03 - Sword of Vengeance (43 page)

“Unhand me!” growled Volkmar, shaking himself loose. Signs of
weakness were the last thing he needed to convey. “Do we have the musicians?”

“Some.”

“Order the second wave in. We can’t survive another barrage -
we have to get amongst them.”

Maljdir nodded sharply and rushed off to find a surviving
trumpeter. Volkmar looked around him. The dying and wounded stretched along the
ridge in both directions. Some companies had been entirely destroyed, others
only maimed. Those who’d been quickest on the charge had escaped the volley,
though they now grappled with the front ranks of the enemy alone. Those who’d
been held back for the second wave had been decimated.

Volkmar retrieved his staff. His men were outnumbered and
outgunned. He needed to act fast.

“Where are the wizards?” he demanded. The younger Celestial
magister limped forwards, blood running down his face. Two of the Bright wizards
had survived the blast, and the Light magisters were untouched, set back as they
were further down the far side of the ridge, still working. Hettram was gone,
lying face down in the filth and debris, his robes stained dark red.

“Come with me,” Volkmar rasped to the Bright wizards. “We’re
going down there. As for the rest of you, I need something big, and I need it
soon.”

The Celestial wizard nodded numbly, still in shock. His Light
counterparts, lost in their preparations, made no response.

All along the ridge, the army was beginning to recover.
Maljdir’s orders blared out, and the infantry companies still held in reserve
started to stream down the slope. The warrior priests, grim-faced and bearing
their warhammers, formed up around Volkmar, ready to take the battle to the
enemy. Maljdir was among them, carrying the torn and charred standard in his
massive hands. Roll was at his side hefting his broadsword eagerly.

Lightning still lanced down, the residue of the Celestial
wizards’ casting. The Army of the Stone was advancing again, rank after rank of
steadily marching troops, eyes glowing in the dark. All across the battlefield,
loyalist and traitor clashed with desperate ferocity. As company after company
committed to action, the battlefront unfurled to over a mile long, a seething
mass of straining bodies broken only by the avenues carved by the cavalry
charges and artillery fire.

Volkmar looked across the plain and cursed under his breath.
The bulk of his forces were engaged and the rest were racing to do so. There was
no pulling back, and no room to manoeuvre. Those damned engines had turned the
pattern of the battle and he was now dancing to the traitor’s tune.

The Theogonist felt the rage well up within him, the
desperate mania that had afflicted him since Middenheim. Like a tide pushing
against a dam, cracking it and poised to overflow, the currents of his fervour
rose to breaking point. Streissen had unlocked it, and Averheim had pushed wide
the door.

There was no point in suppressing it now. Frenzy had a
purpose, and he had to use it.

“Follow me,” Volkmar growled, planting the Staff of Command
firmly in the soil. As he did so it roared into life, blazing with a swirling
golden aura. “We’ll find the bastard who caused this. I want his
eyes
.”

Seen from five miles to the east, the column of fire was
shrouded in a thick grey pall of smoke. It rose from the base of the city like a
rolling sea mist, dousing the angry blood-red of the pillar until the shaft of
it pierced the obscurity again a hundred feet up in the air. The very earth
vibrated with its muffled roar, thrumming under the hooves of the horses.

Helborg had driven his forces hard. Leitdorf’s decision had
been vindicated by the obvious signs of battle around Averheim. Judging by the
drifting shreds of blackpowder smoke in the air, the Empire had arrived to the
north of the city. Despite the presence of the looming Tower, hope had spread
across his own men like a fire through dry scrub. Eager to join up with the
besieging forces from the north, the infantry columns had speeded up and left
the lumbering baggage train far behind.

Helborg rode with his Reiksguard escort at the vanguard,
willing the miles to pass quicker, itching to draw the runefang in anger. If
they went as quickly as they were able, his men would arrive at Averheim before
the day’s end and in time to make a difference. All depended on Skarr being at
the designated muster, now imminent. Helborg had no doubt he would be.

As the vanguard rounded a long, shallow bend in the road, his
expectations of the preceptor were vindicated. Under the lee of a sweeping curve
of grassland the reinforcements waited, Skarr at their head, the banners of
Leitdorf and the Reiksguard fluttering in the swirling, unnatural winds.

