spiked death.

  And then, in one moment, it all went terribly wrong.

  When the horns sounded, Gorthor knew at once what his visions had been trying to tell him, and he felt a brittle sensation that might have been the laughter of the Dark Gods. Beneath his feet, the ground trembled. There were new smells on the wind and he looked up, peering back along the trail of destruction he had left in his wake. Over the heads of struggling combatants, he saw a gleam of something that might have been brass and he heard the blare of coronets. His visions returned, blasting over and through him and a chill coursed down his spine.

  Horsemen clad in burnished plate charged towards him, their steeds grinding his warriors into the street as they rode on. Gorthor speared the first to reach him, hauling the man off of his horse. He swung the body of the brass man into the air and tossed it aside in a burst of furious strength. The fear that had seized him upon sighting the warrior faded into confusion. Was this what the gods had been trying to tell him? Was this what they had wanted? He snorted and turned away from the crumpled body. His warriors were locked in combat with the men and the city was burning. His nostrils flared and another spasm passed through him. He thought of Wormwhite’s dead eyes and bit back a snarl.

  No, he was blessed. Blessed! Hergig would be his, gods or no. More trumpets blared out and burnt his ears. He spun and watched in consternation as the defenders of Hergig fell upon his forces through the holes he’d made in their defences. The new arrivals crashed into the packed ranks of beastmen, carving through them with ease as the children of Chaos panicked, caught between the hammer and the anvil. Gorthor snarled in rage. He had to rally his troops. He had to re-order them, to pull them back and prepare to meet this new threat. He leapt from his chariot and clambered up a nearby statue with simian agility. Holding Impaler aloft, he issued desperate commands. The armoured shapes of his chieftains and Bestigors responded, cutting a path to him, but too late.

  Even as the cream of his warherd assembled, the rest of it began to melt away, caught as they were in the pincers of the two forces. He could hear laughter in his head and knew at once that an ending was here.

  The gods had demanded a sacrifice. He had thought it was this town, but he had been mistaken. Or perhaps blind. Those beloved of the gods were often the ones they called home soonest, and the thought filled him with berserk rage. Frothing at the mouth, his mind filled with the mocking laughter of the Dark Gods, Gorthor lifted Impaler and looked towards the palace. His fangs ground together and he dropped off of the statue. Stones buckled beneath his feet and he straightened. Impaler raised, he began to run and his herd followed suit.

  The gods demanded blood. And though they had turned from him, Gorthor would deliver it nonetheless.

  Ludendorf drew the Butcher’s Blade with one hand and Goblin-Bane with the other. Today, at the last, he would be his own Hound. He hadn’t bothered to find another, and no one had volunteered.

  He didn’t blame them. On some level, Ludendorf wondered if he were truly ruthless, or simply mad. Had he sent his cousin to death and doom for causing dissension where none could be tolerated, or for simply speaking the truth?

  ‘Aric,’ he said softly, examining the Butcher’s Blade in the weak light of day. ‘Why couldn’t you for once have just listened?’ His gaze slid to Goblin-Bane and he sighed. The Runefang of Hochland seemed to purr as he made a tentative pass through the air with it. A weapon passed down from father to son, it lusted for battle with a passion that matched his own. It craved death, and spells of murder had been beaten into its substance during its forging. It longed to split the Beastlord’s skull, and he longed to let it. ‘Soon enough,’ he murmured.

  He smiled grimly as he heard the strident ululation of the coronets of the Order of the Blazing Sun. When his men had reported that the knights had arrived, smashing into the rear of the army intent on breaching his gates, he’d scarcely credited it. Now he could hear battle being joined all around him as beast met man in the tangled streets before the palace, even as the walls crumbled beneath the onslaught of the giants.

  The arrival of the knights was a sign that he’d been right. That Sigmar had wanted him to hold this place, to keep it from the claws of Chaos. His god had tasked him, and he fulfilled that task, though he’d been opposed at every turn. And now… now came the reward. He grinned and rotated his wrist, loosening up his sword-arm. He’d have the beast’s head on a pike, and
toast to it every year on the anniversary of Aric’s death. His cousin would appreciate that, he was sure.

  ‘Of course you would. Least you could do for betraying me,’ he said, looking at the Butcher’s Blade again. It felt wrong to hold it in his hand, but he was determined that it should shed some blood. He needed his cousin’s sword at his side now more than ever. Aric had always been there for him in life, and it was only fitting he be there in death as well.

