Pinioned to both halberds, the orc had little movement save to slash madly with its axe. Ducking one swing that tainted the air with the reek of old blood, Brand went around the creature’s blindside. He idly killed one of the goblins with a throwing knife—the other had run out of arrows—before pulling out his dirk and ramming it straight into the back of the orc’s skull. He needed to use both hands to make it penetrate. Varveiter grimaced in disgust as the blade point punched through the greenskin’s eye on the other side, rupturing it like a red grape. At last, he yanked out his halberd but the dead orc stayed upright affixed to Brand’s weapon. Together, all three men rolled the creature over and onto the ground.
When Brand had retrieved his weapons, he turned to Varveiter who was leaning on a horse trough and breathing heavily.
“You all right, Siegen?”
“Fine, lad. Go get that little bastard, before it fetches more of its kin.”
After loosing all of its shafts and seeing its fellows slain, the last goblin had fled further north into Blosstadt. The way ahead looked clear for now, most of the fighting sounded like it was happening across the stream on the other side of the village.
Brand nodded and started to jog in that direction. He was of the killing mind now; Varveiter saw the feral spark in his cold eyes. Rechts was about to go after him, when he decided to lag behind for the old soldier, who was gasping for breath.
Varveiter waved him on.
“Go! Make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”
Rechts looked at Varveiter then around the hovels at the bodies of man and greenskin. There were no enemies nearby.
“Be right behind us, old man.”
Varveiter scowled as only the curmudgeonly can but caught the note of concern. “Get gone!”
And he did, short sword in hand, after Brand.
As soon as the drummer was out of sight, Varveiter staggered and nearly fell. The pain in his leg was bad. Much worse than he’d let on to Rechts or Brand.
Just wait a while, and I’ll be fine, he told himself. Can’t let them see me like this. I need to fight, I need to be a soldier, I—
A dizzy spell came and went. Varveiter sorely wanted to take off his helmet and breastplate, the tasset that felt as if it was cutting off the blood to his leg, but knew that was foolish. So he gritted his teeth and bore it.
To be duped into an ambush was one thing, but for it to be perpetrated by orcs was just galling. Even as badly executed as it was, even with the corpses masking their stench as well as concealing the greenskins physically, it should not have got to this. It was rare cunning, and Varveiter suspected a goblin’s nous. Orcs had no aptitude for anything except violence. A man will recoil from an effigy representing his own mortality. He will not look too closely at the dead. They are repugnant, tragic; a cautionary tale that there but for the grace of Sigmar goes he. Yes, the goblins were wise and now with their larger brethren they were upon them.
Gauging their position by concentration of stench, and the likely sites for an ambush, Varveiter reckoned on the bulk of the greenskin horde being across the stream in amongst the more densely-packed buildings. It would be too risky for the creatures to try and stay concealed any closer. No orc could pull it off, for sure. They wouldn’t stray too close to the lookout post, either. Maybe just the odd lurking sentry, looking for a quick and dirty kill. It was largely open ground and with few places to hide, save the watchtower. Put too many greenskins in there and they’d be dead within minutes as the Empire men burned it to the ground. The situation was grim. Orcs would be flooding the village and Karlich would no doubt send a warning to Captain Stahler, hence the tower bell, and rally the rest to the lookout.
Varveiter only hoped he had the strength and will to join them.
Agony flared up his side again, the focus of which started at his thigh where the beastman had stabbed him. Vomit regurgitated into his mouth, and he tasted the acrid sting of bile at the back of his throat. The dizziness came back with a vengeance as Varveiter took a tentative step from the horse trough he was using as a crutch. He stood upright in spite of it. Blood pulsed in his ears, louder than Rechts’ drum at full marching beat, and black fog billowed threateningly at the edge of his vision. He was close to passing out, so bit his lip hard. He drew blood, the copper taste of it filling his mouth, but the fresh pain kept him from falling. Then he heard him.
“Warhorse…”
A shadow clouded over Varveiter, smothering the old soldier in shade. When he realised it wasn’t his failing eyesight, he turned and saw Keller.
