by David Guymer
He could not explain it to himself.
The mutants of Die Körnung stormed the jetty by the dozen. More ploughed directly into the water, driven under by the desperation of those that followed. The planking groaned under so many.
Felix raised his sword to hack through the second hawser, but a mutant tackled him around the waist and slammed him against the groaning boards. The mutant scrambled up and dived for the boat. Dozens more leapt after him, causing the boat to rock, tipping them all screaming into the water.
‘Stop!’ Felix yelled at their fleeing backs, helpless to do anything but watch as still more stormed into the water. He heard the cry from a hundred mouths, the conjoined torment of the Damned. The Dark Master has come. Felix felt weak. He was one man, and there were so many. ‘You go to your deaths!’
Fate would not be denied. He had seen it. It had happened.
Would happen.
As he struggled for an answer, a shriek sounded from the walls. Felix saw a spider-legged creature surmount the distant rampart. Its forelegs waved in challenge, chitinous mouthparts spreading for another hellish wail before a guard smashed the butt of a spear between its eyes and it fell. Watching hell descend upon the walls, Felix imparted a last look to the floating shade of the Hand. His fingers flexed around the grip of his sword.
There was nothing he could do here.
He was about to force himself into the flow of bodies and make for the wall himself when his returning gaze alighted on one of the many capsized wrecks that littered the straits between the riverbank and the sandbar. A wide tear in the prow had been partially, almost deliberately, curtained with matt-brown algae. The water around it eddied strangely. It butted into the jetty. Then moved backwards a foot.
Against the current.
Felix was still staring when a black-cloaked figure boiled up from the water between the wading mutants. Knives flashed. Blood and water scattered in equal measure, body parts slipping into the water before any had a chance to scream. Those further back wailed and tried to fall back, only for the press to force them onto the killer’s blades.
A second ratman burst from the water’s surface with a gasp, then back-flipped onto its craft’s back. Its cloak was sodden, its breathing sharp, water wept from a pair of arrow-straight throwing knives. The boat rocked beneath it, pallid tails breaking the surface like sharks’ fins as more of the ratkin struck for the shore.
Felix set his feet on the planking and angled his blade into a guard.
Fate would be cheated after all.
There was no way out.
Feral mutants continued to spill from the city’s roads, gathering into packs just shy of the missiles zipping down from Die Körnung’s walls. Between walls and city there lay a partially demolished strip of grey dust and ruin. It was a minefield of loose rock and treacherous ground that promised broken ankles and worse. But the sight of the walls stoked the invaders’ fury. Those walls were little more than rubble piled upon rubble, their foundations slipping through squalid earth, offering handholds aplenty to any whose faith sufficed them to dare. Their fevered chants preceding them, the warriors howled their bloodlust to the sky, assaulting piecemeal under a volley of crossbow fire, then to withdraw and lick their wounds while others succumbed to that same savagery and charged.
Ordered regiments in loose mail and wielding long billhooks advanced into the clearing behind the rabble and mustered out of bowshot under the stewardship of Golkhan’s cloaked and black-mailed lieutenants. They were hard-faced and cruel, more human-looking than most and, like the lord they served, hailed from outside the City of the Damned. Each wore matching livery of grey cloaks emblazoned with a silver comet and smaller icons of Chaos, swords drawn and pistols braced at their waists.
The armoured steed of Golkhan the Anointed cantered the length of the battle line. Its gait confounded the eye, sickening the bellies even of the perverse. Each of its six legs were doubly jointed, as dark as fired logs and riven with spines. Eyes like onyx glared with sadistic intent from beneath a silvered champron, the metal harder and heavier than mere steel. The steed’s teeth snarled like those of a predator, curved and coloured red by daemonic saliva. Golkhan drew hard on the reins to bring it around for a second pass. The unholy steed of Chaos slowed, snorting at its master’s gall.