  ‘Plus, you’d hate to miss out on a fight like this, eh?’ he said out loud. If he noticed the looks some of his men gave him, he gave no sign. They hated him now, if they hadn’t before. But they loved him too. Better a ruthless man than a weak one, in times like these. Better a madman than a coward, that’s what they whispered in the ranks when they thought he wasn’t listening.

  Beasts bounded through the shattered North Wall, bugling cries of challenge. He’d known they’d get in one way or another, and had fortified the inner keep with whatever had been available. Spearmen and handgunners crouched behind overturned wagons and at a shouted command men rolled uncorked barrels of black powder towards the shattered walls. Trails of fire followed them. Explosions rocked the courtyard, filling the air with smoke, rock and bloody body parts. A giant howled in agony as its legs disintegrated in an explosion and it toppled into the courtyard. It squirmed, trying to push itself upright until a dozen spears pierced its skull.

  Ludendorf laughed as the stink of roasting beast-flesh reached him. He would take back his city, or wipe it off the map in the attempt, no matter the cost. His laughter faded as he looked down at the Butcher’s Blade. Frowning, he tightened his grip on the hilt. ‘No pity. No remorse,’ he grunted. He clashed his swords together. ‘Kill them all!’ he roared, and his men hastened to do the deed.

  Handguns barked and arrows hissed, thudding into hairy flesh. Creatures howled and screamed as they slipped on their own blood in their haste to close with their foes. His remaining soldiers attacked with renewed courage, yelling out praises to the Emperor and Sigmar. And if no one shouted his name, Ludendorf didn’t care. So long as they fought, he was satisfied.

  Beastmen, having managed to avoid his troops, charged up the stairs of the palace towards him. The Butcher’s Blade caught one on the side of the head, killing it instantly. He blocked a spear-point with Goblin-Bane and buried his cousin’s sword in the beastman’s belly, pinning it to one of the ornamental pillars that lined the doors to the palace. Pulling it loose, he met the next, blocking its axe with both swords.

  With a grunt he swept his blades apart, cutting the head off of the axe. As the beastman reeled back in shock, Ludendorf kicked it down the stairs where several spearmen were waiting. ‘Finish it off and join the others,’ he said, shaking blood off of his sword. The spears rose and fell, cutting off the creature’s squalls.

  He stepped down the stairs and strode through the smoke after his troops, eager to get to grips with the beasts. A moment later, his eagerness was swept aside by surprise as a spear took the man nearest him, pinning the unfortunate soldier to a wall in a shower of brick dust and blood. Ludendorf turned and saw a familiar shape and his lips skinned back from his teeth in a fierce snarl.

  Gorthor jerked his spear loose from the brick and swung it over his head like an axe. ‘Ludendorf!’ Gorthor bellowed.

  ‘Gorthor!’ Ludendorf barked, gesturing with his swords. ‘We were interrupted earlier, animal! Decided to fight the dead after all?’

  Gorthor shrieked like a wildcat and the Beastlord began to shake, his whole body rippling with spasms. The Butcher’s Blade looped out, only to be caught with a wet slap in the Beastlord’s palm. Gorthor jerked the weapon out of Ludendorf’s grip and backhanded him, sending him skidding across the cobbles. Ludendorf coughed as he rolled to a stop. He knew his ribs were likely broken and he felt like a punctured water-skin.

  ‘The gods demand your heart, man-chief!’ Gorthor said, stamping forward. His warriors made to surge towards the downed Count, and the Beastlord twisted, gutting the closest. ‘No! Gorthor’s prey!’ he snorted, glaring at his men. The beasts drew back, their weapons clattering against their shields in a dull rhythm. Gorthor shook himself, satisfied that none would interfere.

  Ludendorf coughed and pushed himself to his feet. He was the only man in the courtyard, surrounded by a ring of beasts. There were soldiers on the walls, but they were too far away to save him, if he had even wanted such. He braced himself on his Runefang and waited, grinning madly. ‘Gorthor’s prey, eh? Bit off more than you could chew this time, didn’t you?’ he spat, laughing. ‘You’re caught in a trap of your own making, you stupid animal. And now, like every other animal, you’re wasting time fighting instead of fleeing.’

  ‘Like you,’ Gorthor rumbled, eyes blazing. Ludendorf’s laughter choked off and the Elector raised his sword, stung.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Shut up and fight, filth. Let the gods decide who’s the fool here.’

  Gorthor gave a howl and Impaler glided forward. Ludendorf spun around it, Goblin-Bane chopping through one of his opponent’s horns. Gorthor turned, roaring, and Impaler shot out, nearly taking the head off of his attacker. Ludendorf dodged to the side and his blade flickered out again, eliciting another agonised shriek from Gorthor.

