03 - Sword of Vengeance (46 page)

“Strange, that.”

“And you’ve lost your lieutenant.”

“Captain Kraus is back where he belongs.”

Verstohlen smiled. There was little mirth in it, just a wry
grin at the foolishness of the world.

“As we all are,” he said. “Look, I’m not much at home on the
battlefield, commander. It disagrees with me. The last time I fought under
Schwarzhelm, you were good enough to let me tag along.”

Bloch squinted up at him, wondering, as ever, whether
Verstohlen was mocking him.

“We’re infantry,” he said. “Your horse won’t fit in.”

Verstohlen swung down from the saddle, landing lightly beside
Bloch. He gave his steed a thump on the flanks, and it lurched away from the
approaching battlefront, no doubt pleased to be heading away from the horrors
ahead.

“Any better?”

Bloch scowled. He’d not known what to make of Verstohlen at
Turgitz, and he had little enough idea now. The man was an enigma, and enigmas
were no use to him.

“If you want to use that gun, then be my guest. But get in
the way, and I’ll skewer you myself.”

Verstohlen nodded seriously.

“Quite right, commander,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect
anything less.”

Ahead of them, the rearguard of the enemy finally spotted the
advancing ranks of Schwarzhelm’s troops. Soldiers began to turn to face them,
still several hundred yards off.

“To arms!” came the cry from Kraus.

All along the line, steel glittered as it was swung into
position. Men made the sign of the comet, adjusted their helmets, pulled
breastplates down, mumbled prayers.

Steadily, silently, Grosslich’s men broke into a run towards
them. The soldiers looked strange, as if their eyes had been replaced with pools
of witch-fire.

“On my mark!” roared Kraus.

Schwarzhelm clutched the Rechtstahl with his right hand and
bowed his head in a silent dedication. He’d be the first one in.

“I feel that we never had the chance to get to know one
another properly,” said Verstohlen as the pace of the march picked up. Though he
tried to hide it with levity, his voice was shot through with fear.

“Some other time, perhaps,” muttered Bloch, waiting for the
order to charge.

“I’d like that.”

Then Kraus swung his sword wildly over his head.

“Men of the Empire!” he bellowed. “Death to the enemy! Charge
now, and Sigmar guide your blades!”

With a massed roar of their own, the halberdiers surged
forwards. Behind them came the Averlanders, faces pale with terror, hands
clasped tight on their weapons, sweat glistening on their brows.

At their head rode Schwarzhelm, sword blazing red against the
flames, his throaty cries of defiance and hatred rising above the tumult. In his
wake, desperate and valiant, five thousand infantry streamed into the well of
fire and death.

Helborg felt the ash-hot air stream past him as he spurred
his horse into a gallop. Schwarzhelm had committed his troops, drawing attention
away from the Reiksguard and leaving the field clear for the charge. The
squadron comprised fewer than fifty horsemen, including himself and Leitdorf—a
laughable force with which to threaten a host of thousands.

The wedge of riders around him tightened. Their massed hooves
drummed on the packed earth as the knights swept towards their target. Half a
mile to their left the walls of Averheim rose up into the storm-raked air, vast
and dark. Ahead of them were file upon file of marching infantry, each clad in
close-fitting plate armour and bearing a crystal halberd. Somewhere beyond them
was Volkmar. The Theogonist’s position had been obvious enough from the vantage
of the rise, but was now lost in the smoke and confusion of the battlefield.

The success of the charge all depended on speed and power.
The first blow would settle things.

“Karl Franz!” roared Helborg as the first lines of the enemy
came into view. The dog-soldiers before him turned to face the onslaught. Too
slowly. They’d be ripped aside.

“The Emperor!” replied the Reiksguard, crying aloud as one.
Skarr was at the forefront of the charge, his ravaged face enclosed in steel and
his blade flashing.

Rufus Leitdorf rode on his left shoulder, leaning forwards in
the saddle and with the Wolfsklinge unsheathed at his side.

“For my father,” he murmured, too low for the others to hear.

The gap shrank, closed and disappeared. The wedge of cavalry,
a steel-tipped spear of white and red, slammed into the defenders. Grosslich’s
infantry were ridden into the mire or cut down by the precision of the
Reiksguard sword-work. Helborg kicked his horse onwards and it leapt into the
press of Grosslich’s rearguard, lashing out and kicking its hooves as it
laboured through the mass of bodies.

