by Warhammer
He raised a wicked double-headed axe in his right hand and the horde stopped, spreading out to either side of him, falling silent at his command. Out and out they expanded, the warlord showing off the strength of his band before they attacked.
'Over a hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty, I guess.' Ven Boer said, no longer grinning.
'I reckon you're right.' Ruprecht said, turning to look over his shoulder at the crossbowmen.
Dulciatta Vianda raised his arm in acknowledgement and his crossbowmen brought their weapons to their shoulders. In the quiet, Ursula heard the bowmen behind her grunting as they notched arrows and pulled back on their longbows.
They loosed a ragged volley, red-flighted bolts and yellow-shafted arrows arcing into the air and down into the greenskins. Some of the missiles caught on shields, others missed, or hit the orcs but without effect. However, half a dozen of the greenskins fell to the ground and did not rise.
The orcs began their clamouring again, drums poundings, weapons clattering, their coarse yells filling the air. At another signal from their warlord, there was a single unified crash of drumbeats and a loud bellow, and the orcs began to advance, falling in behind their banners. Two more volleys of arrows and another flight of crossbow bolts sped over the shortening space between the two forces, leaving dead and writhing orcs on the roadside. The flagellants ahead of Ursula were hooting and hollering wildly, and without any warning, suddenly began to run up the road towards the greenskins, mouths frothing, whips and flails whirling over their heads.
'They'll be surrounded, cut down!' said Vorst, spitting on the ground.
'We must hold our ground!' said Ruprecht, grabbing the sailor as he started forward, hauling him back into line. 'If we can't fall back inside the wagons we're all dead.'
The orcs broke into a lumbering run as the flagellants hurled themselves headlong up the road, the greenskins opening up in front of them and circling wide. Shrieking and wailing, the apocalyptic cult members threw themselves towards the warlord who was shouting orders at his green-skinned rabble.
With a bellow of crude war cries and the crash of axes and cleavers, the orcs smashed into the flagellants, blades biting into flesh, smashing bone and dismembering the doomed maniacs. Unmindful of their dead brethren, the survivors tore back at the orcs, flails and whips lacerating dark green flesh, battering aside their skull-emblazoned shields. Those without any weapons bit and clawed at the orcs, to little avail, as the greenskins hammered home with blunt swords and jagged knives. More orcs joined the fight from the north side of the road, cleaving into the flagellants and trampling them beneath heavy hobnailed boots.
In a few more swift seconds, the first fight of the battle was over and the orcs swept onwards. Some of them lifted the bloody corpses of the flagellants above their heads, and one, still writhing in pain, was tied up to a banner pole by his own rags, a knife driven through his shoulder to pin him in place. The flagellant raged and struggled, blood flowing freely from his wounds, kicking and lashing out at the orcs beneath him, and then he fell silent, his bearded face dropping to his chest.
Freed from the chance of hitting their own allies, the bowmen and crossbowmen resumed shooting, concentrating their arrows and bolts on a group of orcs that were sweeping wide to the south, attempting to encircle their position. Faced with the unstopping storm of steel-tipped missiles, the orcs were falling in considerable numbers, half of them dead or wounded, and the advance faltered. A few more fell to the next volley and the orcs turned and began to race back up the hill, the twenty or so survivors desperate to get out of range of the murderous hail. The warlord bellowed in anger and pointed his axe at his standard bearer, who raised it high in the air and then dipped it, repeating the action three times.
At the signal, brash horn blasts sounded from the north, just beneath the crest of the hill. It was swiftly followed by a chorus of high-pitched shouts and long howls, and a moment later a dark wave swept rapidly over the hill.
'Wolf riders!' rasped ven Boer with a vicious grin. 'They owe me an eye!'
The wolf-mounted goblins raced down the hill, twisted spears held aloft, a banner made from a score of wolftails matted with blood held high at their centre. Their leader stood up in his saddle at their head, a scimitar pointing forwards, and gave a shrill shout, angling his blade eastwards.
