“We’ve been very lucky, it’s true,” said the priest. “From what the duke
said, this Mormius has been driving his men mercilessly for weeks without rest,
but we’ve managed to arrive at the end of the one night they’ve been allowed to
sleep.”
Gryphius drew his sword and held it aloft. “I hear you, Brother Wolff. This
is a unique chance. We’ll take them all on. The people of Mercy’s End will wake
up to see a pile of corpses at their gates.”
Wolff grasped the general’s arm and snarled at him. “They outnumber us ten to
one, Obermarshall, if not more. We’d never reach the citadel.”
“So what are you suggesting,” snapped Gryphius, freeing his arm and replying
in a tone of haughty disdain. “That we return to Castle Luneberg and wait there
to be slaughtered in our beds?”
“No,” replied Wolff. “Mercy’s End must endure, at least for a while, if
Raukov’s army is to stand any chance of halting this incursion.” He waved at the
captains who were hanging on his every word. “And an army such as yours could
make all the difference, Obermarshall. But only if they aren’t slaughtered
before they reach the citadel.” He frowned. “We need some kind of diversion.” He
looked down the hillside at Gryphius’ army, and beyond, to the ragged lines of
flagellants, prostrating themselves before Raphael’s corpse. “I have an idea,”
he said, and strode down the hill.
As the sun cleared the horizon, the flagellants descended on Mormius’ army,
pouring down from the hills like the end of the world.
Ratboy shook his head in wonder. The fury of their charge was breathtaking.
He finally understood his master’s respect for them. Raphael’s cult had swelled
beyond all recognition into a terrifying horde of willing martyrs. Their eyes
burned with holy wrath as they ripped into the side of the sleeping army. Their
screeched prayers echoed around the hills and their wiry, scarred limbs flailed
up and down, hacking furiously at the confused marauders.
“Holy Sigmar,” muttered Ratboy, as he watched the carnage from the other end
of the valley. “They’re going to slaughter the whole army.”
For a while it seemed he might be right. As the drowsy marauders lurched to
their feet, scrabbling around for their discarded weapons and blowing their
horns to raise the alarm, the flagellants tore through their ranks in a frenzy
of righteous bloodlust. They wore no armour, but seemed mindless of the vicious
weapons that lashed out at their naked flesh. Even from the safety of the
hilltop, Ratboy found it hard to see such bloody passion heading towards him.
“What did you say to them?” asked Anna, with a note of disgust in her voice.
She grimaced as the flagellants threw their naked selves into the melee, ripping
at the marauders’ faces with flails, clubs and broken, bloody fingernails.
“You’ve sent them to their deaths,” she muttered.
“We prayed together for a while,” said Wolff, ignoring the disapproval in her
voice. “And then I explained the truth of the situation.” He gestured to the
litter behind them. “Raphael’s rotting corpse was lashed securely to the planks,
which in turn were strapped to a pair of horses, in readiness for the charge
ahead. There’s only one chance that their prophet could reach the safety of
Mercy’s End, and it will require a great sacrifice on their part.” He rubbed his
powerful jaw as he watched the shocking violence below. “And sacrifice is the
one thing they have no fear of.”
With a scrape of metal, the priest slid his great warhammer from his back and
pointed it down at the battle. “Feast your eyes on this scene, my friends. Fix
it deep in your hearts for all eternity. You will never again see such a
beautiful display of pure, unshackled faith.” As Raphael’s followers bathed in
the blood of their foes, Wolff crossed himself with the sign of the hammer and
muttered a prayer for them. “You’re witnessing Sigmar’s legacy in all its
unstoppable glory. These people have His blood in their veins and His strength
in their hearts. While such devotion still exists, this blessed Empire will
never fail.”
He turned towards Gryphius. “Are your men ready, my lord? Our time is short.
Their passion will only carry them so far. A few more minutes and the enemy will
start to realise what a small force they’re facing. Then things will be over
very quickly.”
The general’s eyes glistened with excitement as he fastened his winged helmet
onto his head. He turned to his waiting army, arrayed on the hillside below. The
yellow and black of their banners whipped gaily in the dawn light, and a
thousand expectant faces looked back at him. “Sons of Averland,” he cried,
lifting his sword and turning his face to the sky. “Ride for your life! Ride for
the Empire! Ride for Sigmar!” With that he turned his horse and charged down the
hill towards the enemy, screaming with fear and delight.