Startled by the sudden onslaught, the resistance was weak. A
group of heavily-armoured dog-soldiers attempted to form a line against the
charge.

“Take them!” cried Helborg, pulling his horse’s head round to
meet the threat.

The Reiksguard wheeled, every horseman controlling his steed
superbly. Without any drop in speed, the knights galloped at the wall of iron
and steel. They crashed into the defence again at full tilt, breaking open the
nascent line of shields and scattering the mutants. Some knights were knocked
from the saddle or raked with a desperate halberd-stab from below, but the wedge
remained intact, tearing forwards, heading ever further into the files of the
corrupted troops.

“D’you see him?” shouted Skarr, crouching low in the saddle,
his helmet drenched in blood and his sword still swinging.

“Not yet,” replied Helborg, impaling a dog-soldier with a
downward plunge before bringing the Klingerach smartly back up for another
victim.

Helborg felt stronger than he’d done since leaving Nuln. His
shoulder spiked with pain, but he ignored it. Like Schwarzhelm, he lived for
combat. Creeping around in the hinterland of Averland had been a drain on his
soul. Now, surrounded by the filth he’d dedicated his life to eradicating, the
tang of blood on his lips and the thunder of hooves in his ears, he was back
where he belonged.

“Keep on this course!” he bellowed, directing his galloping
steed towards a fresh attempt to halt them. “Rally to the Theogonist when we see
him. Until then, kill all who get in your way.”

With that, Helborg swerved to avoid a looming dog-soldier,
carving a deep gash in the mutant’s shoulder as he passed, before powering
onwards to the line of mustering defenders.

His eyes narrowed under the visor and a warm smile creased
his battle-scarred face. The hooves of his horse thudded as he hurtled towards
his next target.

“Sigmar preserves those who fight,” he murmured to himself,
licking his cracked lips with anticipation. “
Blessed
be the name of
Sigmar.”

Schwarzhelm strode forwards and the Rechtstahl trailed a line
of ripped-free gore behind it. He’d dismounted once the press around him had got
too close and now went on foot amongst his troops, carving his way towards the
sundered Imperial lines. Kraus was at his side, hammering away with his blade.

There seemed to be no end to the mutants, horrors and
dead-eyed mortals looming up out of the dark, faces blank and blades swinging.
The assault on Grosslich’s flank had almost stalled. Bloch’s men were capable of
holding their own but the Averlanders were less accomplished. Schwarzhelm had
seen dozens of them running from the field, crying with fear and leaving their
weapons in the mud behind them. Those that remained were now surrounded,
enveloped in the endless ranks of Grosslich’s legions. The mutants exacted a
heavy toll for any forward progress. Only Schwarzhelm kept the drive going,
hauling his men forwards by the force of example.

“No mercy!” he roared, stabbing the Rechtstahl through the
wheezing throat of a mutant and ripping it out. “Keep your formation! Fear no
traitor!”

He knew time was running out. They were too deep in to
disengage.

“Where now?” panted Kraus, fresh from felling his man. His
armour looked big on him, as if the weeks in the wild had physically shrunk the
honour guard captain.

“This is the right course,” said Schwarzhelm, dragging a
halberdier back out of harm’s way before crushing the skull of his looming
assailant. “Unless the Empire army has fallen back to—”

With a scream, something dark and clawed flung itself from
the enemy lines. It was cloaked in rags and had talons for fingers. The
halberdiers shrank back, bewildered and terrified.

Schwarzhelm brought the Rechtstahl round quickly. Steel
clashed against bone, and a flash of witch-light burst out from the impact.
Kraus leapt forwards, blade at the ready.

“Get back!” roared Schwarzhelm, his sword dancing in the
firelight, parrying and thrusting at the scuttling creature. “Your blade will
not bite this.”

Kraus fell away, blocking instead the advance of a slavering
dog-soldier. Schwarzhelm worked his sword with speed, matching the spider-sharp
movements of the horror. Every time the Rechtstahl hit, a blaze of sparks rained
to the ground. The creature leapt at him, screaming with frustration, talons
lashing.

