The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  ‘There’s one last thing,’ said the general, curtly.

  Rathmor waited. He knew what was coming, but Esselman would at least have to ask him outright.

  ‘The infernal machine.’

  Still Rathmor didn’t reply.

  ‘I know it’s ready,’ continued Esselman, his voice failing to hide a note of urgency. ‘You told me yourself. Tell me where it is. I’ll have a gunner assigned to it. They’ll break against it like rain on the hills.’

  Rathmor stayed unresponsive for a moment longer, but then his resolve failed. It was only a matter of time. He couldn’t keep it safely stowed forever. This wasn’t the proper moment for it, but the situation was difficult. He could hardly deny the man his tools now.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, turning to face Esselman and fixing him with as stern a look as he could generate. ‘You can take it out. There are men in my retinue who know how to power it. If you truly need it to guarantee victory, that is. But I’d planned to unleash them all together. Alone, the infernal machine can cause havoc. In formation, they will be unstoppable.’

  Esselman nodded. That was as close to thanks as he was ever going to get.

  ‘It must be deployed now. They have the advantage of numbers. We need to break it.’

  Rathmor looked back over the sea of men below. It looked like a tide of darkness, ready to wash against the foundations of the citadel. Much as he hated to see his beloved creations sent out prematurely, he couldn’t help but suppress a smile at the thought of the carnage they would wreak.

  ‘I’ll come down with you. You will have your precious machine on the field in moments. Who knows? I may even join you out there. It’s been too long since I tasted the aroma of blood on the air.’

  The two men turned and walked back from the balcony. They disappeared into the tower behind, and the great doors were slammed shut. Far above them, the death’s-head standard fluttered once, caught by the wind, and then hung still.

  Thorgad had gone. The dwarf could not be restrained, and had charged down the slope into the thick of the fighting. Even over so many other sounds, Magnus could just about hear him. His strange battle cries were like no other shout from the field. The engineer couldn’t suppress a faint smile. Dwarfs were irritating and irritable in roughly equal measure, but they were peerless fighters.

  He looked over his shoulder. The artillery pieces had been dragged forwards into their new firing positions. Hildebrandt had taken control of the longer-range pieces, and was already goading the crews to reload. Magnus turned away. That was no longer his job. He was with the handgunners. In a close melee, they were the ones to turn the battle.

  ‘Form up!’ he cried. The two detachments of Hochland handgunners under his direct command responded quickly. They were getting better.

  The regiments were a few dozen yards from the press of the fighting. The battle was evenly poised. The enemy sortie had prevented the attackers from reaching the gates, but they had been unable to break through Scharnhorst’s lines. Now the Hochland army had pinned the defenders back, and the hand-to-hand combat stretched in a long line before the citadel walls. For the moment, it was a stalemate. The conflict was ferocious, but it had yet to resolve one way or the other.

  Some of the handgunners had already charged into the fray, dragged into it by their enthusiasm and foolish captains. That was not the way to conduct ranged battle. The guns were only effective at a distance, and could only bring their power to bear in coordinated volleys. The key was discipline.

  ‘Keep together men!’ bellowed Magnus, and looked down the lines of gunners severely. ‘Fire, advance, then fire again. Any man who gets out of line will have me to answer to! And pick your targets. It’s a mess out there.’

  He raised his hand, and the gunners lifted their weapons to their shoulders. At the edge of their range, the boiling mass of fighting men struggled. It was hard to make out who was who. Then there was a break, and a contingent of Anna-Louisa’s troops charged towards them. They were dressed in the black livery of the citadel, and were armed with swords and axes.

  Magnus smiled. Fodder for his guns.

  ‘Fire!’ he cried, and there was a instant rolling crack along the lines.

  Shot spun into the advancing attackers, felling a dozen instantly. The charge broke, and some even turned back.

  ‘Reload!’ shouted Magnus. ‘Hold your positions! Quicker, you dogs!’

  The men struggled to replace their shot. They were faster at it than they had been in the mountains, but still far off perfection. Anna-Louisa’s men rallied, and the braver attackers started to advance again.

