03 - Sword of Vengeance (14 page)

“And the priests?”

“We’ll empty the chapels here, and there’s a whole company of
them in Nuln. They’ll all go.”

Gruppen frowned. “Perhaps one of you would like to tell me
why all this is needed?”

Volkmar turned to the preceptor. “You served with
Schwarzhelm, right?”

“Right.”

“What was he like?”

Gruppen looked nonplussed.

“Was his behaviour unusual? Any sickness evident?”

“No. None at all. He slew the doombull.”

“I’m not asking for evidence of his heroics, preceptor. I’m
asking about his judgement.”

Gruppen’s face flushed. He wasn’t used to being talked down
to. “As sound as ever. Why are you asking me? Where is Schwarzhelm?”

“Nobody knows,” said Roll. “We’d hoped you might.”

“Though it’s not hard to guess where he’s headed,” said
Volkmar. “He was sent to Averland soon after you were ordered to the northern
front. Something happened to him there, and he made a serious mistake. He’s now
been relieved of his office, and has disappeared.”

Gruppen gripped the side of the tomb. He looked pale. “What
kind of mistake?”

“He cut down Kurt Helborg, possibly to the death. He
installed a new elector whom we now believe is in league with the great enemy.
He killed the swordmaster Heinrich Lassus and stole the Sword of Vengeance from
the Chapel of the Fallen. That enough of a mistake for you?”

“Sweet Myrmidia,” swore Gruppen, shaking his head. Then
something seemed to occur to him. “I remember the name Lassus.”

“He’s the one who ordered you north,” said Maljdir grimly.
“We checked. He had no authority to do so, but the habit of command is strong
and the orderlies followed instruction.”

“I never understood why my assignment changed.”

“To keep you away from your master,” said Volkmar. “Lassus
knew Schwarzhelm trusted you. When the Emperor’s Champion left for Averland, his
army was commanded by Andreas Grunwald, a man whose command ability was known to
be suspect.”

“He was a good soldier.”

“No doubt. Not good enough.”

Gruppen took the information in quickly. It was a lot to
digest, and Volkmar saw him struggling to absorb it. To his credit, the man
stayed focussed.

“So how stands the province?”

“We don’t know that either,” said Roll dryly.

“Very little has come in or out of Averland since the
election of Grosslich,” said Volkmar. “We believe the new elector is training an
army, and that he has gold and weapons. For the time being, his allegiance is
still for the Empire, at least in public, but we can be sure that won’t last.”

“How?”

“Schwarzhelm wrote a letter before he disappeared, detailing
all he’d done and what it meant. We now know the great enemy is active in the
city, and Grosslich’s actions have left the Emperor in no doubt that we have a
rogue elector.”

Gruppen leaned heavily against the cold stone. For an elector
to turn traitor was almost unheard of. Minor nobles, yes, even dukes and barons,
but the holders of the runefangs were different. All the resources of the
province were theirs. The consequences were too dreadful to contemplate.

“And there’s been no uprising in Averland?” he asked,
obviously clutching for some sign of hope. “Why have the Estates tolerated it?”

Maljdir gave a snorting laugh. “That’s the problem,
preceptor. They don’t
know.
If Lassus hadn’t given his role in this away
to Schwarzhelm, we wouldn’t either.”

“Such is the beauty of the scheme,” said Roll. “They didn’t
just seize power. They were
given
it. As far as anyone in Averland knows,
Grosslich is the duly appointed master of the province and all that lies within
it.”

“He’ll play for time,” added Volkmar, “building up his
forces, keeping the cloak of respectability for as long as he can. We know he’s
arming, and there are reports of men being drafted from as far afield as Tilea.
We have to act now.”

Gruppen nodded. “I can see that, but what do you want from
me? I’m not Schwarzhelm’s physician, and I can’t tell you why he did it.”

“You’re coming with us,” said Volkmar. “Schwarzhelm will be
there somewhere, and I want your counsel.” He leaned forwards, and his dark eyes
glittered. “You’ll bring your company of knights too, preceptor. Their swords
will be needed. This is no minor insurrection. This is a new war.”