Schwarzhelm ducked under the scything claws, shouldering his
mighty pauldrons to the assault and swinging the blade fast and low across the
earth. The horror reacted, spinning back on itself to evade the strike, but too
late. The Sword of Justice sliced through sinew and iron, taking off the
creature’s legs and leaving it writhing in the blood-soaked mud.

Schwarzhelm rose to his full height, spun the sword round and
plunged it down, pinning the horror’s torso as he’d done with Tochfel in
Averheim. It let out a final screech of pain and fury before the light in its
eyes went out.

With the destruction of Natassja’s pet, the dog-soldiers began to withdraw.
None of them could stand against Schwarzhelm. In the shuffling confusion the
halberdiers were finally able to push them back.

“Morr’s blood,” spat Kraus, looking at the twisted carcass
still twitching in the slime of the field. “What
is
that?”

“Another one I failed to save,” replied Schwarzhelm grimly,
stalking back to the front line. At his approach, the dog-soldiers fell back
further. Soon his massive shoulders were busy again, hacking and parrying,
driving the mutants inwards.

“Reikland!” came a voice then from further down the line of
halberdiers. Schwarzhelm recognised it at once. Bloch. The halberdier commander
was still unstoppable, as tough and enduring as old leather.

Schwarzhelm whirled round, hope rising in his breast. Drifts
of smoke still obscured the battlefield beyond a few paces and the ash-choked
darkness did the rest, but he could see the shadows of men running towards them.

“Hold your positions!” he bellowed, his gruff voice cracking
under the strain. He couldn’t afford for his troops to get strung out.

Then, suddenly, there were halberdiers around him. They
weren’t Bloch’s men, but wore the grey and white of the Reikland. They looked
exhausted, their faces streaked with blood and their breastplates dented.

“Against all hope…” one of them stammered, limping towards
Schwarzhelm like he was some shade of Morr.

Bloch burst from the right flank after him, grinning like an
idiot.

“We’ve broken through, my lord!” he cried, exposing the
bloody hole in his smile where something had knocked half his teeth from his
jaw. “These are our men!”

Even as he announced the news, more Imperial troops emerged
from the gloom. There were dozens, possibly hundreds.

“Maintain the assault!” growled Schwarzhelm, glowering at
Bloch and pushing his way past the limping Reikland troops. “You pox-ridden
dogs, form up like you’re in the army of the Emperor.”

Bloch’s men immediately responded, swinging back to face the
dog-soldiers and charging the disarrayed lines. Their commander disappeared with
them, in the forefront as ever, hefting his halberd with brutal enjoyment.

Schwarzhelm turned on the nearest Empire halberdier.
Everything was in flux. They were still heavily outnumbered, and their only hope
lay in restoring discipline.

“Who’s the senior officer here?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, my lord. Kleister is dead, and Bogenhof is—”

“You’ll do then. Get these men into detachments. Four deep,
ten wide. Do it now. Follow my lead, and we’ll clear some space around us. This
isn’t over yet.”

The halberdier looked back at him, first with surprise, then
with a sudden, desperate hope.

“Yes, my lord!” he cried, before rushing to form his men up
as ordered.

Schwarzhelm turned back to the fighting. If there were any
more of those creatures, he knew he’d be the only one who could take them on.

“What now?” asked Kraus, hurrying back to his side.

“Get in amongst these men,” said Schwarzhelm, striding
without break to catch up with Bloch’s men. “Get them organised and follow me.
There’ll be more of them as we go, and they all need leading.”

“So where are we taking them?”

Schwarzhelm turned back to shoot Kraus a murderous look.

“Grosslich must have seen us by now,” he said, his eyes
narrowing under his helmet. “He’s here somewhere, and when I find him, he’s my
kill.”

Then Schwarzhelm stalked off, massive and threatening, his
sword thirsting for the blood that followed it whenever it was drawn.

The walls of the city soared up into the sky, braced with
iron and crested with thirty-foot-high sigils of Slaanesh. The curving symbols
glowed red, throbbing in the darkness and spilling their unnatural light across
the storm-born shadows.

Volkmar was close enough now. He could taste the tang of
corruption streaming from Averheim, locked in the column of rumbling fire. There
were presences in the aethyr, darting shapes swimming in the currents of
translucent crimson. He could see their outlines, a twisted fusion of woman and
Chaos-spawn.