The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  Feathers. It was feathers that were moving on the wooden stakes, crows mainly and the odd raven. Carrion birds, just as Brand had said.

  When Lenkmann realised what they concealed, he retched too and only just held on to his breakfast. In the valley below the rise, Captain Stahler stepped out from the Middenlanders and fired his pistol into the air. The birds scattered, a living carpet of darkness sent fleeing by the report of blackpowder, to reveal the corpses of eight road wardens. The men were obviously dead and horrifically picked at by the carrion crows. Every one had red-rimed sockets where their eyes should be. The eyes were always the first to go: easy meat, full of nourishment and quick to reach for snapping beaks. The dark cavities that remained seemed to go on forever as if the manner of such a death had condemned these poor men to eternal torture in limbo. A wooden crossbar bisected the upright stake, and the road wardens’ arms had been hung over them to look like gruesome scarecrows. The irony of their appearance was not lost on Karlich. If anything, the corpses had enticed the hungry birds.

  Thick, crude iron spikes had been hammered into the men’s torsos, some even in the groin; the wrists and ankles too. Their skin was flayed in places, their bodies opened up by a ragged blade just below the stomach so that their entrails spilled out like so much offal. Karlich hoped that this last torture had been done after death, and heard Masbrecht mutter a prayer to Sigmar at the sight of such degradation.

  ‘Bring axes!’ A weary-looking Captain Stahler called from the base of the valley. ‘Cut them down… cut them all down.’

  Militiamen came with axes, and together with volunteers from both the Reikland and Middenland regiments, the dead road wardens were cut down. Baggage train trenchers and sappers dug shallow graves alongside the Aver, just deep enough to keep casual predators away, and the men were laid to rest. Masbrecht said a few words over the corpses, as the army possessed no priest. Rechts was absent from the short ceremony.

  After that, the Empire army carried on their way. On the flat Averland plain the village was still visible, despite the smoke wreathing it like a funeral veil. The same stench that had emanated off the poor road wardens was coming from there too.

  The village’s name was Blösstadt. At least that’s what the fire-blackened sign lying before the broken gate and shattered stockade wall said. Furriers, smiths, farmers and muleskinners had all lived here once, venturing out to ply their trades and wares on market days in the nearby towns. No anvil sound rang upon a breeze, foetid and rank with decay; no horses whinnied, nor did their hooves clack against the cobbled village square as they were led to market; no voices came at all as the Grimblades passed through the gate and into a scene of utter destruction.

  It was as quiet as his father’s mortuary, or so Masbrecht thought, levelling his halberd warily at every shadow. The quietude was unsettling, almost unnatural, and he was glad he wasn’t alone. Eber and Volker had joined him as he walked towards the village square, a gravel road to guide them. A strange drone pricked at his left ear and he waggled a finger in it experimentally to see if he could shift it. Then he saw the first of the bodies and realised the drone came from the flies buzzing around it, feeding off death.

  ‘Parasites!’ he raged, rushing over to the bloodied body of a farmhand and trying to shoo the flies away.

  Volker gripped Masbrecht’s arm firmly before he got too far.

  ‘Keep it quiet,’ he hissed. ‘No telling what we’ll find here and I’d rather find it before it finds me. Understand?’

  Masbrecht nodded, and Volker let him go. The scout patted his arm where he’d seized it. ‘Sorry, Pruder,’ he said, calling the other soldier by the name his mother had given him. ‘Just be mindful.’

  After that they continued their slow advance into the village, the flies returned to their putrid feast.

  On the other side of the village, losing sight of Volker’s group each time they passed one of the large stable yards that Blösstadt had used for its horses, Varveiter led Brand and Rechts along the inner side of the stockade wall. They too found bodies, human and mutilated cattle. So far, they had also seen no sign of life.

  ‘Quiet, but not peaceful,’ muttered Rechts. He had his drum slung to one side and a drawn short sword in his fist.

  ‘Aye,’ hissed Varveiter in reply. The old soldier had seen villages ravaged before, by bandits, beastmen and orcs as well, but this looked different somehow. ‘It’s the stillness of the dead, a feeling the living, at least the right-minded of them, can’t abide.’

  He let Brand move ahead. The other halberdier was silent too. He knew the feeling Varveiter was talking about, he’d known it many times, and here in Blösstadt it put him on edge.