  ‘Fire when ready!’ said Magnus, seeing the danger. The gap was closing fast, and he drew his sword in readiness.

  With a rippling series of detonations, the guns fired again. Their aim was good. The entire front rank of the oncoming troops collapsed in on itself. Men fell to the ground, legs cut from under them or torsos punctured. That was enough to break their spirit. The unit splintered, and began to stumble backwards.

  ‘Do not run!’ yelled Magnus, seeing some of the younger gunners eager to pursue. ‘March forward, then fire on my mark!’

  In a single, unbroken line of green and red, the Hochland men advanced, their guns held high. The enemy was melting away. There was no answer to the volley of concentrated fire. Nothing, not even the raving hordes of Chaos, could stand up to a properly commanded gun-line.

  ‘Cease marching!’ cried Magnus. ‘Reload, and fire at will!’

  The men applied more shot, and once more their deadly iron was unleashed. The solid core of handgunners became an island of order within the sea of confusion around them. Allied troops latched on quickly, and protective detachments were formed on their two flanks. The enemy attempted to charge again, but once more the withering fire cut them down yards before their goal. They advanced again. Once more, the defenders fell back.

  Magnus stepped back from the lines of gunners, satisfied with his handiwork. They continued to advance without him. He ran back up a shallow incline over to his left to get a better view of the battle around him. Some of the halberdiers from Halsbad’s company had withdrawn from the heaviest fighting, and were doing the same.

  ‘Going well, eh?’ said Magnus, almost beginning to enjoy himself.

  One of Halsbad’s troops looked at him coldly. He had a jagged cut on his left arm, and his face and neck were splattered with blood. The close-combat troops were seldom friendly with those who delivered death at a distance.

  ‘There’s going to be another push,’ the man said. ‘Scharnhorst’s throwing the reserves in.’

  Magnus shaded his eyes, and looked out over the plain. The enemy was being pushed back on all fronts. The Knights of the Iron Sceptre could be seen in the very thick of it. None were standing against them. Anna-Louisa’s men were better armed and equipped, but they were outnumbered. Far over on the left flank, Scharnhorst’s reserves were indeed mustering behind the disorganised ranks of flagellants. Magnus could see what was happening. When the signal was given, they would charge through their own men, their movements shielded by the shrieking fanatics in front of them. If it worked, it would break the enemy’s far flank altogether. Magnus looked over to Scharnhorst’s command group, safely removed from the fighting and standing clustered on a ridge behind the reserve companies. The trumpets were being raised. A thrill of anticipation passed through him.

  The signal never came. As if to pre-empt Scharnhorst’s manoeuvre, a tremendous roll of drums suddenly burst from the citadel. Fresh troops poured from the shattered gates. These looked like nothing Magnus had ever seen. They were clad in armour like knights, but the plates were dark and ornate. The helmets were carved in the likeness of the death’s head, bone-white and gruesome. They carried huge double-bladed halberds, which they swung around them as they advanced. Unlike the ordinary troops, they didn’t charge into battle, but
advanced steadily and in formation. Magnus squinted to try and get a better look. They looked formidable.

  But they were only the honour guard of what was to come. From behind them, a monster emerged. Huge plumes of ink-black smoke wreathed its passage. Six iron wheels churned the ground beneath it. Three tall ironbound chimneys belched vapours. The death’s head was inscribed on its forward armour, etched in ivory against a black background. In front of its tall, curved fore-armour, massive iron spikes rose up cruelly. On every side, heavy plates had been riveted, inuring it to harm. As it rolled forward, a few arrows and shot clattered harmlessly from its flanks. More smoke billowed upwards as it laboured. Troops on both sides gaped at it open-mouthed. The momentum in Scharnhorst’s men suddenly flagged. A ragged cheer rose from Anna-Louisa’s.

  Its progress was slow, like an insect steadily crawling towards its target. But Magnus immediately saw the danger. There was nothing on the battlefield to hurt it. It was smaller than the famed steam tanks of da Miragliano, but not that much. He had seen the devastation caused by one of those things many years ago. What was worse, there was something horribly familiar about the design of the war machine.

