Spiked chariots, their wheels flaming with oil, tried to turn towards this
sudden threat, but they were unwieldy machines and the Blazing Sun templars were
on them in seconds. Lances smashed the warriors from their chariots, and the
black, hellish steeds reared and bucked. One of the chariots hit a stone as it
turned, and as one of its steeds collapsed screaming, a lance buried in its
chest, the entire chariot flipped over, throwing its occupants to the ground.
The knights of Chaos fought back ferociously, their massive weapons cutting
the Empire warriors from the saddle, cleaving through armour like paper. The
impetus was with the templars of Myrmidia and they ploughed through the thin
Chaos line, killing scores in that first charge. Almost half of their number had
fallen, but they wheeled around towards the surviving, feather-cloaked
despoilers of the north.
The shock of the attack was now lost, and the two cavalry forces smashed
together as they both urged their horses into the charge. Within minutes, both
forces were all but decimated.
Thorrik hacked and cleaved as he stepped backwards, keeping pace with the
weakening Empire line. He hated the idea of giving anything to these enemies,
but he knew that if he stood his ground he would be surrounded in seconds and
cut down. How he wished he stood alongside doughty dwarf warriors rather than
these manlings!
He grunted as a sword smashed into his helmet. He battered the next attack
away with his shield, and carved his axe into the knee joint of an enemy,
splintering the bone and sending the warrior crashing to the ground. He
disappeared amongst the press, replaced by another pair as they shouldered their
way through the fray.
Feeling the fragile courage of the Empire soldiers faltering, knowing that it
would shatter at any moment, Thorrik roared and surged forwards. If he was going
to die here then at least he would make a good account for himself, enough for
him to be welcomed in the halls of his ancestors. He powered into the first man,
striking with his shield rim and crushing the bones of his arm. He buried his
axe into the neck of the other, and hot blood pumped from the mortal wound.
He deflected another thrusting sword blade on his shield, but a powerful blow
from an axe connected with his side, and he stumbled. He could taste the sharp,
metallic bite of blood on his lips, and another blow struck him, a spiked hammer
that smashed into his left shoulder, bending the ancient metal out of shape. It
could not breach his thick plate armour, nor the fine-meshed chainmail
underneath, but he felt his bones crunch beneath the blow, and shooting pain ran
down his arm.
Thorrik hacked sideways, smashing the axe into the ribs of an enemy. The
blade of the weapon was lodged there for a moment, and as he struggled to pull
it free, a swinging shield knocked him back a step. He lost his grip on the axe,
and was spun around as a sword clipped his wounded shoulder.
Disoriented and in pain, Thorrik sank to his knees.
Annaliese’s heart was thumping wildly as she charged into combat at the head
of the Empire line. She swung at the head of a hulking bearded figure that
towered above her, but her blow was easily intercepted as the warrior stepped
forward and lifted his blade into the path of the descending hammer. He died as
Eldanair’s sword speared out, taking him in the throat, and then the lines of
the Empire soldiers were blurred with those of the enemy as the two sides
smashed into each other.
Annaliese was knocked to the side as she took a blow on her shield, and she
cried out in fear, the battle a swirl of chaos all around her. The air was
filled with screams and shouts, the deafening sound of weapons clashing and the
sickening sound of swords cleaving through flesh and bone. She was bustled and
knocked from every direction, and frantically kept her shield up before her, her
eyes wide and panicked.
She looked into the eyes of an Empire soldier, his face covered with blood,
as he fell at her knees, and a sudden calmness descended over her. Anger and a
stubborn refusal to let the enemy overpower her rose within her, and she lashed
out, her hammer slamming into the side of the face of one of her foes. The blow
crushed bone and dislocated the man’s jaw, sending him reeling, where he was
impaled upon the sword of another soldier.
“For Sigmar!” Annaliese screamed, and struck again, her blow this time turned
aside by a warrior’s shield. Nevertheless, another Empire soldier stepped
forwards and stabbed his sword into the neck of the marauder, the blade sliding
easily through flesh.