‘The earth will be made to tremble,’ the champion bellowed, amplified by his daemonic mask to a crescendo that made the blockish missile towers shiver, as though this was prophecy already fulfilled. ‘The mountains will kneel, the rivers will bleed with the blood of men, and the sky will fall. Your souls are sweet wine to the Shadowlord.’ Golkhan beat the flat of his massive claymore into his chestplate and bellowed like a shackled beast. ‘He is the harbinger; the herald of conquerors, of the Anointed! Spill your veins for he who is godless!’
The hell-beast that bore him stamped its bladed hooves and brayed to be a party to the coming violence and Golkhan swept his claymore high, riding on a wave of acclamation.
‘Rivers! Of! Blood!’
With a final snort of ill-tempered bloodlust, the daemon-steed reared. Golkhan’s lieutenants marshalled their units and, as one, the host of Chaos marched.
The earth trembled.
And now the rivers would bleed with the blood of men.
Ologul hurled a javelin into the front rank of the host, watched it rip through the heart of a black-scaled fanatic, an eight-pointed star tattooed across its chest like a target.
From the turrets of the guard tower to his left a group of crossbowmen loosed, the rattle of hoary old wood lost amidst the thunder as men charged through the ruins and monsters howled. Weapons were reloaded and men spun, screamed, and fired. A soldier rose above the ramparts and levelled his crossbow to fire. The weapon dropped from his hands. Blood spat from the billhook blade that had torn through the top of his spine. The man pawed feebly at the spike jutting through his throat, living still as the billman yanked him from the wall and into the screaming frenzy below.
The front rank made the walls and, chanting in discordant unison they climbed.
‘Rivers of blood! Rivers of blood!’
A final volley of missile-fire rattled across the parapet before men stood back drawing short spears and swords.
‘Shtand to repel!’ Ologul roared, abandoning the stock of javelins and snatching up his buckler. He anchored his stance, locked shields with his neighbours, and leaned his shoulder into it just as a flayed and faceless horror brained itself upon his boss and died by a comrade’s spear.
There were more. Too many to hold. This time the Dark Master meant for nothing but their destruction. That thought did not trouble him.
He had long been plagued by the impression that he was already dead.
Upturned skiff rocking in the disturbed waters, the ratman hurled its knife with a precision that, under other circumstances, would have been impressive. Felix flinched back and swept his sword across its path, meeting the thrown blade with a resounding clash. The ratman hissed and readied to hurl another. Felix narrowed his body to meet it.
Beside him and beneath, terrified mutants thrashed through the water, those desperate to get out wrestling under those still anxious to get in. They crushed up against the pilings of the jetty and Felix swayed as it groaned beneath him. A skaven clambered from the water and onto the end of the jetty. Dripping wet, it drew a short sword and snarled.
And then the jetty collapsed.
Amidst a splintering of rotten wood, Felix, the ratman, and a dozen mutants were tipped into the water, skidding over the planking and slamming together into the crowded shallows. Felix came up gasping, only to be shoved back under. Claws sank into his scalp, his own blood dispersing to mingle with that of the bodies that scudded across the water’s surface. His mouth filled with silt-laden water and he resisted the urge to cry out. The sounds of frantic swimmers rushed through the water. Oars pounded the surface like drums over a chittering undercurrent. Air streaming from his lips, Felix beat at the paw
that held him under. His blows were clumsy and slow. Then, remembering his sword, he slid it up through the foul creature’s belly. Its hold slackened.
The distant murmur of battle rushed nearer as he resurfaced with a gasp.
Water streamed between the links in Felix’s mail. He hungrily sucked in another breath. The water around him was littered with bits of wood, with bodies, its surface slicked with blood. The skaven had pursued the surviving mutants onto the bank. Screams were coming from everywhere. A pink glow was rising from the walls.
A hiss from behind made Felix spin.
The knife-rat leapt from its upturned skiff, its blade an extension of its own downward arc that stopped only against the angle of Felix’s sword. The creature squealed at the pain in its knife-paw, let the weapon fall and swiftly drew another. Water splashed around them as Felix countered, ripping a bloody strip through his foe’s black cloak. The creature snarled and dived.
Its tail thrashed once and then it was gone.
Felix circled on the spot, trying to control his breathing, to listen. But the cacophony from the beach and from the walls was too much. A chant carried over the clash of steel and the zip of bow cord.
