03 - Sword of Vengeance (33 page)

Leitdorf bowed his head. “Of course. These are just
speculations.”

Helborg looked at Leitdorf carefully then, like a farmer
sizing up an unpromising foal with a view to producing a future prize stallion.
Some of the unconscious scorn had left the Marshal’s manner, even if his
habitual pride still remained sunk deep in his battle-ravaged features.

“In any case,” he said, “you have my thanks. Whatever the
reason, your sword bit into those creatures where mine did not. When the grace
of Sigmar descends, it is foolish to ask too closely the reason why.”

The unaccustomed praise made Leitdorf feel awkward. He’d
never been complimented on his swordplay before by anyone, let alone by a legend
such as Helborg.

“Then maybe you should take the Wolfsklinge, my lord,” he
said, although, deep down, he was loath to lose it. “Your hands will wield it
more skilfully than mine.”

Helborg laughed and shook his head. “A generous offer! Maybe
this war will make a man of you yet, Rufus.” He pushed himself away from the
wall and made to leave the room. “I’ll not take it up. There’s only one sword
for me, and I still plan on recovering it. Until then, I’ll make do with what
weapons I can find.”

He started to walk towards the door.

“We’ll both have the opportunity to use our blades again
soon. Our army, such as it is, is ready, and I’ve given Skarr his deadline to
make the rendezvous. We march within the hour. Collect yourself, elector.
Averheim beckons.”

The town of Streissen lay between Nuln and Averheim, the
first of the large market towns that straddled the main trading route into the
heart of the Empire. It was the only settlement of any note before the capital
and commanded a key crossing point over the river. Like most Imperial towns it
was walled and garrisoned. Tiled roofs rose up within the ramparts, close-packed
and divided only by narrow, winding streets. In its own way it was an attractive
place, a bustling, hard-nosed town made rich through trade and commerce.

In the days between the electors its defences had fallen into
disrepair. Grosslich had put that right soon after his coronation. The walls had
been strengthened and an extra two thousand men drafted into the garrison. The
old icons of the province had been removed and the crimson boar’s head now hung
from the gatehouse. Streissen had always been home to many Grosslich supporters,
and it was far in both distance and sympathy from the lands once controlled by
the Leitdorf’s. The merchants had welcomed the changes brought in by the new
elector, and for a brief time the trade had picked up again.

Now it was paying for its choices. Volkmar had given the
burgomeisters almost no time to consider his demands for surrender. Before any
reply had come back the walls had been surrounded by his army, nearly forty
thousand strong since taking on reinforcements from Nuln and itching for a
fight.

The Theogonist stood to the north of the city on a conical
hill, his commanders, musicians and messengers around him. The storm in the
south had grown fiercer, and black clouds raged on the horizon, flecked with
lightning. The column of fire was still visible, though far paler in the
daylight. It was ever-present, a reminder to all of the destination that awaited
them.

On the plain below, his army was deployed in a wide circle,
out of bow-shot and musket-range of the walls but close enough to advance at a
moment’s notice. Placed in readiness for combat, the volume of men looked
fearsome. They covered the undulating land in front of the gates like a vast
chequered carpet, over a mile wide from flank to flank. The auxiliaries were
desperate to mount an assault; the regular troops less so. Morale had been
strangely affected by the apparition in the night sky. Some men had responded
with aggression, others with fear, others with fatalism.

“We still haven’t heard from the burgomeisters,” said
Maljdir, frowning at the beleaguered town as if it had personally offended him.
“Give them more time?”

Volkmar shook his head.

“They’ve damned themselves by waiting. Launch the assault.”

Maljdir hesitated, then bowed and gestured to the trumpeter
standing to his left. The man blew a series of long notes into the air, which
were then taken up by other musicians. The signal passed to the west flank,
where the big guns had been placed along the edge of a low ridge.