A bang rang out from behind Ursula and a moment later the standard bearer was plucked from his saddle and fell beneath the claws of the galloping wolves. Another goblin stooped low and pulled free the downed standard, and the charge continued. Glancing over her shoulder, Ursula saw a puff of smoke surrounding one of the marksmen on the roof of the housewagon, quickly reloading his long handgun. The bowmen on the wagon line looked between the wolf riders racing around the perimeter and the orcs who were advancing at a jog down the road.
'The orcs, shoot the orcs!' Ruprecht shouted at them, pointing to the burly greenskins. The bowmen hesitated, but their leader, Ornost Fleik, gave a shout and they resumed their shooting at the muscle-bound warriors trampling towards them.
Muskets barked in quick succession as Hurlitzon and his company of handgunners opened fire on the goblins, the first volley scything through the wolf-riding greenskins, cutting down ten or more of their number. Their outflanking manoeuvre slowed, but their leader gave a shrill cry and they picked up pace again and turned towards the wagons, swiftly changing their direction of attack straight towards the handgunners, who were hastily reloading.
It was clear that they would not have time before the wolf riders were upon them.
The Black Company marched forward, advancing a few paces in time to the shouts of Leonard, their broadswords slapping at their backs, pistols couched over their shoulders. With another shout, they stopped and levelled their weapons at the fast-approaching goblins, and at their leader's command opened fire in a single volley. The air echoed with the crack of thirty pistols and a great plume of smoke rose up from their position as goblins were torn from their saddles by the bullets.
With one smooth motion, the Black Company holstered their pistols and drew their swords, a forest of sharpened blades flourished in the air. With cool discipline, the mercenaries then closed up into a three-rank formation and steadied themselves to meet the goblin charge.
The wolves howled and slavered as they closed, the goblins urging on their lupine mounts with the butts of their spears. In a wave of fur and spears, they fell upon the Black Company, wolves leaping and biting, iron-tipped spears driving into the bodies of the unarmoured swordsmen. As the first rank fell beneath the onslaught, the back ranks stepped forward, zweihanders slicing through the wolves and goblins in clean strokes, severing heads and limbs.
The impetus of their charge now dissipated, the goblins were ill-matched against the disciplined swordplay of the Black Company. It would only be a matter of time before they died or, more likely, fled.
Ursula didn't have time to see the Black Company's victory.
A thunderous roar from ahead snapped her attention back to the orcs in front of their position. Though considerably thinned by the merciless missile fire of the crossbows, the orcs still outnumbered the defenders. With their right flank still battling with the wolf riders, it was up to the Red Spear and the others to face the full force of the orc charge.
It began with the warlord and his boar riders. The ground trembled as the tusked beasts broke into a lumbering run, the road churned up into flying mud in their wake. The warlord held his axe over his head, the blade glittering dangerously, his wordless bellow displaying a set of fearsome fangs.
The soldiers of the Red Spear Company took a few paces forward and braced their demi-pikes against the ground. Beside Ursula, Ruprecht gripped his hammer in both hands and took a couple of practice swings, while ven Boer brought his sword up into a guard position. The ex-sailor, Vorst, drew the first of his many pistols and a shot rang out, but the ball whistled over the head of the charging orcs. Throwing the pistol aside, he drew another and fired
again, this time splintering the shield of one of the boarboys. Throwing that pistol aside, he continued to draw and fire, one hand on hip in the manner of a duellist, until a small pile of smoking pistols lay at his feet. His one-man fusillade had felled four of the orcs, but the others rushed on towards them.
Ursula could feel the ground trembling through the soles of her boots as the weighty boars closed in. Panic began to rise in her stomach and she held her sword with a shaking hand. I'm not a warrior, she told herself, what was I thinking? Her blade seemed thin and flimsy compared to the cleavers and spears of the onrushing greenskins, and yet felt uncomfortably heavy in her hand, the blade dipping towards the ground.
The boar riders pounded on and were now only twenty yards away. Ursula could see their glinting red eyes, the bloodstains on their weapons, and hear the panting grunts of their tusked mounts.