“Then you’ll have them, Theogonist,” said Gruppen without
hesitation. “And as many more as I can muster.” He paused, and his eyes slipped
down to the face of the tomb.

“But why Averland?” he asked.

Volkmar’s face remained as grim as his appellation.

“We don’t know,” he said. “Yet.”

The gates had opened. With a mighty torrent of screams and
whoops, Black Fire Keep began to disgorge its contents. The surging mass of
greenskins charged straight towards the waiting ranks of Bloch’s army. With
frightening speed they closed the gap, loping across the uneven ground like
wolves hungry for the kill.

Bloch strode forwards, heart thumping in his breast. This was
what he’d prepared for, what he’d wanted, but unleashing the fury of the
greenskins was perilous.

“Bring that artillery round!” he yelled, knowing the gunnery
captains would already be working. All of this had been prepared, the army knew
it was coming, but the impression of disarray would take time to correct. He
hoped Drassler was still in position. This all depended on him. “Archers
withdraw! Get back here, you dogs!”

Trumpets blared out, giving the signal over the rising roar
of the orcs. The gap between the armies shrank. Rank after rank of orcs
thundered from the Keep, swinging their straight swords with furious abandon.

Bloch had fought many orcs over the long years, and he’d
always hated their feral enjoyment in bloodshed. They seemed to treat battle as
a sport, like a man would enjoy drinking or bear-baiting. These ones, however,
had been tipped over into a blind fury. The tactic of mutilating their kin had
done the work.

“Halberdiers! Form up!” All around him, slovenly looking
groups of men rushed into formation, taking up their spears and halberds and
assuming their positions.

The gap closed further. The orcs were tearing towards them.
Bloch found himself itching to get stuck in, to tear his blade through the flesh
of the scum, but he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. This army needed its commander.

The archers rushed back behind the lines of infantry like
birds before the storm, leaving their gear on the ground and hurrying to take up
heavier weapons. As they did so, the first round shot out from the Helblasters
on the left flank. Their ammunition was much more effective against infantry
than walls, and the front row of orc berserkers stumbled.

It hardly dented the force of the assault. Huge warriors,
roaring with incoherent fury, leapt over their fallen kin, desperate to tear
into the waiting human soldiers. Ever more of them poured from the gates. The
Keep was emptying.

“Hold your ground!” roared Bloch, seeing the last few yards
between the armies dwindle to nothing. “By Sigmar, hold your ground!”

Then the horde crashed into the halberdiers.

The lines slammed together with a sickening crunch. The first
line of defenders buckled, driven back by the force of the assault. Behind them,
the second rank was smashed apart in turn, knocked back and hurled into
disarray.

The third barely held. Orcs rampaged through the broken human
lines, wading into battle and plunging their weapons with abandon. The fighting
spread down the long crescent of the besieging army, and soon the entire
southern face of the Keep approach was engulfed in desperate combat. There must
have been over a thousand orcs in the sortie, all frantically trying to get to
the action, all lusting after the blood of the humans who’d taunted them for so
long. The greenskins were outnumbered, but they had the initiative and plenty of
anger to fuel them.

“Reserves!” cried Bloch, seeing his plans ripping away under
the sudden onslaught.

The trumpet blared out and the extra men piled in to staunch
the onslaught, desperately trying to blunt the force of the orc charge.

Bloch whirled around, letting his eye sweep across the
battlefield. Both armies were fully committed. Fighting was heavy at every point
across his long deployment. None of his detachments had broken, but several were
close to it. They had to hang on, to weather the storm until they could douse
its initial fury.

He turned to Kraus, who was looking over the scene with his
habitual bleak expression.

“I’m going in,” he said, buckling his helmet. “The men have
their orders.”

The honour guard captain nodded, unsheathing his own sword
and preparing for the melee. “What about Drassler?”

“Give him the signal. This is when we find out what he’s made
of.”

* * *

Drassler sprang to his feet, casting his cloak aside and
taking up his sword. The blade flashed silver in the sunlight. All around him
his men did likewise, emerging from the rock like ghosts. Some carried handguns,
most swords. They immediately formed up into two companies, one led by Drassler,
the other by his lieutenant, Hochmann.

