He saw Albrecht turn to flee, already too late. Zucharov stepped forward,
snapping the chains around his legs in a single move. In three strides he had
seized hold of the warlord and lifted him clear of the ground. Lothar counted
the blows as Zucharov fastened a grip upon the warlord’s leathery neck, then
smashed his head down, two, three times, hammering it upon the ground in a fury,
until his skull had been rendered into a bloody pulp. Then, finally, when it was
done, he saw Zucharov turn, and come for him.
Lothar opened his eyes. His body was trembling like a leaf, but he was too
scared even to feel shame. Nothing had happened. No one had moved. Zucharov
stood before him, a terrifying statue carved from human flesh, the shackles
still fast upon his wrists.
Gunter Albrecht was still very much alive, but he looked as though he had
been to the gates of Morr and back. The blood had drained from his face, and
from the corner of his mouth a drool of spittle ran unchecked into the matted
tangle of beard. Lothar looked at him and knew at once that he had seen the same
vision he had. They had all seen it, Lothar, Albrecht, and all of his men. The
warlord turned to the bounty hunter and spoke in a voice that was thin and
cracked.
“Get out of here,” he said, quietly. “Take that abomination from my sight, and
don’t ever come back.”
The bounty hunter left without protest, without saying another word. Once he
was well away from Albrecht’s men he stopped, dismounted, and found every last
piece of rope and wire that he could to add to the chains already fastened
around Zucharov’s body.
He tried to believe his prisoner was secure, at least for now, but in his
heart he knew he was only deluding himself. He had been deluding himself all
along about the true nature of the spawn of darkness that had come into his keeping. Whatever was
holding this man captive, it was not the puny bonds of rope and metal that were
placed around him. A power way beyond Lothar’s own feeble imaginings had brought
him to this point in time, shaped his choices and steered him upon his course.
The same power now spoke to Lothar, sweeping away the fear and confusion in his
mind. In a moment of stark clarity, he saw what he must do, and where he must
go.
Now there were no more choices. Now, a single destination beckoned.
The company of twenty rode out beneath the lonely skies, with the far hills
and the green blur of forests the only punctuation within a barely changing
landscape. This was a land that could swallow up a hundred men as easily as a
handful. The band of Chaos renegades had last been seen crossing the border from
Kislev a full five days past. Could they truly still hope to intercept their
enemies in such a vast and empty place?
If any amongst the twenty had doubts, Anaise von Augen was not one of them.
From the moment that they had ridden from the citadel, she had not wavered in
her conviction that the Chaos warband would be found and destroyed. The open
spaces of Ostermark were vast, but they were not without boundaries. The mighty
river that marked the land between Ostermark and Talabecland was one. The Chaos
warriors were riding south. When they reached the tributary of the great River
Stir, they would have to head either east, into the forsaken lands of Sylvania,
or cross the river into Talabecland, there to lose themselves in the forests
until they could re-group. But there would be no escape, Anaise had promised.
Long before they crossed the river, the soldiers of Sigmar would be amongst
them.
At first there had been no signs, no trace of their enemies’ path. But
finally the pursuers came upon a village, a handful of houses clustered around a
shrine. They were not the first to have visited. The Chaos riders had been there
too, and not long before. They had stamped their mark upon the village in blood
and fire, killing every living thing and levelling the simple homes in an orgy
of senseless destruction. Anaise rode through the ruins without stopping,
looking down upon the terrible carnage.
“Their lust for blood has betrayed them,” she commented, quietly. “Now we know
we are close.”
They rode on, faster now, fuelled by anticipation and a righteous anger.
Barely two miles beyond the village, they sighted their enemy for the first
time.
“There!” Hans Baecker shouted. “Crossing the brow of the hill right ahead. By
Sigmar,” he exclaimed, “there must be at least fifty of them!”
Stefan looked to the horizon. From a distance the other riders were dark
specks silhouetted against the hillsides, and looked little more than slow
crawling ants. The word that had reached the citadel had said thirty. But there
were at least fifty, possibly more. The men of Sigmarsgeist were seriously
outnumbered. But Anaise left them in no doubt, there would be no turning back
from battle.