The Marshal kicked his horse on ahead, casting a critical eye
over the ranks of soldiers as he approached them. Some looked very useful,
standing in ordered ranks and with the proper air of belligerence. Others looked
little better than flagellants. Still, that was to be expected. The numbers were
impressive, given the time in which they’d had to work. Helborg estimated the
combined total under arms at five thousand on foot, plus a hundred or so horse.

“Preceptor,” he said gruffly.

Skarr saluted, fist on breastplate.

“My lord,” he replied. “The men are ready to be led.”

“Very good. Take up the rearguard and ensure they keep the
pace tight. I’ll be at the spearhead. We leave at once—I don’t want to arrive
when this is over.”

Skarr bowed and made ready to take up his place when he
suddenly pulled up.

“My lord,” he started hesitantly. “Is that… but forgive
me.”

“Is it what?” snapped Helborg.

“Your sword. It’s the…”

As the words left his mouth, Ludwig Schwarzhelm loomed up
from amongst the column of men at Helborg’s rear. The Emperor’s Champion was
unmistakable, a massive and brooding presence even among the escorting
Reiksguard. Skarr’s jaw fell open. For a moment he looked like he might draw his
blade and charge. Then he whirled back to the Marshal, confusion etched on his
face.

“The runefang, yes,” said Helborg, his expression as hard as
ever. “Much has changed since you rode north. You’ll have to learn the rest on
the ride.”

As Schwarzhelm drew closer, some of the halberdiers under
Skarr’s command recognised him and rushed forwards in greeting. In the forefront
was a thick-set man with a bruised face and the look of a tavern brawler.

Skarr shook his head in disbelief, hand still on the pommel
of his sword.

“I thought…”

“Did you not hear me, Skarr?” asked Helborg. “Your vengeance
can wait.”

The preceptor snapped back into focus.

“Forgive me,” he said again. Then he reached around his neck
and unhooked the trophy he’d been wearing ever since the last battle of
Averheim. The shard of the runefang, salvaged from the Marshal’s own wounded
cheek, kept safe even while the blade itself had been taken hundreds of miles
away.

“At least let me give you this.”

Helborg extended his gauntlet and took the fragment of steel.
He held it up to the glowing red of the sky. It twisted on its cord of leather,
winking in the dull light.

“The final piece,” he mused, watching the metal turn.

Then, reverently, he hung the shard around his own neck,
threading it under his breastplate for protection. The metal was cold against
his skin, a reminder of what had been warded for so long, preserved against the
day when the Sword of Vengeance would be united with its wielder.

“You did well, Skarr,” Helborg said, taking up the reins.
This time his voice was a little less harsh. “When this is over, I
will
explain. Until then, trust my judgement. We ride together, Schwarzhelm and I.
That very fact should give you hope.”

He looked up then, gazing west across the heads of his men
towards the Iron Tower, visible in the distance as a spear of darkness at the
foot of the shaft of fire. Clouds of smoke billowed around it, driven into great
eddies by the unnatural storm. There were blackpowder plumes among them.

“Enough talk,” he said, and his expression was dark. “The
threads gather on the loom. We’ve done what we can to prepare. To the city.”

Gruppen wheeled his steed around under the shadow of the
Averpeak and prepared for the charge. It would be his third foray into the enemy
ranks. Of his original squadron, only six remained. He quickly commandeered more
troops from two of the other depleted detachments, making up a restored line of
twenty-two knights.

“One more time!” he yelled, his voice cracking. The
resistance around the big guns was tough, far tougher than he’d expected. Two
more of the bronze-bound monsters had been destroyed by cannon fire but the rest
still thundered out, reducing any exposed Imperial positions to scorched earth
and scraps of bone.

In order to survive, the bulk of the Empire troops had piled
forwards, locked in close melee combat with the enemy infantry. They fought
bravely, but they were outmatched by Grosslich’s troops. Things had been
done
to the defenders. The Averheim troops fought without fear and their formations
never broke, no matter how savagely they were mauled.