With a great thunder of hooves and armour, his troops charged after him.
“Stay close,” barked Wolff to Ratboy, as he snapped his reins and disappeared
over the brow of the hill.
It was all Ratboy could do to cling desperately onto the reins of his horse
as it careered wildly after the others. The general’s quartermaster had buried
him in armour way too big for his wiry frame: an oversized hauberk, a billowing
yellow tabard and a helmet that immediately fell down over his eyes, leaving him
blind and helpless as he plummeted towards the enemy.
He dared to loose a hand from the reins and lift his visor. The eyes of the
surrounding horses were rolling with terror as the army plunged into the valley
at incredible speed. The world rushed by in such a sickening blur that Ratboy
thought he might lose his breakfast. Wolff was directly ahead, leading the
charge with Gryphius, holding his hammer before him like a lance and bellowing
commands as he went.
Where’s Anna? wondered Ratboy suddenly, remembering that she had refused the
offer of armour. He tried to look back, but it was too late. With a deafening
crash, Gryphius’ men slammed into the enemy troops.
Shreds of steel, teeth and bone exploded around them as they collided with
the stunned marauders.
Ratboy clamped his legs tightly around his steed and ducked low in his saddle
as violence erupted all around him. Horses fell and pieces of armour whistled
past his face. A chorus of screams filled his ears, but in the chaos it was
impossible to tell if they were war cries, or the howls of the dying.
As his horse’s hooves drummed furiously beneath him, Ratboy tried to take in
his surroundings. It was hard to be sure what was happening, but things seemed
to be going to plan. The formation of the troops was still vaguely intact:
pistoliers in the vanguard, followed by ranks of flamboyantly dressed knights
and then, at the rear, the dark-skinned freelancers from Tilea. As Wolff
intended, Mormius’ soldiers had all been rushing towards the screaming
fanatics, so this new attack had caught them unawares for a second time.
The Averlanders did not pause to press their advantage, however. They
ploughed onwards at a furious pace. The plan was simple: race for the citadel;
keep their heads down; pray for deliverance.
A succession of snarling faces flashed before Ratboy. They howled curses as
they rushed by, barking at him in the thick, guttural language of the northern
wastes. Their savage weapons clattered uselessly across his borrowed armour, but
he felt far from heroic. A broadsword hung at his belt—another gift from
Gryphius’ armoury, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove his hands from the
horse’s reins. Terror locked them to the leather straps. The noise and fury of
the battle was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Fortunately, his steed was
more experienced than its rider, pounding across the valley floor in an
unwavering line and smashing straight through everything in its path.
He heard Wolff calling out from somewhere ahead. “Raise the corpse,” he was
crying, his voice already hoarse from shouting. “Raise him up so his followers
can see.”
Ratboy risked a glance up from his horse’s neck and saw his master.
Wolff was still at the head of the charge, smashing through the thick press
of bodies like a vision of Sigmar Himself. He was stood high in the stirrups,
swinging his warhammer from left to right in great sweeping arcs, leaving a
trail of splintered limbs and shattered armour in his wake. “Sigmar absolves
you,” he cried repeatedly, slamming his hammer into faces and shields with such
force that his broad shoulders jolted back with the impact of each blow. Hastily
fired arrows whirred towards him, clanging against his breastplate, but he rode
on oblivious, dealing out Sigmar’s judgement with ten pounds of bloody, tempered
steel. The priest vanished briefly behind a flash of claret, and Ratboy thought
he had fallen; but then he reappeared, swinging again and again as his warhorse
galloped towards the citadel.
Gryphius was next to him, laughing hysterically as he fired his flintlock
pistol blindly into the rolling clouds of dust and gore that surrounded him. His
wavering tenor rang out through the screams. “For Averland! For the Emperor!”
Ratboy looked back over his shoulder and saw that they were already half way
across the valley. We’re going to make it, he thought with a rush of excitement.
