Scores were drowned in the icy, reed-choked waters, and soon the marsh was
thick with the dead.
Though a section of the Empire line was in chaos, as the blood-frenzied
mutated spawn continued to lay around them causing havoc, the other sections of
the army were unscathed, and they advanced upon the enemy struggling through the
morass in the dip below the moorland.
At a shouted signal hundreds of arrows were nocked to strings and crossbows
readied. Handguns already primed were lifted to take aim.
With a shout, the barrage began, and the sky was darkened further as the
first flights of arrows arced high into the air. Before they had even struck
home, a second barrage of arrows was launched. They fell amongst the warriors of
Chaos, and scores of men were struck. The shafts thudded into their bodies,
piercing chests and necks, driving through thighs and heavily muscled arms. Men
stumbled and were trampled into the marsh, but the survivors toiled on, and they
reached the rising banks of the morass, struggling onto solid, snow-covered
land.
The handguns and crossbows of the Empire spoke then, and great swathes of
battlefield were obscured by the smoke of the guns firing. The crack of the
handguns echoed sharply off the higher slopes, and hundreds of warriors fell as
the wall of lead shot struck. The powerful weapons punched through shields and
helmets as if they were made of paper, and more enemies were laid low as
crossbow bolts drove through flesh. The cannons boomed again and they tore
through the line of marauders.
Thousands of men were killed in the first moments of battle, but it was just
the beginning of the slaughter that was to come.
Surrounded by a circle of soldiers, Grunwald stalked out into the open,
kicking the staggering, bloody figure of the enemy magos before him. The crowd
were pushed out of the way with halberds and spears, and he came to a halt in
their midst. The sorcerer was on his knees, his chin and front soaked in blood,
and he made pathetic sounds of agony, his tongueless mouth wide and dripping
with gore.
One of the soldiers stepped forward at Grunwald’s order, and upended a small
barrel of oil over the witch, who screamed incoherently. Another handed Grunwald
a lit lantern, and he held it high above his head.
“Witness the fate of those who consort with diabolic powers!” he shouted,
turning on the spot so that all could hear his words. “Such is the fate of all
who oppose our lord Sigmar! And such will be the fate of the enemy army this
day!”
Grunwald brought the lantern smashing down to the ground at the feet of the
oil-drenched magos, and he was instantly engulfed in flames. His clothes and
hair were burnt from his body, and his flesh blackened and blistered as the
searing heat of the fire did its work.
Rising to his feet and with blood gushing from his mouth, the magos stumbled
towards the crowd but a solid strike from the shaft of a halberd smashed him
back to the ground. His tortured screams rose to the heavens, and the gathered
citizens cheered loudly, pounding the air with their fists as the enemy was
burnt to death, thrashing madly.
Within moments the life had departed from the witch, and he lay still.
With blood splashed across his face, Grunwald led the soldiers from the
crowd. As he broke from the heaving mass of humanity, he saw the lines of the
Empire soldiers and the swarming ranks of the enemy close.
Thorrik held his gromril shield before him as the barbarian hordes ran
towards the Empire line, screaming and roaring praises to their dark gods. At a
barked order, the halberdiers around him braced their long weapons, their deadly
spiked ends extended outwards towards the charging foe, a sea of metal that the
enemy raced into.
The distance between the armies closed quickly, and Thorrik saw the faces of
the men he was about to kill.
They were fierce, many covered in tattoos and war paint, and they towered
over him just as they towered over the men of the Empire. They roared as they
raced across the even ground, swinging massive war-axes and barbed swords back
for killing blows.
“For the Emperor Karl Franz!” shouted the sergeant of the regiment. “Now!”
The halberdiers took a step forward as one as the fur-cloaked northmen drew
close, thrusting the spiked points of their weapons into the foe. The enemy
struck with sickening force, and hundreds were impaled in the first onslaught as
they ran headlong onto the Empire soldiers’ weapons.