“Sigmar!” roared the soldiers around her, and they stabbed and blocked
furiously, blood splattering.
Dozens were hacked down beneath the brute power of the enemy, but the
Ostermarkers pushed forwards, cutting and hacking.
Eldanair spun, his long sword in one hand and a knife held in a downward
position in his other. He felled an enemy warrior with his flashing sword, the
blade cutting deep into his neck before he slashed his knife across the face of
another, then reversed the blow and stabbed the blade up into the man’s sternum
as he reeled backwards.
The elf spun neatly, blocking a thrust that would have impaled Annaliese, and
stabbed his knife into an eye socket. Another blow that would have killed the
girl was deflected by the shield of an Empire soldier who died in the next
breath as a spiked hammer pulverised his head.
Annaliese smashed her hammer into the arm of a tattooed berserker, his face
transformed into a hellish visage of hatred and frenzy, crushing the bone and
rendering the arm useless. Ignoring the pain, the berserker swung a mailed fist
into the girl’s head, knocking her to the ground. She ripped the helmet, which
was dented out of shape, off her head, and stared up at the manic killer looming
over her.
A sword cleaved down and split the berserker’s head open, and his hot blood
splashed over Annaliese’s face. She looked up into the face of her saviour,
seeing Karl Heiden’s eyes through the narrow slit in the black and gold helmet
as his steed reared, hooves flashing out. For a second their eyes met, and then
the knight was ploughing deeper into the enemy formation, hacking left and
right.
Eldanair hefted her to her feet, and she wiped the blood from her hand to get
a better grip on her hammer. Then she surged forwards once again, hurtling back
into the fray.
Grunwald had seen no sign of Annaliese, but pushed on through the brutal
melee, battering his way into its midst, his eyes flashing around trying to find
the girl.
Through the chaos around him, he saw a short figure fall to the ground, and
broke into a run, bashing a man out of his way with his shield and clubbing
another to the ground with his mace.
Then he was at the dwarf’s side, just as knights appeared all around, smashing
through the enemy lines. There was a moment’s respite in the wake of the
thundering knights, and Grunwald dropped to one knee beside the ironbreaker. He
was amazed at the amount of damage the dwarf seemed to have taken—his armour
was dented and pierced in a dozen places, and his helmet and shield bore
testament to the number of attacks that had been landed against him.
“Thorrik! Are you hurt?” he shouted over the din.
“I’m fine,” snarled the dwarf, and Grunwald tried to help him rise. He
weighed a ton—it would have been as futile to try to lift a mountain.
“Get off me, manling!” Thorrik thundered. The witch hunter saw that the
dwarf’s left arm was hanging limply at his side.
“It’s fine,” snarled the ironbreaker, seeing Grunwald’s eyes.
There was a ragged cheer, and Grunwald straightened up, looking around him.
He could see few enemies, and these were hacked to the ground as he watched,
pierced by dozens of swords and spears. A halberd smashed down into the back of
a wounded enemy marauder, felling him instantly. The ground was strewn with the
dead and dying, and the soldiers set about them, smashing their weapons into the
fallen bodies of the enemy.
The word passed quickly through the ranks, and there was the sound of Empire
horns blowing. The enemy was in flight!
Men cheered and held their weapons up high into the air in defiance.
“Victory!” shouted one soldier, but the witch hunter shook his head, his eyes
locked onto the dark ridge overlooking the battlefield.
High upon the moorland overlooking the field of carnage below, a doom-laden
pounding began. It reverberated down across the land like the heavy beating of a
daemonic heart as the massive, armoured sentinels who had been overseeing the
progress of the battle began to beat upon their shields with their weapons in
perfect unison, the sound potent and instilling fear in the bloodied Empire
soldiers below.
Mounted on the back of its snorting hell-steed, the flaming blue eye hanging
in the air above its head, the warlord of this massed host of Chaos lowered his
long, barbed glaive towards the weakened Empire lines.