“Whether they are five or five hundred, it makes no difference!” she
exclaimed. “They shall not escape us, not now.”
The line of riders broke forward, a wave of red pouring across the open
plain. Ahead of them the soldiers of Chaos, a jagged line of riders following
the green ribbon of the river that divided the land. A mile or so more and they
would come to the bridge at Bahlkurk. Once across, the dark forests of Sylvania
beckoned. They must not get that far.
Stefan pressed on, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline flushing
through his body. Ahead lay uncertainty: death, or glory. And in that heady
moment he embraced them both.
The Chaos force had superiority in numbers, but the pursuers had surprise and
speed on their side. The distance between the two was narrowing quickly. Stefan
and his comrades were travelling as light as distance would allow. The horses
bearing the Chaos riders were weighed down by their riders’ heavy armour and,
the plunder of their bloody, merciless conquest. The moment of crisis was near.
Stefan’s head cleared and he grew calm, filled with a quiet, almost serene
contemplation. He was on the cusp of battle, amidst the calm at the very eye of
the storm. Now, Stefan vowed, we shall show you such mercy as you deserve.
With a cool detachment, he watched the riders grow steadily larger. They were
not yet close enough for Stefan to make out whether they were men, beasts or
some grotesque fusion of the two. But it did not matter. If they had the mark of
Chaos upon them, then he would not rest until he had destroyed them all.
Closer still. A burst of speed and a break in formation told Stefan that the
Chaos warriors had realised they were being pursued. In the distance he could
see the ancient stone causeway that forded the waters of the River Stir. Too
far, surely, for the Chaos band to make the bridge before they were overtaken.
The dark ones would realise that too. There would be one last desperate
attempt to wring enough speed from their tired steeds, to try to reach the
bridge. Stefan knew what would happen next. Accepting that escape was
impossible, they would abandon the attempt. He felt the muscles in his body
tighten in anticipation as he watched the enemy riders slow then gradually wheel
away from the river, back towards them.
“Get ready,” Stefan yelled at the top of his voice. “They’re attacking!”
“Charge them down,” Anaise commanded, her voice shaking with excitement. “Let
the river be their grave!” Stefan held back for one last moment before the
conflagration engulfed them all. He pulled back on the reins, and took stock of
the horde now driving, full-on towards him. Of the fifty, a good dozen bore
standards, flags or colours rippling in the breeze behind them.
Some were undoubtedly Norscan, others had the shape and size of mortal men,
but disfigured by the hideous mutations of Chaos. Ragged antlers sprang from
human heads, and limbs sprouted cloven hooves where feet should have been.
Stefan shuddered. Was that the fate that awaited Alexei? Was it possible, even, that he was somewhere amongst them now?
He shook the thought away. All that mattered was the coming battle, the storm
of blood and steel that would soon engulf them all. The murdering Chaos horde
would have been dangerous enough on the fields of Erengrad. Now, desperate and
cornered, they had nothing left to lose. Stefan drew breath deep into his lungs
and released a long roar of rage from his heart. He kicked in with his spurs and
rode on, accelerating rapidly towards battle.
Drawn into the fury of battle, it was as though Stefan stepped from the
mortal realm into a different world, a place where space and time lost all sense
and meaning. Where a few seconds of desperate struggle could span an eternity,
or a lifetime be cut brutally short, ending in a matter of moments. As he tore
into the ranks of the Chaos riders, Stefan surrendered his fortune to the gods.
They would be his counsel, steer him and guide his sword. They would bless his
victories and sit in judgement upon his deeds. The day would come, Stefan knew,
when their judgement would fall against him. On that day it would be he who met
the falling blade. Too late to shy from the blow, or take refuge behind a
shield. Too late to fall back, bloodied but still valiant, to return again
victorious to the fray. Stefan would barely see the shaft of steel as it blazed
its fateful arc across that final sky. Somewhere in his mind he would say a last
prayer, and walk towards a vision of his father, waiting for him beyond the
Gates of Morr.