The men of the Ostermark were driven backwards by the sheer weight of the
enemy, and the screams of the dying and the clash of weapons was deafening. In
front of Thorrik, one bearded enemy warrior dropped to his knees as a halberd
point took him in the throat, blood gushing from the wound, and another roared
through clenched teeth as he died, spitted upon another of the long-hafted
weapons. A massive broadsword smashed down onto the haft of another halberd,
which splintered beneath the blow, and Thorrik stepped forward and swung his axe
into the midriff of the towering warrior, cutting him down before stepping back
into line with the Empire soldiers to either side of him.
The strength and weight of the enemy was immense, and they pushed forwards
relentlessly, drawing within striking range of the Empire line. Some halberds
were ripped from the hands of their owners as impaled enemies sank to the
ground, while others were smashed apart with heavy blows. The blood of the
soldier to the left of Thorrik splashed across the dwarf’s armour as a sword
blade hacked into the side of his head, the power of the blow ripping through
the metal helmet and skull with ease. To his right a soldier was cut down as a
heavily muscled barbarian smashed his blade down onto his collarbone, the blade
driven deep into his flesh.
Thorrik’s axe blade slashed out, cutting the marauder’s neck open, and blood
pumped from the wound before he dropped and was trampled into the ground.
The second rank of Empire soldiers lifted their weapons high, and the
axe-blades of the halberds smashed down onto the heads and shoulders of the
enemy, cleaving through metal and crunching through bone. Arms holding shields
aloft were broken by the force of the powerful blows, but the enemy was amongst
the soldiers of the Empire now, and the killing began in earnest.
Fuelled with growing resentment as the men at his side were hacked down,
Thorrik hacked around him with fury. He chopped through one marauder’s forearm,
the severed limb dropping to the ground, still gripping a sword tightly. With
his reverse blow, Thorrik smashed the axe into the man’s face, and he was
knocked backwards, his skull cleaved.
Blows rained in against him, but Thorrik weathered them all with dwarfen
stoicism, growling with anger as each attack struck against his armour. His fury
rose with each impact, and he hacked around him madly, his wrath lending him
strength.
Nevertheless, in a close quarters fight, the enemy were stronger, fiercer and
had less fear of death than the men of the Empire, and they began to drive the
Ostermarkers back. Scores of soldiers were dying, and Thorrik could sense that
the battle was shifting in the enemy’s favour.
“Knights of the Blazing Sun! Forward!”
The resplendent line of knights kicked their steeds forward, and they began
to gallop across the open ground, their lances held upright. Karl rode in the
lead, his face grim beneath his helmet, as they rode towards the melee.
The ground thundered beneath their hooves, and the preceptor felt a savage
joy to be riding into battle once more—it had been too long. Hearing the
pounding of hooves as the heavily armoured knights moved across the battlefield,
the enemy turned to face this new threat, and a splinter force detached from the
main force, its line wheeling to take the charge of the knights.
That was what Karl had been hoping for, and he altered the angle of the
knights’ approach, riding hard for the gap that was opening up in the enemy
line.
The banner of the order whipped like the sails of a great ship in the wind,
and Karl rejoiced at the feeling of speed and power. It had been a great honour
to be placed in command of the regiment, for never had he led so many of his
warrior brethren into battle. The head of the temple of Bechafen had taken the
remainder of the knights to the north-east, for word had come in the early hours
before dawn of a fast moving enemy strike force that was seeking to outflank the
Empire army, and he had deemed the threat serious enough to ride out and meet it
personally.
Turning his head to the side, he nodded to the knight riding beside him—the
only knight amongst the regiment who did not wear a full face, visored helm—and the man lifted a horn to his lips and blew a series of long notes upon it.
The sound blared across the battlefield before them, and Karl began to lower his
lance from its upright position.
“Myrmidia, guide my lance,” he said, invoking the goddess of his order.