‘Rivers of blood.’
His attacker did not break the gore-slickened surface. With any luck it had fled.
A child’s scream banished his thoughts of catching breath.
It had come from close by, from the bonfire that, by virtue of its eldritch nature, continued to burn. The area was littered with bodies, but these had fallen to the stampede rather to an enemy’s blade. Felix found his missing knife-rat stalking amongst them. He heard its tittered laughter and the scream came again, long and harrowing and painfully shrill.
Mori, Felix realised, already running.
The girl was still here.
And she had the Dark Master’s bones.
The wall heaved with bodies. Across a line no wider than the distance between two shields, mutated warriors on both sides hacked and strove and spat and roared. Nightmares of Chaos-blended flesh stamped over supposed allies to haul themselves onto the parapet to hammer the rank of shields with fists like lead. Claws shattered on shields. Hardened flesh and armour-like scales split before knives and spears. Bodies rolled down the sloping walls like the last fruit of a fire-ravaged tree.
‘Your lives mean nothing,’ Golkhan roared. ‘The Dark Master cares not for your pain.’ The champion’s daemonic steed stamped madly, dark eyes roving and hungry. ‘Morzanna!’ This last erupted from his visor as a screech of tormented steel.
‘Your will, black lord?’ said Morzanna, doing her utmost to ease her own beast’s dread
‘Bring down those walls or I will flay your hide right here and use your carcass to bard my steed!’
‘Even you would not dare.’
‘Your patron does not frighten me, witch. He is a means to an end. The end. I know his true name and I know he needs me more than I need either of you.’ Golkhan leaned forward. His daemonic mask snarled. ‘Lest we forget that he is the one in a cage.’
Morzanna bared her teeth, barbed enamel enough for fear and disbelief to share.
‘You are an ignorant fool.’
‘I am a champion of Be’lakor!’ Golkhan roared, loud enough for the defenders on the wall to hear, to clutch their ears and moan in horror. ‘He who serves no master.’ He swung his claymore to the walls. Warriors flickered through the fogged clearing, plumed helms and feathered crests, a riot of disorder as though the dead plain burned. ‘Sunder those walls for your champion. If you cannot, I am sure the shadow-bitch, Nosta, will do it gladly.’
Morzanna’s claws sank into the muscle of her horse’s neck. It whickered in pain, Morzanna’s face turning dark in the gust of shadow that ruffled both their hair.
‘Your will, black lord,’ she growled, power making her voice husky.
Golkhan’s steed edged back, nostrils flaring as its uncanny senses caught the flow of Dhar.
She cast both from her thoughts. Words dribbled from her lips, honeyed by dark magic. The din of battle sank like rainwater into parched earth, the pink torches turned grey, the sky dark. Through the Wind of Dhar she could feel Nosta, the arrogant waif throwing her witless strength against the gate. But there was another of power at work. She could see him like a cloud in the night sky. She traced the shimmering path of his efforts to a tower where a man knelt. He was in agony. Blood streamed from his hands from his efforts to annul her casting. Men stood around him releasing a hail of quarrels but they were small, dim things. She focused on the tortured mage. With a single word she could break him, paste his brains across the roof of that tower. The word was on her tongue, but a child’s sentiment would not let her speak it. No matter.
Skill alone would not suffice against one twice forsaken by the gods.
Terrified beyond restraint, Morzanna’s steed reared, fore hooves flailing as it tossed its head from side to side. Morzanna’s claws dug deeper into its neck. Blood streamed. Dhar always required sacrifice, even to one – particularly to one – as far down the road as she. With a wild snort, the horse smashed its hooves to the ground. The earth beneath them split, cracks spidering outward in chaotic patterns. Morzanna hissed a word and dark energies spiralled from her bloodied claws to tighten around the horse’s neck like a noose. It gave a strangled snort, power spreading into its shoulders, its fetlocks, its hooves. It continued to stamp.
The earth gave a calamitous groan.