As soon as the notes reached them the crews sprang into
action. Shot was rammed home and fuses lit. With a deafening boom, the great
cannons roared out, hurling their shot straight and true. As the smoke rolled
across the battlefield, the walls of Streissen cracked and buckled. To the right
of the cannons, arranged high on the north flank of the battlefield, men began
to shuffle forwards. Cavalry units mounted and adjusted their armour, taking up
lances and handguns. The vast bulk of the infantry, the halberdiers, spearmen
and swordsmen, held their positions, watching the destruction begin with a mix
of relish and anxiety.

The cannons roared out again, a thunderous barrage of
stone-cracking power, shaking the earth beneath them and rocking the town to its
foundations. A jagged line appeared in the north-west corner of the walls,
showering dust and mortar as the blocks were knocked loose.

“There’s the breach,” said Volkmar, watching the action unfold through his
spyglass. “Order the Third and Ninth into position. Knights Panther on their
left flank, Horstman’s cavalry on their right.”

The orders were conveyed and a mass of men crept forwards,
still in company order, nearly three thousand halberdiers marching cautiously in
offensive formation. Squadrons of armoured horsemen drew alongside them,
guarding their flanks from counter-assault. As the infantry pulled itself into
position, the first arrows whined down from the walls. Ranged against the might
of Volkmar’s forces, the defences looked pitiably weak.

The cannons roared a third time, then a fourth. The breach
opened further, exposing the masonry within. The halberdiers moved closer, kept
in tight ranks by their sergeants, shadowed by the cavalry, waiting for the
order to charge.

“Move the auxiliaries to close the leaguer,” said Volkmar,
watching the movement of men below him intently. “Maintain the barrage. Assault
on my word.”

“My lord, there are flags on the ramparts,” said Maljdir,
pointing at Streissen’s turrets, only half-visible through the rolling clouds of
blackpowder smoke from the cannon barrels. “They wish to submit.”

“How is that relevant, Odain?” Volkmar said, observing the
fifth barrage as it blasted the breach wider. The gap was now wide enough to
drive a carriage through. There were defenders swarming over it like flies round
a wound. “They’ve had their chance, and we’ll show them the price of defiance.
Order the advance.”

Maljdir looked hesitant. The huge Nordlander was not a man
given to pity, but still he paused.

“They’re asking for quarter, my lord. They’re men of the
Empire.”

Volkmar let the spyglass drop and rounded on the priest, eyes
blazing.

“They’re
traitors
,” he growled. “Order the advance.”

Maljdir resisted for a moment longer, eyes locked with
Volkmar’s. Then they dropped. He turned to the musician and gave him the
instruction. Fresh trumpet calls blared out, and a roar of recognition rippled
across the army. They knew what was coming.

The final cannon barrage boomed out, shattering the broken
section of wall further. The cries of those crushed under the stone rang out,
audible even over the roar of the charging halberdiers. Volkmar’s vanguard was
unleashed and surged forwards en masse, loping over the broken ground, blades
kept low in the front rank, raised high in the following. They swarmed across
the shattered walls and the sound of killing rose above all others.

“Fourth and Eighth in behind them!” ordered Volkmar, his
pulse beginning to race. This was the first action of the campaign, and the men
needed a crushing success to bolster their morale. “Greatswords into reserve!”

His orders were conveyed and the massed companies of men
moved to follow them. The halberdiers were still pouring through the walls,
storming across the overwhelmed breach and piling into the town, blades flashing
in the grey light. There were plumes of smoke as enemy handgunners returned
fire, but they were soon extinguished under the weight of the assault. Like a
single, massive animal, the invading army began to wheel around the centre of
tactical gravity and close in on its prey.

As the last of the cannon smoke lazily drifted across the
plain, it was already evident the defence was doomed. Volkmar stowed his
spyglass with satisfaction and turned to Maljdir.

“Come with me,” he ordered, his eyes alight with savagery.
“We’ve cut our way in. Time to follow the halberds.”

With that, the Grand Theogonist strode down the slope of the
hill, flanked by plate-armoured warrior priests, to take his prize.

Maljdir watched him go, arms crossed over his massive chest,
unmoving, unwilling to be a part of a slaughter with no glory in it. He’d come
to hunt Chaos troops, not misguided merchants and farmhands.