“What’d you want?” he snapped with more conviction than he truly felt.
Perplexity turned to horror when Varveiter discovered he’d been stabbed in the side through a gap in his armour. Funny, he couldn’t remember Keller getting so close to him. Maybe he’d blacked out for a second. Survival instinct took over now. Keller was close, but that also meant he was in reach of the old soldier’s hands. He’d killed men with those bare hands before; men he’d had no grudge against. This was different. Varveiter seized the wiry Keller around the neck and squeezed. The younger man’s weasel face contorted as he struggled to breathe, but Varveiter kept up the pressure. Something warm was running down his side, dampening his leg and collecting in his boot. It sloshed as he adjusted his footing to get a better grip and take the weight off his ailing thigh.
Panicked, Keller dropped the knife now slick with Varveiter’s blood and pawed at the old man’s leathery fingers. They were like petrified oak: unyielding and rigid. Desperation crept into his movements now, as the life was slowly being choked out of him by a vengeful veteran with an aptitude for pugilism: an aptitude that had seen him humiliated and stoked an ember of resentment and bitterness into flaming rage within Keller’s core. He lashed out, striking the old soldier’s wounded thigh.
Varveiter screamed as lightning tore through his lower body, shocking him with tiny forks of pain. His leg crumpled and he lost his grip. Keller heaved in a relieved breath. The world was fading around Varveiter. Keller was saying something to him but it was as if his voice was too far away to make out the words, as if he was at the top of a long well and Varveiter was at its bottom. He fell, a cynical punch to his jaw putting the old soldier on his rump. Keller kicked and the lightning flared again, building to a thunderhead of agony. He couldn’t feel his leg at all now, and looked dumbfounded at his red palm and fingers as he brought them up to his face. He’d lost a lot of blood. It was pooling under him in a sticky morass.
Suddenly, Keller was gone. A strange silence descended, an eerie peace. Shadows were moving in the narrow lanes of Blosstadt. It took a while for Varveiter to realise they weren’t phantoms at the fringes of his clouding sight. The goblins had returned, or perhaps they were different creatures—Varveiter could no longer tell. He reached for his halberd. He didn’t remember dropping it, but there it sat in the dirt. Even as his fingers closed on the haft, he knew he couldn’t grasp it. He was too weak from blood loss.
You bastard, Keller, he thought, his mind the only faculty left to him he could rely on in his final moments. Didn’t even have the guts to do it yourself…
Blood pulsing from his side, slumped in the dirt without his weapon in his hand, it wasn’t the way Varveiter had wanted to die. The last thing he saw as his vision faded was the goblins stowing their cudgels as they approached him. Instead, they drew daggers and Siegen Varveiter realised then his death would not be quick…
Karlich emerged from the watchtower pale and out of breath. The wound in his side was still bloody, despite the rag of tunic he’d tied off to stymie it.
“Found more than a dead milkmaid up there, eh, Reiklander?”
The Grimblade sergeant gave Sturnbled a dirty look as he reached the summit of the hill and approached him.
“How many men do you have left?” asked Karlich, ignoring the jibe.
“Just over twenty. What’s your plan?”
Karlich trudged a few feet down the hill to where his m
en were gathering. In the distance, he saw the greenskins hustling towards them in a mass, coming from all four compass directions. The last few halberdiers were just ahead of them, emerging from Blosstadt’s eastern side. They slogged the final steps across the partially forded river, one man losing his footing and then his head to a flung axe as he went to rise. The stream ran red with his blood.
“Form ranks!” bellowed Karlich, half in answer to Sturnbled’s question. He regarded the Middenlander over his shoulder, who was priming his duelling pistol. “We need to cover every aspect of this hill,” Karlich told him. “Make two half-circles—my men to the north and east, yours to the south and west. We make our stand as low as we can, while maintaining the advantage of height and retreat by steps as necessary.”