  ‘Rathmor,’ Magnus breathed, hardly daring to utter the words. ‘Could it be?’

  The machine ground its way forwards. No horse would come near it. Men fell back before it, unsure how to attack it. In their confusion, the dark-armoured halberdiers advanced unfought. A wedge was being driven between the attackers’ forces. Heartened by the new arrival, Anna-Louisa’s men renewed their attack. Scharnhorst’s men, by contrast, were suddenly consumed with doubt. The charge of the reserves was halted. The knights rode back, rallying men around them as they did so.

  Magnus suddenly realised he was standing transfixed, like so many others. He shook himself free of stupor, and ran down the rise, over to where Hildebrandt was frantically trying to aim his guns at the approaching behemoth.

  ‘Have you seen that thing before?’ Magnus said, urgently.

  Hildebrandt, busy with fuses and quadrants, looked back irritably.

  ‘Now isn’t the time, Magnus,’ he muttered. ‘We need to take it out.’

  ‘It’s Heinz-Willem Rathmor’s,’ said Magnus with certainty, looking back at the machine grimly. ‘We worked on it together. It’s his Blutschreiben. He finished it. By Morr, he finished it.’

  Hildebrandt brushed past him, a heavy round cannonball in his hands.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said, loading it into one of the iron-belchers. ‘I don’t care what you two worked on at Nuln, and I don’t care what that thing is. We need to stop it.’

  Magnus felt the blood draining from his face. It was getting closer.

  ‘You can’t,’ he murmured. ‘I know how it’s built. We’ve got nothing to touch it.’

  ‘Then get out of the way!’ cried Hildebrandt. ‘We’ve got to try.’

  Magnus stepped back. Hildebrandt lit the fuse on the cannon.

  ‘Fire at will!’ the big man cried. ‘Target the machine!’

  His cannon, the largest they still had in operation, detonated. The iron shaft slammed back against its braces, and the chassis quivered. The shot was sent high and fast. Hildebrandt was a good aim. But cannons were not designed to hit precision targets. The ball thudded into a cluster of men advancing to the right of the infernal machine. They were scattered in all direction, stone and gore flying high from the impact and tearing a hole in the enemy formation. A good result. Not good enough.

  More guns blazed. Rockets spiralled in on the creeping tank, mortars peppered its road, Helblasters launched volley after volley at its iron flanks. Some rounds hit. The monster shrugged them off, rocking slightly on its massive axles from the impact, but unhindered. Shrouded in smoke, it crawled on. Even the craters placed in its path by the cannons were no obstacle. Agonisingly, going at a slower pace than a man’s walk, it kept coming, driving inexorably into the heart of the battle, striking the attackers down with fear and instilling new resolve into Anna-Louisa’s hordes.

  ‘Here it comes,’ said Magnus, feeling hollow. ‘It’s moving into range.’

  As it did so, two of the heavy iron panels at the front of the machine were drawn back. Just as had happened on the citadel walls, two gun barrels were thrust from the gaps. They were heavy and ringed with bronze. Wolf’s heads had been carved over their mouths. From the gaps behind the muzzles, fresh smoke poured out, running down the sides of the tank and staining the ground as it came.

  All could see what was happening. Those in the path of the machine scrabbled to race backwards. Formations were broken, and counter-charges were halted. The war machine halted. From its rear, bracing rods were extended. There was the sound of something being ignited.

  Magnus threw himself to the ground. With a roar of fire, Rathmor’s infernal engine let loose. Volleys of grape seared through the air. The twisted metal spun and bounced along the ground, slicing through limbs, armour and mounts. It fired again. A great channel opened up before it, cleared of men by the scourging power of its two cannons.

  The retreat became a rout. Hildebrandt trained more guns on it. None were capable of breaking the heavy armour. The knights attempted to outflank it, perilously extending themselves by charging into the implacable armoured bodyguard on either side. They were repelled with losses.

  Hildebrandt had joined Magnus on the ground. He looked shaken.

  ‘Any suggestions?’ he said.