  Karlich was approaching the lookout post, a small hill near the middle of the village. There were the remains of a watchtower at the crest of the rise. The corpse of a milkmaid hung slackly over its damaged palisades, doubtless seeking refuge when the greenskins came or trying to bring a warning to her kith and kin. She’d probably known it was a lost cause, but she’d done it anyway. Karlich wondered if she was pretty under all that blood and matted hair.

  The watchtower was unsafe to climb, but the hill itself offered a reasonable vantage point from which to view the rest of Blösstadt. The huntsmen Captain Stahler had sent in ahead, while he remained outside the village with the rest of the army, had reached the inn and hovels at the village’s southern end. They moved through the narrow lanes with their bows held low but nocked and ready. Nearby there were several hay barns, locked and shuttered. Farther still, Karlich made out a small mill, a waterwheel just dipping into a shallow stream that bisected Blösstadt into two uneven portions. The Grimblades took the larger east section, whilst the smaller regiment of Middenlander Steel Swords took the west.

  Karlich caught Sturnbled’s eye as he led one patrol. The northerner returned his gaze without expression and then looked away. The Reiklander was glad that the stream kept the two regiments apart. The bad feeling between them had surfaced quickly but would be slow to submerge again, if at all. Where the stream broke the village in two, the Reikland and Middenland patrols did overlap, however.

  Somewhere in the distance a dog was yelping. In the abject silence, its presence startled Volker before he realised what it was. He followed the noise to an outdoor privy, the handle tied shut to the doorframe with a length of fraying rope. The poor mutt’s wailing awoke something in Volker and he made for the privy at once, crossing the stream and wetting his boots to do so.

  ‘Volker, where are you going?’ asked Masbrecht. ‘What happened to keeping quiet?’

  ‘A creature is in distress, maybe hurt,’ Volker replied, not looking back but forging on instead, ‘and I intend to rescue it quietly.’

  Masbrecht turned to Eber for support, but the big Reiklander merely shrugged and went after Volker.

  A few feet from the privy and the blond-bearded Torveld came into view, together with another Middenlander called Wode and Sergeant Sturnbled just behind them.

  ‘What have we here…’ said Torveld, slashing open the privy with his dagger. The door flew open almost at once as the burly Middenlander was pitched off his feet by a sudden rush of fur and fangs. The dog was a brutish and well-muscled mastiff. It had black fur and a tan leather eye patch over its right eye with a single stud in lieu of an iris. The beast growled and took a nip at Torveld but did very little damage, before bounding off the Middenlander and growling a warning at the strange-smelling men in its village.

  ‘Little bastard…’ snarled Torveld, his pride more wounded than his skin. He bundled to his feet, retrieving the dagger he’d dropped when the mastiff had sprung out at him. ‘I’ll gut you!’

  ‘Leave the dog alone,’ warned Volker calmly. ‘It’s just scared.’ He approached the mastiff, which was now shivering with anger and fear, and when he was only a few feet away, crouched down to his knees.

  The crack of a pist
ol’s flintlock arrested his attention from the dog. Sturnbled had drawn and was levelling the weapon at the mastiff.

  ‘It’s rabid,’ declared the Middenlander sergeant, his arm arrow-straight as he aimed down a small, round sighter at the end of his pistol’s barrel. Froth was spilling from the mastiff’s jaws, and ran off its chin to pool on the ground.

  ‘The poor beast has dry-mouth, it’s not rabid, you idiot,’ replied Volker. Ignoring Sturnbled, he cupped his hands to draw water from the stream and offered it to the mastiff. Wary at first with the rest of the soldiers looking on, the beast padded up to Volker, sniffed at the air around him and then started lapping at the stream water. It was thirsty and went back several more times as Volker fetched more. By the third time, the Reikland hunter was patting the mastiff’s forehead and stroking its muzzle. After he’d smoothed down its flanks and given it a strip of salted pork from his trail rations, Volker stood up.

  ‘See. Not rabid, just hungry and thirsty. As you would be if you’d been locked up in there for days.’

  ‘More like hours,’ snarled Torveld, gesturing towards the nearby corpse of a blacksmith. Volker wondered briefly if it had been the man’s dog. ‘The blood here is still fresh.’