“That’s the signal!” he cried, as the trumpets blared out
from the rear of the main army. “Sigmar guide your blades!”

The mountain guard sprinted hard towards the gates. A few
hundred yards to their left, the column of orcs had slammed into Bloch’s
position, no doubt aiming to drive them back so hard they’d be unable to
respond. The greenskins had left almost nothing in reserve, as was their wont.
The few orcs that remained in the rearguard were clearly itching to pile into
combat, and saw Drassler’s men coming at them far too late.

The gap closed.

“Fire!” Drassler roared, and a ripple of blackpowder
detonations ran across the front rank of his men. With a confused bellow, a
dozen orcs at the gate fell, tumbling down onto the rock as they clutched their
eyes and midriffs.

Fifty yards to go. Drassler picked up the pace, feeling the
weight of his sword as he ran, revelling in the blood pumping round his body.
For too long he’d had to creep and scuttle in his own land, prevented by his
paltry numbers from striking back at the orcs who’d ripped through his comrades.
Now revenge had come, and it felt good.

Twenty yards. The orcs at the gate were trying to form up
into some kind of defence. Some called frantically to their kin who’d rushed out
to engage Bloch’s men, beckoning them back. There couldn’t have been more than
two dozen ready to meet Drassler’s assault, and it looked like there were barely
more than that emerging from the interior of the fortress.

Ten yards. Drassler stole a glance to his right, seeing the
mountain guard around him surge as one towards the Keep. They cried out curses
in the old tongue of the mountains as they came, ancient smiting words that had
echoed down the glens since before the time of the Emperors. All of them had
hatred in their faces, the kind of naked anger that made a man deadly. Drassler
felt pride. They were his kindred, and this was their moment.

Then he was amongst the orcs, slashing, hacking and heaving
with his blade. At his shoulder, mountain guard soldiers piled in, bearing down
orcs twice their size with the force of the charge and their numbers. Drassler
took apart his first victim with a vicious two-handed slash, watching with
satisfaction as the mighty figure bent double across the sword-edge before it
was finished off by another charging member of his company.

They made the gates. The few remaining orcs broke and fled
into the courtyard beyond. Some of his men rushed to follow them, consumed by
the need for vengeance.

“Hold fast!” cried Drassler, seeing the danger. The mountain
guard were only two hundred strong and there were five times that many orcs on
the field. He whirled around, looking back over to where the greenskin column
had charged out. He expected to see a morass of entangled combat, with Bloch’s
men holding the sortie and turning it back on itself.

What he saw was a wall of greenskins charging right back at
him, their faces contorted with fury. There was no time to organise a defence.
The greenskins had realised their mistake and were coming back to correct it.
From inside the Keep came the noise of fresh troops arriving to bolster them.
Drassler had taken the gates, but he was caught between the returning sortie and
the mustering Keep defenders.

“You take the ones inside, I’ll handle the rest!” snapped
Drassler to Hochmann, and braced himself for the coming impact.

Around him, his men did their best to form into some kind of
defensive arrangement. Under the shadow of the open gates they clustered
together, watching as the horde rushed back towards them. There was no escape,
and no chance of surrender. If Bloch got his timing wrong, they were all dead
men.

“We’ve done our part,” he muttered, watching as the nearest
orc warriors thundered into range. “Now damn well do yours.”

Bloch charged into the fray, his halberd held low, his throat
hoarse from hurling invective at the enemy. He had his men around him, the
Reiklanders who’d stood at his side since the march from Altdorf. All did the
same, barrelling into the charge, levering the long halberds with expert hands.

There were few armies across the wide earth that could cope
with a massed charge of close-serried infantry, and the orcs before them were no
different. The steel sliced through them, tearing apart leather, ripping sinew
and breaking bones.

“Onward!” Bloch cried, his blood hot with the exhilaration of
battle. “Tear them apart!”

Drassler’s charge had done it. The orcs had seen the mountain
guard spring up as if from the stone itself, and the force of their assault had
wavered. Now Bloch had to press home the advantage, pile on the pressure before
they could regroup and take back the gates.