Gerhardt shouldered his way past ven Boer, who had positioned himself in front of the priest as a self-proclaimed bodyguard. The sellsword reached out to grab the wildfather, but the old man nimbly stepped out of his grasp and took a few paces forward to stand alone in front of the thundering orc charge.
Raising his hands above his head, he began to shout out in a tongue that none of the others could understand, Louda bobbing up and down feverishly on his shoulder. The orcs were only ten paces away now.
With a last triumphant yell, the wildfather threw his hands forward, fingers splayed wide.
The boars stopped in their tracks as if poleaxed, and Ursula later swore that the largest, ridden by the warlord, actually went cross-eyed, its pupils disappearing upwards. Brought to a sudden halt, the boars stumbled and fell, pitching their riders forward, some of them managing to cling on to their beastly steeds, many of them tossed into the mud of the road. The warlord was flung forwards and slipped sideways as the boar's legs crumpled beneath it, and he slid from the saddle onto his knees.
The others needed no prompting and charged forward past the wildfather, hammers, axes, cutlasses and falchions scything into the disorganised orcs. Ursula threw herself forwards as well, not really thinking, yelling a praise to Sigmar at the top of her voice.
She was confronted by a huge boar rider, who was picking up his long axe from the ground. The orc looked up at her, fingers curling around the haft of the axe, red eyes full of malice, toothed maw twisting in a bestial snarl. Ursula rammed the tip of her sword at the orc, aiming for its throat, but the blow went low and punctured its crude leather breastplate and stuck. As the orc rose to its feet, axe in hand, Ursula tightened her grip and wrenched the sword free. The orc swung its axe over its head, but Ursula reacted quickly, her light blade giving her the edge. She drew the tip across the orc's face, cutting across its blunt, upturned nose, and it howled in agony, dropping its axe in midswing. The green-skinned monster turned and lumped back into the press of bodies, trailing dark blood, its plaintive yowling swallowed by the fury of the combat.
Ruprecht swept his hammer left and right, cracking bones and crushing armour beneath the heavy swings. A cleaver swung towards his midriff and he blocked it with the handle of the axe, using the haft to push the blow aside and kicking out at the orc wielding it, sending it reeling back into the throng.
Ven Boer was cutting his way through the orcs with long strokes of his sword, severing limbs and biting into tough green flesh with every blow, swaying left and right between the clumsy counterattacks of the enemy. Ursula was mesmerised by his efficiency, his golden eye patch spattered with orc blood.
Suddenly, ven Boer was flung backwards, his torso parting from his legs in a crimson explosion of blood, the shattered remnants of his falchion spinning through the air.
The orc warlord strode through the gap, its bloodied axe held out in front of it, its iron armour drenched in the gore of the swordsman. Vorst threw himself at the greenskin leader, his cutlass point driving towards its face. The warlord batted the blow aside with its left arm, the blade scoring through the exposed flesh to leave a deep wound, but the orc was heedless of pain. In a single stroke of its double-headed axe, it cleaved Vorst from the shoulder to his abdomen in a spray of blood and splintered bone.
Ursula shrieked and fell to her knees, her sword tumbling from her numb fingers, as her whole body was swept with horror. Bile rose in her throat, and she choked as the shadow of the warlord fell over her. The axe swept down towards her and she froze.
Someone stepped in front of her and she saw something go spinning past her left ear spilling blood. Cursing and spitting, his hammer in his right hand, Ruprecht swung a back-handed blow into the warlord's face, smashing it clean in the jaw and sending it stumbling backwards.
The wildfather grabbed Ursula beneath the arms and dragged her clear, as Louda launched himself at the orc warlord, leaping nimbly up his arm and sinking his claws and fangs into the orc's mangled face. Ursula pulled herself free from Gerhardt's grip and lunged forward, snatching her sword from beneath the warlord before scrambling clear over the trampled mud and grass.
As she sat there panting, another rumbling and a glint of reflected sunshine to Ursula's left attracted her attention.