  ‘How fresh?’ asked Masbrecht, a note of concern in his voice.

  Torveld rounded on him. ‘Like I said, Reikland sop, a few hours.’

  Masbrecht still pressed. ‘How fresh exactly?’

  A foul stink pervaded the air suddenly like corpse gas escaping from the recently dead.

  ‘Draw your swords…’ Sturnbled told his men, then looked directly at Wode. ‘Find Hallar, have him signal the others.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Eber, scanning the middle distance.

  ‘We didn’t meet the greenskins on the road…’ answered Volker, the mastiff at heel beside him but growling.

  ‘And? So what? I thought that was a good thing.’

  ‘We didn’t meet them on the road because they are still here. Look!’

  Now Eber saw them, two orcs attempting to creep up on them, using a narrow tethering pole to hide behind despite their obvious bulk. It was ludicrous, but then they were greenskins. They weren’t alone.

  A garbled scream came from up ahead. It was one of the huntsmen.

  Varveiter had lost Brand when he’d disappeared into the ruined shack. A few minutes earlier, they’d heard something coming from the ramshackle abode a few feet ahead of them, one of a small clutch of three arranged in a half circle. The laconic Reiklander had glanced at Varveiter, signalling his intent to investigate, before jogging ahead and then into the shack.

  Rechts had wanted to go after him, but Varveiter had made him stall.

  ‘Let him check it first,’ the old soldier had told him.

  Rechts looked nonplussed.

  ‘He’s quieter than you or me,’ Varveiter explained. ‘If there’s danger he’ll find it, and if he can’t kill it he’ll come running.’

  They were both standing at the threshold to the shack. The door was off its hinges with more than one axe hole in the wood. Less a door and more a shattered window now.

  ‘Easy…’ whispered Varveiter, using his polearm to ease the door remnants open a fraction. Cold, harsh light spilled in from the outside reluctantly as if afraid to enter. Bare wood and bloodstains were revealed. Varveiter looked back at Rechts. The drummer’s eyes were wide and his knuckles white where he gripped his short sword too tightly. His attention back on the door, Varveiter blew out a calming breath and took a step inside.

  Slowly scanning the shadows, he found Brand crouched motionless in the corner of the shack’s single room. A small pottery cauldron was upturned in the centre; spilled broth washed the floor like vomit, mingling with the blood. There were two beds, the thin sheets and sacking mattress dark with vital stains. Bodies lay unmoving in both. Varveiter counted five in total but couldn’t tell if they were male or female because of the darkness and the blood. Another body was strewn on the floor, a cleaver blade still wedged in its back. From the build, it looked like a man. A woodcutting axe lay a few inches from his grasping fingers. He too was dead. The woman mewling quietly before Brand was not.

  Varveiter went to his fellow Grimblade whilst Rechts watched the door nervously. His hands were shaking a little, and not just from delirium tremens.

  ‘Merciful Sigmar…’ Varveiter breathed as he took a knee beside Brand. He grimaced from the pain in his thigh but took care not to let it show.

  Brand was holding the woman’s hand. It looked limp and pale like a dying fish. She appeared incoherent, on the verge of death. Doubtless, she’d seen her family butchered by the greenskins and it had deranged her.

  ‘They stood no chance,’ uttered Brand without emotion.

  ‘Poor bastards.’

  The woman opened her eyes, a jerk of nervous energy impelling her. Whether she’d snapped into lucidity briefly or Varveiter’s words had brought her around, it was impossible to tell. Her mouth started moving, but she could form no words because she had no tongue. Blood trickled down the edges of her mouth and Brand dabbed it carefully with his tunic sleeve. The dying woman’s eyes widened and she appeared desperate to speak. A waft of something unpleasant drifted through the doorway, like spoiled meat and dung.

  ‘Shit…’ hissed Varveiter, recognising the signs and getting to his feet. ‘Out of the house,’ he said, then louder. ‘Get out of the house!’

  Placing his hands almost lovingly upon the woman’s cheeks, her slowly nodding as he did it, Brand broke her neck with a savage twist to end her suffering. Varveiter was limping for the door, calling to Rechts. Brand followed them out into the gloomy day and saw the greenskins that he already knew were there.