  Magnus poked his head up above the dirt. The machine was advancing again. On either side of it, Anna-Louisa’s men were swarming around, preventing attack from close quarters.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before it heads this way,’ Magnus said, grimly. ‘Let’s use these guns while we’ve got them. Who knows? We might get a lucky shot.’

  The two men sprung up and raced back to the line of artillery. Some of the machines had been abandoned. An air of panic had settled over the whole army.

  ‘Get back to your positions, you fools!’ cried Magnus, feeling a dark sense of resolve return. The shock of seeing the design he was so familiar with emerge from nowhere was wearing off. There were many questions to be answered. Right now, they would have to wait. Survival was the first priority.

  The crews worked frantically to turn the heavy pieces around. The progress of the war machine was slow, but it still needed constant adjustment to keep up with. Gradually, the cannon barrels were trained on it once more. Wedges were driven under the wheels of the great guns, and master gunners took their last measurements. Time was running out. The infernal machine was closing. Even now its guns were turning in their direction.

  ‘Fire!’ cried Magnus. Despite himself, an echo of panic entered his voice. He could see the muzzles of the enemy guns train in on his position.

  The cannons roared. The remaining rockets were dispatched in a flurry of smoke and blackpowder. Dozens of Anna-Louisa’s men, advancing blithely in the lee of the war machine, were hurled to the ground, cut down by the hail of fire. The device itself was rocked, knocked back a yard by the ferocity of the rounds that hit. Some of the iron panels were knocked in, and one of the wheels shattered. Like a boxer reeling from a blow, the tank sagged in the ground.

  ‘Mother of Sigmar!’ exclaimed Hildebrandt. ‘We got it!’

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ said Magnus, his brow furrowed in confusion. ‘We can’t hit anything that hard.’

  He looked back over the ranks of Scharnhorst’s army. On the ridge behind the general’s position, a new shape had emerged. It looked just like Rathmor’s infernal engine, but without most of the armour cladding and decoration. It could have been designed from the same drawings, so similar was it in dimensions. There were only four wheels to the machine’s six, and much of the chassis looked jury-rigged and liable to fall apart at any time. The guns were hastily bolted-together shells of cannons, held in place by an artful scaffold of iron bars and braces.
Even more than Rathmor’s machine, the newcomer was shrouded in thick black smoke. Naked flames coursed from the rear, licking the copper piping and sending plumes of steam far into the air. As it came forward, it wheezed and rolled, drunkenly heading directly into the path of the armour-clad monster.

  ‘Messina!’ cried Magnus, at last realising what he’d been doing. His stomach lurched with horror. All at once, nightmares from the past and present were converging. ‘The madman! He’ll kill us all!’

  The flamboyant Tilean, exposed to the elements in his bare-bones contraption, took off his hat and waved it wildly over his head. Scharnhorst’s men stopped in their tracks. Some of them stood stupidly, as if startled by the end of the world. Others roared with relief and raced towards it. For a moment, the broadsides from the first tank halted. Messina brought the Blutschreiben forward. As it came, the whole structure groaned and shifted. It looked liable to collapse at any moment.

  ‘How did he–’ started Hildebrandt.

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ snapped Magnus, reaching into his jacket for the last of the blackpowder charges. ‘He’s doomed himself. But it’ll give us the diversion we need. Gather the handgunners. We’ll need to finish that monster off ourselves.’

  Rathmor’s war machine was turning, away from the ineffective lines of artillery and towards its new challenger. Like two great bulls, they squared up to one another.

  Somehow, Messina was able to fire first. His two mighty gun barrels blazed. The whole shell of the tank rocked back, and several minor components spun into the air, knocked loose by the discharge. The volley hit home. Rathmor’s tank was blasted sideways again. More of the iron panels were gouged inward, and several were ripped free altogether. The men around the tank were driven from it by the remorseless power of the impact. They scattered like children. The entire battle became focussed on the duel between the iron machines.

  Magnus and Hildebrandt pulled together all the gunners who remained close to hand. The melee before them had become confused as companies from both armies scrabbled to get out of the way. Most of the enemy troops close to Rathmor’s tank had been driven off, and the way through to the infernal engine was no longer barred.