That was just the human soldiers. There were others among
them, more like beasts than men. Gruppen had nearly been felled by one such
creature on the last withdrawal, a vast armoured brute with a face like that of
a dog. Rumours ran wild along the ranks that there were worse horrors along the
east flanks: scuttling fiends with talons for hands, unstoppable killing
machines tearing a swathe through horrified Imperial companies.

Gruppen shook his head. No point in worrying about that. The
battle was on a knife edge. The enemy had been hurt by the initial barrage of
cannon fire, but now the field was swinging back their way. Above it all, the
Tower glowered, dark and forbidding.

“Stay close!” he bellowed at the knights mustering around
him. The men were gathered at the base of the ridge where the squires had
hurried to avoid the worst of the artillery punishment higher up. “Tight
formation, keep on my shoulder. We strike fast, we strike hard. Remember who you
are! For Myrmidia!”

The knights shouted back the name of their goddess, fists
clenched, their martial spirits undaunted. The Knights Panther were the finest
soldiers in the Imperial ranks and they knew it.

“Come about!” bellowed Gruppen, kicking his charger into
position. “Charge!”

Just as before, the line of riders tore across the
battlefield, lances lowering, accelerating towards the enemy lines with a
thunderous chorus of hooves.

Those lines were closer than they had been. Gruppen had
barely made full gallop before the first defenders came into view. A company of
the hideous dog-soldiers was loping up towards a beleaguered regiment of Empire
swordsmen, halberds held two-handed and faces hidden behind iron masks.

“Take them!” Gruppen roared, spurring his horse even faster,
feeling the beast’s muscles strain as it propelled the burden of man, armour and
weapon. His men remained at his shoulder, lances down, visors closed, all moving
as a single body. As he ever did, Gruppen whispered a prayer to his patron
goddess before bracing for impact, teeth clenched, heart pounding.

Impact came. The line of knights slammed into the
dog-soldiers, knocking the foremost aside and riding them down. Six of the
mutants took lances full in the chest. The wooden shafts shattered as their
victims crumpled to the earth. One knight was unhorsed as his lance shattered
against a breastplate, spinning through the air before crashing headlong into
the ranks of fresh terror troops. The rest tore onwards.

Gruppen speared his victim, feeling the sharp recoil as the
lance bit deep. He dropped the shaft and reached for his sword. A dog-soldier,
eerily silent as it moved into position, swung at his horse as it charged on.
Gruppen leaned out, switched grip on his sword and plunged it into the
creature’s neck before wheeling away, kicking at his mount’s flanks to maintain
momentum.

“Onwards!” he roared, pointing his bloodstained blade ahead.
“To the engines!”

His horse bounded forwards, leaping over the grasping hands
of another dog-soldier and riding down a second. The surviving knights thundered
along beside him. Three more had been felled, but the dog-soldier column had
been utterly torn apart. The charge remained strong, sweeping resistance before
it as the Knights Panther bore deep into the heart of the defenders.

Gruppen knew the danger. If they plunged in too far, they’d
not be able to cut their way back out. Despite all that, he was unwilling to
withdraw just yet. The enemy continued to fall back before him, dropping under
the advance of the knights’ hooves and blades, opening up a road to the towering
war engine ahead.

Gruppen surged onwards, slashing left and right, heedless of
his personal danger. The engine had to be taken down. He held his speed and the
horrific machinery drew nearer. The enemy melted away before him.

They were drawing him in.

The realisation hit him too late. Gruppen pulled his horse up
sharply, twisting around in the saddle, trying to gauge his position. Only ten
of his squadron had followed him so deep. They formed up around him, facing
outwards, swords held ready. On every side, dog-soldiers and mortal troops
recovered their structure and began to turn back in. The space around the
knights shrank. They’d come too far. The nearest Imperial ranks were distant,
kept busy with desperate combat of their own.

“Easy, men,” growled Gruppen, keeping his nervous, bucking
steed under control. “We’ll cut our way back. Take the—”

“Leave him.”

The new voice came from up ahead. It dominated the sounds of
battle, slicing through the bedlam like a knife through cooked flesh. It was
thick with a world-weary scorn, echoing into the night and resounding from the
iron belly of the war engines close to hand. It was no human tongue that spoke
the words, though it belonged to a speaker who had once been a man.