  It all happened terrifyingly fast. One moment they were scouting through the village, picking past corpses and the ruins of burnt buildings, the next the greenskins were upon them. Karlich saw the ambush unfold from the summit of the lookout point. In truth, it was poorly executed. Several orcs sought to hide by lying down under paltry scraps of hay. Others merely stood still, buckets over their heads. The goblins showed more cunning. They at least stayed out of sight, closing off escape routes when bands of scouts spotted the orcs easily. The poor huntsmen were the first to die. Three made it from the area around the inn but didn’t get far. As they emerged into the street, goblin archers put several arrows in each Reiklander’s back. The charging orcs that followed, trussed in chainmail and wielding cleavers, cut down the injured. Karlich saw one man, the brave youth who’d spoken out against the Middenlanders at the camp, crawling for some cover before a blade struck him in the back and he was still. His murderer snarled and roared in exultation of its kill before barrelling on after its rampant kin.

  Throughout the entire village, orcs and goblins were emerging from concealed positions, out of hovels, from hay bales, even underneath piles of corpses. The stench of the dead had masked their scent, but now it drenched the air like a contagion. The Empire troops had sprung the ambush early, thanks mainly to the stupidity of the orcs. It gave the soldiers precious minutes to prepare.

  Brutish and wild, their porcine faces studded with rings and nuggets of iron, the orcs were a fearsome sight. Karlich had fought the beasts before. Easily the equal of a man, he knew orcs to have tough skin like leather and almost unbreakable skulls. He had even seen one studded with arrows, its left arm severed at the shoulder, still fight on and kill two more men before it was brought down. Orcs lived to fight and as a consequence were very good at it.

  Goblins followed in their wake. Smaller and weaker, goblins possessed a low cunning and if anything were more malicious than orcs. It was not unknown for goblins to torture the victims of their raids, exacting the cruelty they suffered at the hands of their orcish brethren upon the poor humans at their mercy. Essentially, they were cowardly creatures, but revelled in hurting anything smaller or weaker than them
selves.

  ‘Lenkmann, raise the banner and rally the rest of the men to this point,’ said Karlich, heading for the watchtower.

  ‘Some of the others on the east side of the village may not see it,’ offered Keller quickly. ‘Should I go and warn them, sergeant?’

  Karlich paused to think: Brand, Varveiter and Rechts were on the eastern side. ‘Do it,’ he said quickly, ‘but be careful. The greenskins are everywhere.’

  Keller nodded and sped off.

  Lenkmann looked to his sergeant as he threw open the door to the watchtower. ‘And what will you be doing, sir?’

  ‘Signalling reinforcements. If Stahler doesn’t get in here quick, we are all dead men,’ Karlich said and raced inside, the door banging shut behind him.

  Karlich had his shield strapped on his back and was able to take the watchtower steps two at a time with his sword drawn. He reasoned the villagers had made them close together so children or women could also ‘garrison’ the tower as required. There was no blood on the steps and they were largely intact despite the damage.

  The wood creaked ominously with his every footfall though, magnified by the silence inside the tower. By the time Karlich neared the top, the tremors of battle sounded on the breeze: the clash of steel, the shouts of men and the roar of beasts. He knew he had to gather the regiment quickly. His men were spread too thin around Blösstadt. Without regimental coherency, the greenskins would pick them off without a fight, but he needed Stahler and the rest of the army even more.

  His mind was racing as he burst through the trapdoor that led to the tower’s parapet, so much so that he didn’t see the goblin lurking in the shadows waiting for him. Hot agony seared Karlich as a ragged blade stabbed into his breastplate, glanced off and scraped rib bone at his side. The wound quickly became wet with blood, but the armour had saved his life. Not expecting its prey to survive, the goblin was on the back foot when Karlich stabbed it in the throat. The greenskin died, gurgling blood. Kicking it from his path, Karlich moved further onto the parapet. He spared a glance for the slain milkmaid hanging over the palisade like a red, rag doll and was tempted to pull her down for the sake of her dignity but knew there wasn’t time. Instead, he went straight for the watchtower’s warning bell. Sheathing his sword, Karlich yanked on the clapper so hard he almost pulled the bell from its yoke. A warning ring pealed over Blösstadt, carrying to every part of the village and beyond.