Morzanna set her sight upon the guard tower. Bolts spat from its turret like wasps disturbed by the flight of a dragon. She was not like the Pious. She was not. Her father was already dead. This was just sweeping away Magnus’s mess.
Golkhan watched, holding his breath, expression unreadable behind his mask.
Morzanna cradled the world in aethyric hands. She felt its bones creak.
And she twisted.
A sudden tremor passed through the township and under the gritty floodplain just as the ratman shaped itself to pounce. The quake tossed it from its feet and into the bonfire. It squealed and threw its arms above its head to cushion its fall, rolling clear in a fizz of sparks. A dozen strides too many down the shore, Felix was swept sideways, as though the earth had just been dragged six feet to the left. He landed on his chest, looked up to see the agile ratman rise first. The creature slapped down the little fires that burned through its rags and sniffed for the child. It found her hiding beneath a chair and hissed delight.
Felix snatched up his sword and rose with a roar, pounding up the gravel slope. He was too far away to save the child, he knew that, but perhaps the distraction would grant him the time he needed.
As he had hoped, the skaven turned around at Felix’s yell. Its muzzle peeled back to a mocking snarl, then snapped brutally sideways as something struck it from behind. It fell in a slack heap and behind it, beaten purple by the stampede, stood a man.
He lowered his fist and, swaying slightly, looked down on the unconscious creature.
‘And Sigmar made unto them a wall of steel…’
A smoky nimbus flickered around Brüder Nikolaus. The words were his but the voice was not, at least not entirely. Felix examined his own fingers, looking for a similar shadowy creep, but there was nothing.
The shaking ground made the flagellant fall to his knees before Mori’s hiding place. The blood on his knuckles was bubbling down to green vapour and he wiped the residue on his sackcloth kilt before extending the hand to the girl. She stared at it, flinching further as Felix appeared from behind the fire.
Felix raised his hands and backed off, trying to look unthreatening. Nikolaus whispered something Felix could not hear and pushed his hand forwards. The girl hesitated a moment, then reached forward to take it. Nikolaus reacted with a beatific smile and pulled her free.
Felix took a deep breath, not knowing when he would get another chance, and looked to the walls. They held, but Die Körnung was being shaken to its sodden roots, decades of fortification and repair comi
ng loose in minutes to batter the street with rock, wood, and filth. Even through the fog, Felix could see the cracks that were spreading through the walls.
‘Nikolaus,’ Felix hissed. ‘Can you protect Mori for me?’
‘White lady,’ Nikolaus murmured, then looked to Felix as if realising for the first time that he was not alone in some dream. ‘Sigmar empowers the weak, he inspires the strong.’
‘Good,’ said Felix. He grasped the man’s shoulder and stood, swaying with the shaking earth. ‘Take her, take those bones, and get out of here. Take one of those boats; just whatever you do don’t take her across the water.’
‘And how will you serve, Brüder Arnulf?’
Felix shook his head and turned away. It had been too much to hope that the man was lucid. At least he could tell friend from foe.
‘I’ll be at the wall.’
Magic shrouded Morzanna’s eyes in darkness, her body now little more than a conduit for the primeval fury of the Dark Master. She blazed with power, and with a pain commensurate. Blood slicked her hands and lathered her animal’s neck. The destrier pounded the earth with every fading ounce of strength.
The rock beneath her wrenched apart, as though gods played tug-of-war for their share. Morzanna lifted one shadow-bound hand, pointed to her father’s tower and screamed a word of power. With a shuddering that plunged deep into the earth’s heart, one of the disseminating fissures widened, the ground before it falling away. The ruins before her cracked in two, piling rubble and screaming men into the opening abyss like gravel tipped from a spade. The earth continued to tear. It reached the wall.
The wall could not stop it.
The scream of stone blended to that of men, a single outcry of terror as earth became air and together they fell.
Breathing hard, Morzanna watched the wall crumble, destruction reaching out its claws to drag more of the construction into the gaping trench. She had missed the tower.
By accident or unconscious design.
She clung on as her exsanguinated steed shuddered and died, but Morzanna’s claws were sunk so deeply into its neck that she could no longer see her knuckles and she remained secure in the saddle.