  ‘This is my city! My territory! And it’s your death-ground, cur,’ Ludendorf said, lunging smoothly despite the ache in his chest. The tip of his blade burned like fire as it slid over Gorthor’s leg and the Beastlord stepped back instinctively. He backpedalled, weaving a wall between himself and that cursed sword. It dove at him like a snake, biting and ripping faster than he could see and its every touch caused him torment. ‘Hergig is mine! Hochland is mine! And I’ll kill any who try and take it from me!’ cried Ludendorf.

  Frenziedly, Gorthor lashed out, flailing at his opponent with Impaler, battering the warrior off of his feet. The man slipped on the bloody cobbles and lost his balance completely. Desperately, he tried to haul himself away from Gorthor, who drove one wide hoof into his chest, denting his cuirass and pinning him to the ground. Impaler’s blade swept to the side, cutting armour and flesh with a sizzle. Ludendorf screamed in agony as his belly split open like an overripe melon.

  ‘Gorthor’s now,’ the Beastlord grunted, kicking him and sending the dying man rolling across the courtyard. The beastmen set up a cacophony of triumphant screeches and barks and Gorthor, breathing heavily, raised his weapon in triumph.

  His eyes filled with blood, and his ears filled with the sound of his own heart stuttering, Ludendorf clambered to his feet. His intestines draped loose over the restraining arm he had clamped across his belly and his fingers tangled in the clasps of his armour. He barely had the strength to grip his sword as he stumbled towards the broad beast shape raising its hell-weapon over its head.

  With all his remaining strength, he swept his sword out across the beastman’s broad back. Bone blistered at the touch of the Runefang and Gorthor shrieked like a wounded goat. A hairy fist caught the Elector on the side of the head and the ground raced up to meet him. The beastman rose up over him, favouring his side, blood mingling with the foam dripping from his jaws. His body shuddered, as if gripped by fever.

  ‘Die!’ Gorthor growled. Impaler lived up to its name, nailing Ludendorf to the ground. Muscles bulging, Gorthor jerked spear and man up and raised them up towards the sky. ‘Die for the gods!’ Gorthor howled.

  Ludendorf, his teeth stained red, grabbed the haft of the daemon-weapon even as it squirmed in his guts. ‘You first,’ he rasped, jerking himself down the weapon’s length. Agony clouded his vision and his sword-arm felt like lead as it dropped down.

  A moment later, Gorthor’s head flew free of his thick neck. Ludendorf fell, his sword sliding from his grip.

  The great form of the Beastlord staggered four steps and sank to its knees, neck-stump spraying blood even as it toppled. The spear clattered away, the ugly runes decorating its surface dimming. Mikael Ludendorf crawled towards the head of the Beastlo
rd and clutched it as somewhere, triumphant notes were blown from a hundred horns. The beasts ran then, leaving the two chieftains alone in the courtyard.

  Ludendorf, dying, stared into the glassy eyes of Gorthor. His lips moved, shaping one word, but no sound came out. Beneath his body, he felt the stones of Hergig tremble as the knights of the Blazing Sun drove the beasts from his city. He heard the cheers as his people celebrated.

  When he died, no one was watching.

  The Inquisition

  ++Open vox-net++

  My most esteemed Lord Inquisitor,

  At last, the heretic has broken before us. We have eked out answers from the darkest depths of his broken mind, and though the process has not left much of him, there will be sufficient for your purposes.

  Interrogator Kerstromm, Ordo Malleus

  What are you working on at the moment?

  Right this moment, I’m working on a short story called ‘The Iron Without>’, which will appear, unsurprisingly, in the Iron Warriors Omnibus. It’s got some favourite characters, some new faces and some revelations that will surprise people and shed hazy light on one character’s origins that will be further explored in my next Horus Heresy novel. Confused? No? You will be.

  What will you be working on next?

  After that, I’ll be working on another story for the Iron Warriors Omnibus entitled ‘The Beast of Calth’. Which, surprisingly, features almost no Iron Warriors. Go figure...

  Are there any areas of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 that you haven’t yet explored that you’d like to in the future?

  I’ve used inquisitors in a few books, but I’d love to do something more focused on them. But since the benchmark has been set so high, that might need to wait until folk have forgotten about Eisenhorn. I’ve always had a hankering to get into the nitty gritty of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and at the end of the year, I’m going to get a chance to scratch that itch with Priests of Mars. In fact, any bit of the background I haven’t yet explored is one I’d want to delve into sometime.