“You want to hold out for Stahler to save us, then,” Sturnbled replied, as if unaccustomed to the concept of being saved and not being the one doing the saving.
“Yes.”
Sturnbled didn’t like it, but knew enough to realise they were out of options. He hastily organised his men and ordered them to lock shields. Just over twenty Middenland Steel Swords and maybe thirty-five Reikland Grimblades opposed the greenskin hordes swarming Blosstadt—less than sixty men against twice that number or more in orcs and goblins.
Keller returned to the ranks and hurriedly found his position alongside Rechts. They were strung out in a long file of twelve men, just three ranks deep with some stragglers. It meant Keller was pushed up to the front.
“Where’s Varveiter?” asked Lenkmann, starting to raise the banner.
Keller’s face darkened. He couldn’t help but glance in Brand’s direction, who was also in the front rank but on the opposite side of the command section.
“He’s dead then,” said Karlich bitterly, not feeling patient enough to wait for Keller to find the courage to spit out his words.
“I was looking for Rechts and Brand when I found him,” Keller said. His gaze went involuntarily to Brand again.
The other Reiklander gave away nothing—the whitening in his knuckles could just be tension before battle. Brand’s expression was cold, but he saw what the others did not. He saw the finger marks around Keller’s throat where someone had tried to throttle him; too large for goblins, too thin for orcs. He knew the truth and if they survived this, knew what he was going to do to Keller.
“The old man was bound to get himself killed someday,” muttered Volker, wiping away a tear. Behind him, Masbrecht intoned a quiet litany that made Rechts stiffen in anger despite its intent. Eber was dumbstruck and hung his head a little, as a dog might when it loses its master.
“Did he die with a weapon in his hand, Keller?” asked Karlich, fighting hard not to show emotion. Varveiter had been a father to them all of sorts by the end.
Keller nodded meekly, afraid his voice would give away the lie.
“Then it’s as he’d have wanted.”
“Likely we’ll all die in this Sigmar-forsaken place anyway,” said Volker, grabbing the mastiff by its scruff and dragging it close. The beast had bonded with the Reikland hunter and snarled at the approaching orc horde.
“Shut up, Volker,” snapped Karlich. “Speak like that again and you’ll be lashed when this is over. Stahler will come,” he said. “We just have to hold out long enough for it to matter when he does.”
There was no more time for talk or grief, only time for fighting. The greenskins had arrived.
CHAPTER SIX
A CAPTAIN’S DUTY
Blosstadt village, Averland,
319 miles from Altdorf
The warning bell pealed long and loud beyond the stockade wall of Blosstadt and fed all the way to Stahler’s position a few hundred feet from the gate. The captain recognised its urgency and shouted the order to march. Von Rauken’s Carroburg Few took the lead, the greatsworders keen to face danger but still highly disciplined as they advanced. A block of handgunners followed them, then the spearmen and finally the second regiment of gunners. Stahler joined the spearmen to better view the entire line and not be too far from any one element of it. Besides, he knew that Von Rauken was a capable leader and didn’t need the morale-boosting presence of a captain. The militia units, a few scattered free companies and archers, ran alongside and to the rear of the column. Most stayed with the baggage train and camp followers a few yards behind the professional soldiers.
They were only fifty feet or so from the looming stockade wall when the air was split with the sound of battle cries. The harsh and ululating timbre of those cries told Stahler that the greenskins had planned more than one ambush. Shading his eyes from the sun that was beginning to dip behind some cloud, Stahler made out a patch of dust billowing on the horizon. From a shallow valley, large enough to hide a cavalry force, a horde of orc boar riders barrelled forth. The greenskins hooted and brayed, banging shields with their crude weapons, whilst their shaggy mounts snorted through ringed snouts. Another cry echoed across the flat land—a hidden dip on the opposite side of the column concealed further riders. As the orcs crested a small, grassy rise, Stahler raised his sword aloft.
“All troops to the village! Run for the stockade wall!”