To the beat of the reverberating sound of weapons upon shields, the elite
warriors of the Chaos forces, the chosen of the dark gods, began to march down
to battle. And as blue flames erupted all along the shaft of its ancient
daemon-weapon, the warlord of the host descended at their head.
The fear projected by the dark warriors, who had long sold their souls to the
infernal power of Chaos, was like a tidal wave, and it burst across the Empire
lines, washing over them in an all-consuming torrent. Men cried out in horror as
they felt the icy chill that came with the wave of fear, and weapons dropped
from shaking hands as they watched the hellish figures advancing down toward
them.
Terror engulfed the Empire men and blue fire hurtled from the tip of the
warlord’s glaive. It smashed amongst the centre of the Ostermarkers, and men
screamed as their flesh was melted from their bones and their armour was twisted
out of shape. Terror turned to panic, blind and numbing, and the Empire line
broke.
Men began to stream away from the advancing enemy, banners were dropped into
the mud and blood and slush, and templars were thrown as their steeds bucked and
kicked.
Grunwald knew then that all was lost, all hope of victory gone as the
soldiers’ resolve was smashed like a fragile crystal beneath a hammer. Ranks
turned away from the hellish foe, and men pushed and shoved at each other in
their urgency to flee. All order was broken, and the panic turned into a rout.
Men were trodden into the ground underfoot in the frantic crush. Grunwald was
knocked to his knees, and feet trampled over him, kicking and lashing out in
their hurry to run before this infernal foe. He swore as he fought against the
crowd, and he lost his grip on his shield as heavy feet smashed down onto it.
He was struck in the head as he tried to rise, and was knocked down again.
The threat of being killed beneath the weight of the crush was very real, and he
fought like a cornered animal to rise above it.
He saw a flash of blonde hair and a panicked face, and he lifted himself up,
drawing one of his pistols.
Annaliese was carried along with the crowd, their fear fuelling her own, and
her mind was blank, her desperate need to get away overcoming all rational
thought. Then she saw Grunwald before her, saw the anger and strength in his
face, and her whole world became focused upon him. Her vision narrowed, and she
stared down the black barrel of the gun pointed in her direction.
The words of the witch hunter floated through her mind.
I will kill you myself…
.
Better that than let the soldiers see
their Maiden of Sigmar run.
She jerked to a halt, though she was knocked and pushed from behind.
It all came down to this moment, she thought. Let the fear overcome you now,
and if you survive, you will be running for your whole life, a slave to its
whim.
She had somehow lost her shield—she could not remember where, or how—and
she clasped her hand around the pendant of Sigmar still hanging from her wrist.
She held onto it like a talisman, like it would save her, something that would
buoy her in this sea of terror.
She turned around slowly, her head held high, standing against the terrified
flow of humanity surging around her. A shoulder struck her in the chest, and she
almost fell, but she forced herself upright. A hand clutched at her leg, and she
looked down to see the blood-splattered face of a soldier looking up at her with
fearful hope in his eyes. Then he was dead, dropping face-first into the mud,
and she saw the pole clutched in his other hand.
The banner was tattered and trod into the ground, covered with blood and mud
and grime. She reached for it, prying the dead soldier’s fingers loose from its
grip, straining with all her might to lift it. The press of bodies was too much
and she cried out in despair as the weight of failure fell on her as she
realised it could not be done. But then Grunwald was at her side, and between
them they managed to lift the banner up into the air.
It fluttered in the wind, rippling the heavy fabric, and then it streamed out
over the heads of the fleeing warriors. In the breeze, it seemed like the
griffon emblazoned on its surface was flying,
Grunwald felt a profound sense of awe as the banner was lifted high, and for
a moment it seemed as if a golden light surrounded Annaliese. She stood, strong
and defiant, the pole of the standard held in her hand.
“For Sigmar!” he roared at the top of his lungs as faces turned to his
direction. Men slowed in their rout as they saw the streaming banner of the
Ostermark and saw the battered and bloodied girl holding it aloft.
“The Maiden,” someone muttered and more men slowed, drawing to a halt as they
gazed in awe at the fluttering banner and the girl.