The ragged line of charging horses was unbroken. The vivid black and yellow
banners had already cut a swathe right through the heart of the reeling
marauders. The speed of the charge was so great that hardly a single knight had
fallen. Most of the marauders were still busy with the frenzied figures at the
other end of the valley. To Ratboy’s amazement, he saw that dozens of the
penitents were still hacking their way across the field. The fury of their
attack had carried them almost to the command tents in the centre of the valley,
but it looked as though their luck might soon run out. Mormius’ army was
finally on its feet, swirling like an ocean around the villagers; hungry for
vengeance.
Hot, blood-slick hands snapped Ratboy’s head back and his horse suddenly
staggered under the weight of a second rider. Ratboy clasped desperately at his
throat just in time to stop the blade that was shoved towards it. His hand split
open like a ripe fruit and a thick torrent of blood pumped up over his face. He
felt rancid breath on his ear and a steel-hard grip tightening around his neck.
His attacker tried to draw the knife back for another attempt, but the blade
locked between Ratboy’s splintered finger bones. However furiously the knife’s
wielder wrenched at it, it would not come free.
The pain seemed remote and unreal. Ratboy knew he was seconds from death and
clutched at his sword with his one good hand, swaying wildly in the saddle as he
loosed the reins. He grasped the hilt of the weapon and began to slide it from
his belt, but before he could use it, his assailant hurled him from the saddle
and he slammed onto the rock-hard ground.
Agony stabbed into Ratboy’s face as it crunched into the dry earth. He felt
something click in his neck as the whole weight of his armoured body piled down
on it. Instinct forced him to roll to one side, just in time to avoid the
marauder’s axe as it slammed into the ground beside him.
He lurched unsteadily to his feet, feeling as though his head was the size of
a cart. His eyes were full of blood and the world swam wildly in and out focus,
but he couldn’t miss the figure striding towards him. It was the marauder who
had destroyed his hand: a beetle-browed goliath, with a neck as thick as a tree
and a great two-handed axe clutched in his meaty fingers. His scarred flesh was
naked apart from a ragged loincloth and a battered iron helm topped with a long,
curved tusk. “Wolff,” gasped Ratboy, as he drew his sword to defend himself,
“help me.”
The marauder grinned down at his prey, revealing a mouthful of blackened
stumps as he leant back and swung the axe at Ratboy’s head.
Ratboy tried to block the blow, straining to lift his sword one-handed, but
the marauder’s taut, knotted muscles were the result of a lifetime devoted to
war. The axe slammed the sword aside with such force that the impact made Ratboy
howl. His forearms jangled with pain as the sword buckled and bounced from his
grip. He staggered backwards and tumbled to the ground.
The grinning marauder advanced on him, drawing back his axe for another blow.
Horses and soldiers screamed past, heedless of Ratboy’s fate and he raised his
hands feebly at the approaching warrior, horrified that no-one would even
witness his death.
The marauder’s head collapsed with a wet
crunch
as Wolff’s hammer
pounded into his face.
“Sigmar,” gasped the priest, dealing him another hammer-blow to the head,
“absolves you.”
The marauder swayed back on his heels and gave a bovine ramble of pain. Then
he righted himself and grinned up at Wolff, snapping his nose back into place
and laughing as he spat his few remaining teeth from his rained mouth.
Wolff dropped from his horse and the two men circled each other, panting and
looking for a chance to strike. There was little between them in bulk, but
Ratboy could see that his master was exhausted. His breath was coming in short,
hitching gasps and the joints of his armour were clogged with mud and gore.
The marauder saw a chance and swung for Wolff’s legs.
The priest dodged the blow with surprising agility for such a large man,
leaping high in the air and bringing his hammer down with a grunt. It thudded
into the marauder’s thigh and the warrior’s femur disintegrated beneath the
weight of the blow.
The marauder howled and fell to his knees, with vivid shards of bone erupting
from beneath his leathery skin. His cry became a death croak, as a second
hammer-blow knocked his head back, snapping his neck like kindling and killing
him instantly. He thudded to the ground with a whistling sound, as a final
breath slipped from his severed windpipe.
The momentum of Wolff’s strike sent him staggering forwards into the fray and
for a second, Ratboy lost sight of him. Then he lurched back towards him with a
look of wild fury on his face. “I told you to stay close,” he snapped, grabbing
the whimpering acolyte’s arm and wrenching him to his feet. “You could’ve been
hurt.”