Out in the open, surrounded by the greenskins’ shock cavalry, the Empire troops were severely outmatched. At least in Blosstadt there were buildings and lanes to defend, walls to impede an otherwise devastating boar charge.
Armour plates clanked and scabbards slapped, regimental sergeants bellowed frantic orders and the column began to move. For a time the Empire force lost its coherency in the mad dash for the walls. The gaping gatehouse offered salvation, a promise of possible survival within the confines of the stockade that surrounded Blosstadt. That promise was shattered abruptly when a fully laden lumber cart rolled into the gap, blocking off the gate, and burst into flames.
Arrows whickered through the fire, the silhouettes of goblins just visible through the haze and smoke. One of the greatsworders was struck in the armpit and cried out; others took the crudely-feathered shafts against their full plate armour and marched into the arrows stoically.
They were trapped with the orc boar riders bearing down on them, and had only a few minutes to do something about it. As Stahler marshalled his thoughts and tried to devise a plan that wouldn’t end with them all dead on a bloody plain outside Blosstadt, a discordant war horn reverberated in his ears. He winced at the noise, a whining and tuneless clamour, and saw more riders. This time they were goblins, clinging maniacally to giant, slavering wolves. One of the diminutive greenskins was so fervid that it fell, and several wolves broke from their loose formation to feed on it. The act of wanton savagery barely slowed them. They were heading for the baggage train.
“Signal the militia to surround the carts, archers behind free company men,” he snapped to the spearmen’s standard bearer, a soldier named Heiflig. The banner went up and in concordance with the regimental horn blower conveyed the message. Stahler didn’t wait to see if they’d respond. He couldn’t do any more for them. If they failed, they were dead—it was that simple. Instead he yelled loudly.
“Break column and form square!”
The spearman musician blew again, this time accompanied by the beating of drums from the Grünburg gunner regiments. Cavalry were deadly to long lines or unguarded flanks. They could reap right through them, cutting men asunder with no reply, come about and then charge all over again. Blocks of infantry facing every aspect were a much tougher prospect, where weight of numbers and the reassuring presence of rear ranks would count for something. Stahler knew it, as did every Empire captain worth his salt, and watched with grim satisfaction as the units in his command reformed.
Only the greatswords differed in their formation, making a tight circle of blades, every man three feet apart. The gaps in the line were risky, but necessary as they provided clearance for the swings of the Carroburg Few’s mighty double-handed blades. It also made the most of the greatsworders’ prodigious fighting strength—every one of Von Rauken’
s men would face an enemy.
With the appearance of the greenskin riders, the greatswords had allowed the handgunners to pass them and close on the gate. It meant Von Rauken was close enough to Stahler to be heard as he shouted.
“We need to get inside. We’ll be slaughtered out here, in squares or not!”
Stahler knew he was right, and was about to shout back when a percussive bark erupted from the handgunners closest the gate. The goblin archers disappeared from view. No more arrows whickered from the flaming cart.
Deciding he didn’t wish to debate strategy across their regiments, Stahler broke off from the Bogenhafen spearmen and jogged quickly over to the greatsworders. He kept low and behind the regiments. Some of the wolf riders carried short bows and he couldn’t risk being killed by a lucky arrow. He needed to make it fast. The greenskins had started far off, using distance as well as terrain to hide their ambush, but now they were closing.
“I agree,” said Stahler, a little breathlessly. He had one eye on the advancing greenskins and one on Von Rauken who glowered at him like an armour-plated juggernaut. The greatsworder was easily a head taller than Stahler and his eye-patch and thick moustaches made him look imperious. But Stahler wasn’t intimidated; he’d faced off against lords and counts before now. “Hit and run tactics will decimate us,” he added. “But we aren’t getting into the village until that obstruction is out of the way.”
Von Rauken nodded and gestured to a pair of handgunners who had joined them whilst Stahler was talking.
“Sergeant Isaak and his best marksman, Utz,” said Von Rauken by way of introduction. The two Grünburgers nodded curtly. “Tell the captain what you told me,” he invited, fixing them with his iron-hard glare.
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