The power of command was too strong, though. In the end
Maljdir shook his head, took up the vast, gold-studded warhammer Bloodbringer
and stalked down after his general. For the first time since leaving Altdorf,
the big man found himself eager to get to the real fighting in Averheim. At
least there was an enemy there which deserved to be put to the sword.

And they’d be in range soon enough.

Bloch screwed his eyes tight, peering into the distance. The
sun had started to lower in the west, obscuring the land ahead in a lowering
haze.

“It’s a blockade,” he said.

Kraus shook his head. “More than that. There must be hundreds
of them. It’s a camp. They’re on the march.”

Bloch looked back at the horizon. The road west ran over the
grassland before them. They were in the cattle-country south of Heideck, having
made good progress on the long journey from Grenzstadt. As they’d neared
Averland’s second city, Bloch had decided to take a detour to the south. He had
no desire to run into Grosslich’s men before they drew nearer to Averheim. With
only two hundred troops still under his command, he was vulnerable.

For a few days, his strategy seemed to be working. They’d
seen merchant convoys on the roads, all heavily guarded by private militia.
Apart from them, there had been almost no movement on the highways. Bloch’s
company had been able to travel quickly and in the open, lodging in or around
villages where the people had heard nothing from Averheim in days. The province
of Averland seemed to have shut down. That would have been cause for more
concern if it hadn’t aided their passage so much, and of Grosslich’s vaunted
armies in particular there had been no sign.

Until now.

Thankfully, Bloch had stumbled across the encampment while
his men were still under cover, overshadowed by the crumbling walls of a ruined
farmhouse high on the hill. He, Kraus and a handful of men had scouted ahead of
the main column of soldiers, planning the remainder of the day’s trek and
looking for a site to make camp.

It seemed Grosslich’s men had had a similar idea. They
straddled the road ahead, dozens of soldiers wearing the crimson and gold tunics
of the new elector, starting the laborious process of erecting tents and raising
an embankment for the night. They clearly expected trouble from someone. Perhaps
Meuningen had been wrong about the succession issue being completely resolved.

“Nice colours,” said Bloch.

“Helpfully visible,” agreed Kraus.

“So what are we going to do about them?”

Kraus pursed his cracked lips. The weeks in the wilderness
had given him a ragged, almost canine look. Like all of them, he’d lost weight
and gained muscle.

“We can’t evade Grosslich’s forces forever. Perhaps now we’ll
see what his intentions are.”

Bloch pondered that.

“Too many to fight,” he said.

“What d’you mean? It can’t be more than two to one. We’ll
tear them apart.”

Bloch grinned. “Don’t get cocky. I want to get back to
Altdorf in one piece.”

“You’re in the wrong trade, then.”

Bloch motioned to one of his men, a sandy-haired halberdier.
Like all the troops inarching with him still, this one had fought under his
command since the death of Grunwald. They were good men, these, the kind you’d
trust with your life.

“Bring the lads up here,” he told him. “We’ll form up and
march towards them with our heads held high. No reason for us to suspect they’ll
be hostile.”

But there was. Meuningen’s warning still echoed in his
thoughts. Everything about Averland since his return had felt deeply, terribly
wrong. The further west they went, the stranger it felt.

The halberdier slipped off to muster the rest of the men.

Kraus was satisfied. He’d never been happy with avoiding
conflict, and looked eager for another fight. He drew his sword and looked
carefully along the edge, searching for defects.

“Keep that sheathed when we get up there,” warned Bloch.

“You really think they’ll let us pass?”

Bloch shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Since Schwarzhelm left, I’ve
got no idea what’s been going on here.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Same as always,” he said. His voice was flat. “We’ll kill
’em all.”

Verstohlen shaded his eyes against the grey sky and shivered.
Either autumn was approaching very fast or there was something decidedly strange
about the weather. Each day dawned colder than the last and the rush of clouds
from the mountains continued unabated. The scudding masses seemed to be drawn
north-west like water rushing down a whirlpool. In the distance, where the
column of fire was still just visible on the edge of sight, a vast maelstrom of
circling storm-bringers had accumulated. Tongues of forked lightning flickered
against the dark shadow of the rolling grassland.