The freelances drove into the side of the orcs like a dagger, the hooves of their warhorses flailing, lance points punching through armour and flesh with deadly ease. Johannes led the charge, one bandaged arm in a sling, his lance in the other. With a crash like thunder the heavily armoured knights smashed through the nearest orcs, hurling them to the ground with the force of their charge. From behind came a triumphant shout as the Red Spears charged in as well, and it was only then that Ursula realised that the other orcs had joined the boar riders and surrounded them.
It seemed as if they had been fighting for an eternity but in truth it must have been less than a minute of desperate combat. As quickly as it had begun, the battle ended, the orcs fleeing from the counter-attack, the warlord stumbling away, snatching Louda from his face and crushing the weasel under his foot. The freelances continued after them, cutting down a few more and speeding their flight. The few remaining wolf riders had broken off from their fight with the Black Company and appeared to the east, threatening the knights' flank, forcing them to break off their pursuit.
Bloodied and wearied, the battered defenders watched the orcs disappear back over the hill, the freelances shadowing them at a safe distance. Gerhardt was gently cradling the still form of Louda in his arms, on his knees in the mud and the blood, rocking from side to side as if he were soothing a child. Ursula looked up at Ruprecht, who was standing just in front of her, hammer still held ready, his left arm hanging at his side, blood dripping from where the orc warlord's axe had sheared his hand off.
'You're hurt,' she said, realising as she spoke that it was a pointless thing to say.
Dazed, Ruprecht glanced over his shoulder at her and then followed her gaze to the bloodied stump of his wrist. He looked at the blood pouring from his ravaged arm and then back at Ursula, his face expressionless.
'Damn,' he said, a moment before fainting.
CHAPTER NINE
Dwarfs
Grey Mountains, Summer 1711
Thirty-two men had died fighting the orcs, and six more succumbed to their injuries in the four days that had passed since. The orcs had scattered after their defeat, but the freelances continued patrolling and early the previous day had reported that they had gathered again, and had been reinforced by another tribe, swelling their numbers to over two hundred. Lady Halste had urged the convoy to move on with all haste, yet their progress up the stony tracks of the Grey Mountains was slow.
Three of the carts had been turned into transport for the wounded, Ruprecht amongst them. For two days he had been stricken by a fever, but it had broken quickly, and Ursula was sure that her friend would live. The axeman, Keiner Soval, had heated the blade of one of his weapons and used it to cauterise the wound, Ruprecht's mad screams of pain digging into Ursula like knives as he did so. She had tended to the Talabheimer each day, changing the bandages on his stump
and feeding him the broth provided by the caravan's cooks to keep his strength.
The big man was weak though, his skin pale, his eyes ringed with fatigue, and Ursula rode on the wagon beside him, most of the time watching over him as he slept, other times talking gently to him when he was awake. Gerhardt had told her to get some sleep on the second night and had promised to watch over Ruprecht while she did so. She had refused at first, but eventually her tiredness had overcome her and Soval had carried her sleeping form back to the lady's housewagon at the wildfather's request.
The priest of Taal had disappeared into the wilds on the first day with Louda's remains, and the others assumed that he intended to bury his familiar. However, at nightfall he had returned, the weasel bounding along at his side as if nothing had ever happened. The people of the expedition had muttered to themselves, in awe of the wildfather. They steered clear of the weasel, though, as it rummaged around the encampment looking for scraps to scavenge.
Ursula was riding on the wagon with Ruprecht as the road wound its way under an arch of black rock, far above the forests of the Empire. Ahead and to the left and right, the high peaks of the Grey Mountains stretched up into the cloudy sky, their snowy tips disappearing from view. Small clusters of coniferous trees clung to the thin earth on the mountainsides, and game trails criss-crossed the wide track they were following. The ground was bare rock in many places, broken only by piles of boulders and small, twisted bushes. The tinkle of shallow streams winding their way down through the rock accompanied the screech of birds of prey as they soared overhead looking for food.
'How much further do you think we have to go?' Ursula said as she tightened the knot on Ruprecht's bandage.
'Two or three more days perhaps,' Ruprecht said with a wince. 'I've never travelled these lands, but Johannes has and he thinks that Karak Norn lies perhaps thirty more miles to the west.'