One day, but not today, Stefan swore. Sweet would be the day when he stood
within the halls of the dead, and embraced his father once more. But that day was not come yet. Today would be
a day for vengeance, another small victory in the eternal war between darkness
and light. Today he would reap a bloody harvest amongst the creatures of
damnation.
The twenty of Sigmarsgeist rode headlong into the enemy, the odds that faced
them at least two to one. But Anaise’s men were faster, and they were united in
will and purpose. The fifty or so they faced were the remnants of a defeated
army, men and mutants held together only by adversity. Stefan tore into them in
a fury his sword felling two slow-moving riders in the first assault. There were
Norscans amongst them, possibly even kin to those who had burned his village and
murdered his father. Stefan would take care to send as many as he could to the
deaths they so richly deserved.
Others amongst their opponents were mortal men no longer, no more than a
ghastly parody of human form. Amongst the wheeling confusion of horses and men,
Stefan saw creatures with bodies ripped open, living cadavers whose bones
protruded like ivory spears through raw, gangrenous flesh. Many had their faces
torn away, jewel-like eyes staring out at him through bleached skulls stripped
of skin. Worst of all, Stefan now saw the flags that they carried were not flags
at all. The fluttering pennants had been fashioned from human skin; grim
trophies flayed from the bodies of the fallen. A wave of anger and disgust rose
up in Stefan. These abominations would not see out the day.
He lashed out with his sword, a scything blow that cut through the guard of
the creature bearing down upon him. He had a glimpse of a face, a grinning skull
that snarled with the teeth of a dog. The blow cut away the monster’s arm in a
single stroke, but the mutant did not veer from its collision course.
“Stefan, to your right!” He turned quickly to see another rider racing in on
his flank. Anaise von Augen was a blur of speed as she closed upon the mutant.
Sunlight flashed upon the steel of her blade as she tore the leering skull-head
from its shoulders. The creature buckled and fell, breaking apart in a mass of splintered bone. Anaise was now under attack, two Norscan
mercenaries closing in on her from either side. Stefan spurred his horse
forward, putting himself between the Norscans and their intended target. The
first rider struck out at him hastily, a wild sweep with an axe which found only
thin air. Stefan made him pay for his wasted opportunity, aiming a blow squarely
into the other man’s guts. The second Norscan was younger and faster than the
first and for a few moments the two men traded blow for blow.
The Norscan got lucky, a thrust found its way through Stefan’s guard and
pierced the thin chainmail of his corselet. He felt the cold bite of the steel
as it cut into his flesh, and saw the sneering satisfaction on the blond
warrior’s face. The Norscan aimed what he intended to be the decisive blow, but
was too hasty. Your lust for death will be your undoing, Stefan promised. He
parried the blow easily and struck back, adrenaline numbing away the pain. The
Norscan tried to anticipate the direction of Stefan’s attack, but guessed wrong,
caught the full force of Stefan’s blade in his face.
Stefan charged the other man’s horse out of the way, spilling the blinded
Norscan from the saddle. Anaise had vanished again, sucked away into another
pocket of the battle. Stefan made a rapid assessment of the unfolding scene. He
counted two scarlet-dad riders down, but against that at least ten of the enemy
had already been accounted for. The Chaos warriors were fighting with an animal
desperation, but the odds were turning against them now.
Hans Baecker emerged from the crowd ahead, weaving between three mutants,
making every thrust of his sword extract a price. One by one, his opponents were
cut down. Slowly, the soldiers of Sigmar were gaining parity with their foes.
Something shot past Stefan’s face, grazing the surface of his cheek. He spun
around to see a second missile fly past, only inches away. He found himself
looking into the face of a young warrior, his ghostly skin covered in an ugly
net of grey-green veins. The apparition jolted forward, accelerating toward
Stefan. What had looked at first like the flaps of a coat hanging open around
him were now revealed as folds of red raw flesh. The whole of the creature’s upper body had been pared away,
leaving the ribcage exposed. The monster was plucking the bones from between its
ribs, and hurling them like jagged, bloody spears, with a casual, but deadly
ease. Stefan tugged desperately at the reins, weaving from side to side to evade
the deadly missiles, closing in upon his adversary.