The warriors they were closing in on hurried to close the gap in their lines,
but Karl could see that they would be too slow to react. Still, they showed no
fear, moving eagerly towards the knights thundering across the field. As they
pounded ever nearer and the knights lowered and couched their lances, Karl
picked out one particular warrior as his target. The warrior had a swirling blue
icon painted on the left side of his face, and the same marking was painted upon
his bare chest. In his left arm the man hefted a brutal axe, but his right arm
was what attracted Karl’s attention, for it was far from human in nature. From
beneath the warrior’s heavy metal shoulder plate it emerged, the limb covered in
dark feathers. There was an extra joint between wrist and elbow, and the fingers
had been reformed into the gripping talons of a great bird, though they were a
striking yellow in colour.
The knights thundered toward the enemy, and Karl lifted himself in the
stirrups, readying for the strike. The barbarian snarled up at him and ducked to
the side but the preceptor had fought for many years on horseback, and followed
the man’s sudden movement with his lance tip.
He took the marauder high in the chest, his twelve-foot lance driving through
his body and bursting from his back. A second man, close behind the first, was
also spitted on the lance, its length piercing his neck and killing him
instantly.
Then the knights were amongst the enemy, riding hard through their midst, and
Karl released his grip on his lance to draw his broad-bladed sword. His steed
lashed out with flailing hooves, crushing skulls, and more were trampled beneath
the weight of the warhorse. Karl slashed with his sword as the knights ploughed
through the enemy formation, hacking down warriors as they sought to bring him
down.
Their charge began to slow, and he saw several knights fall as their steeds
were cut from beneath them. Horses screamed as axes and swords cleaved into
their legs, and another knight was felled as he was impaled on a long sword
blade, lifted out of the saddle by the shuddering blow.
Karl shouted, trying to maintain the momentum of the charge, urging his steed
and his warriors on. An enemy grabbed his armoured leg, he slashed down with his
sword, opening the man’s skull, and kicked his warhorse hard, driving the
stallion on.
And then they were out of the frantic melee, bursting from the rear of the
enemy formation. Karl’s eyes widened as he saw what was waiting there and his
steed reared, whinnying in terror.
A spiked club almost the length of a wagon smashed into the head of Karl’s
steed, and blood splashed across the preceptor’s black and bronze armour. He saw
the ground come racing up towards him as his warhorse fell.
Annaliese stood watching the two forces embroiled in combat, their lines
blurred together in the nightmare of battle. Her breath had caught in her throat
as she saw the Knights of the Blazing Sun smash through the enemy lines, and she
wondered briefly if Karl was amongst them. Then they had disappeared, seemingly
swallowed up by the enemy, and she saw them no more.
Her breathing was heavy, and her heart was beating wildly within her. The
screams of the dying echoed dimly across the field, and the true horror of
warfare washed over her. Still, she tried to maintain an exterior of calm,
knowing that the soldiers around her were looking to her for strength.
The cannons continued their barrage, belching smoke and flame across the
battlefield, but she could see that the lines of archers and crossbowmen were
pulling back, jogging lightly towards the village, and putting more distance
between them and the enemy. The handgunners still stood in their serried ranks,
each line kneeling as they reloaded, allowing those behind to fire over their
heads.
The secondary line of Empire soldiers was urged forwards, and they broke into
a run to aide the faltering battle line. Annaliese found herself running with
the bustling crowd of soldiers across the snow-covered field, her hands shaking
as they clung to the haft of her hammer and her shield. She felt heavy and
constricted by the armour she wore, the unfamiliar weight awkward and shifting
as she ran.
Eldanair moved lightly at her side, launching arrows from his longbow as he
ghosted across the snow, his white fletched arrows arcing through the air to
fall amongst the dark ranks of the enemy. Even his presence did little to buoy
her, but she clenched her teeth and pushed her fear down, lest it overtake her.
She wished that Grunwald was with her, but she had not seen him since he had
entered the building in pursuit of the enemy magos. Where was he? she thought
wildly.
Hooves flashed around Karl as horses reared and bucked. He pushed himself up
out of the mud and slush, his vision swimming before his eyes. His sight cleared
as he raised himself to one knee and he looked upon the monstrous creatures
before him.