“Ogres of some kind,” replied Maximilian, his voice ringing oddly through his
helmet. “They’re a fearsome breed, from what I’ve heard. Fond of human flesh.”
He raised his sword in silent command and there was a scraping of steel behind
him as the ranks of knights all drew their own weapons in perfect unison.
Maximilian gestured to Ratboy’s sword. “That should serve you well, son.”
Ratboy nodded and lifted the ornate weapon higher, but as he saw the haunted
expression on Wolff’s face, doubt filled him. Just then another, even louder
explosion of artillery erupted behind them and Ratboy’s horse flinched
violently, almost throwing him from the saddle.
“Steady,” said Maximilian, as the first rows of marauders started to dash up
the hill towards them, led by the huge, lumbering ogres. As the creatures grew
closer, Ratboy realised he could hear their hoarse, grunting breath beneath the
wailing of the horn. He looked at Maximilian, wondering what he was waiting for.
In a few more minutes the monsters would be all over them. The baron was
faceless behind the polished steel of his helmet and did not acknowledge him.
Just as Ratboy was about to speak, a dark shape passed overhead. The archers
at the top of the hill had finally loosed their arrows and the dusk grew even
deeper as the lethal cloud filled the sky. The marauders were so close by this
point that even the fading light could not obscure their outlines. Thousands of
black and white-flecked arrows thudded into their thick hides.
Countless ranks of marauders fell screaming back down the hill, clutching at
their throats and chests as they went, but the ogres barely stumbled. They
hardly seemed to notice the arrows that sank into them. With a chorus of
derisive grunts and snarls they simply snapped the shafts and continued rushing
up the hill.
“They’re unstoppable,” muttered Ratboy, looking around to see if the other
soldiers would hold their ground in the face of such a horrendous foe.
“Watch,” said the baron, gently turning Ratboy’s face back towards the front
line.
The grunting, stomping mass of corruption was only a few feet from the
vanguard of Fabian’s army when, at the bark of a captain, the soldiers in the
frontline raised an impressive array of pistols, muskets and crossbows. The men
did not fire however, watching for the captain’s signal as the ogres lurched
towards them. Soon, they were so close that Ratboy could smell the thick, meaty
stink of their flesh.
At the very last minute, the captain stepped out to meet them. It was one of
the wolf-helmed Oberhau, and as the first ogre approached him, the captain
calmly fired his flintlock pistol into the monster’s head, tearing the skin from
its skull with a fierce blast of gunpowder. As the report of the pistol echoed
across the hillside the creature finally paused. It raised its hands to the
pulpy mess where its face had been and gave a grunt of confusion. Then it
toppled lifelessly back down the hill.
The captain dropped to one knee, lowered his head and pointed his sword at
the enemy. At this silent signal, the entire frontline fired their weapons. The
noise of so many guns blasting in concert was incredible and the hillside lit up
in a brief, sulphurous flash. It was so bright that for a second the ogres’
faces resembled those of grotesque actors, leering out into the footlights of an
infernal theatre. Then the lead shot ripped the flesh from their bones and left
gaping, blackened holes in their chests. Even in death, though, many of them
seemed incapable of halting; stumbling forwards even as viscera spilled through
their hands and their legs collapsed beneath them.
As a second thunderous volley tore into them, most of the ogres finally
ground to a bloody halt: only one actually managed to blunder, half-blind, into
Fabian’s army. It was even larger than the others and its misshapen head was
crowned with a thick, white mohican. The left side of its face was hanging down
around its neck like a glistening scarf, revealing its long teeth in a fierce
rictus grin as it stumbled, bellowing, up the hill. Black and white ranks of
soldiers crowded around the towering figure, trying to block its way, but the
thing’s rage and momentum powered it through them. Its only weapon was a
rough-hewn piece of sharpened iron, but the crude blade was taller than any of
the men who pressed around the ogre and the monster cut them down as easily as
grass, pausing only to tear at their faces with its gleaming, exposed teeth.
The ogre wove a spiralling, confused path through the soldiers and Ratboy
realised with a rush of dismay that it was heading towards the Knights Griffon.
Dozens of blades rose and fell against it, but to no avail. Then, with a crash
like waves against rocks the full force of the marauder army ploughed into the
Ostlanders. The battle began in earnest and the ogre was forgotten.
A cacophony of screamed commands engulfed Ratboy as the surrounding regiments
began charging down the hill, howling with fear and bloodlust as they rushed
towards the enemy. Meanwhile, clouds of arrows were still swarming overhead and
the
phut phut
of mortar fire had begun, sending whistling, iron balls
down into the approaching hordes, where they exploded into fragments of
white-hot metal.
Ratboy looked at Maximilian and saw to his surprise that he was still sat
utterly still. Watching with calm disdain as Hagen’s Claw descended into a riot
of fear and pandemonium. Behind the baron, his knights waited, equally patient
and at the baron’s side, Wolff seemed unaware of the fighting. His huge,
armour-clad shape remained motionless, as he studied his hands with a perplexed
frown on his face.
The injured ogre was now only a few feet away, hammering its brutal weapon
through ranks of men, utterly oblivious to the countless wounds that networked
its calloused flesh. With a roar of frustration the thing slammed its huge shard
of metal into a row of spearmen attempting to block its way, sending them
reeling backwards in a shower of splintered wood and bone. The men screamed in
horror and pain as the ogre trampled maniacally over their bodies, crushing
ribs, lungs and hearts as it continued up the hill. Then, with a confused snort,
the beast found itself facing a dazzling sight: Maximilian and his knights.
Wolff finally looked up from the back of his hands to see a bleeding colossus
staring directly at him. The ogre seemed enraged by the priest’s air of
devotion. Ignoring the knights it made straight for Wolff, raising the huge
piece of metal above its head with a belching roar.
Wolff and the surrounding knights scattered their horses just in time as the
hunk of iron sliced deep into the soft turf. Anger flashed in Wolff’s eyes and
as his horse circled the beast, he drew the warhammer from his back, testing its
weight as though he’d never held the weapon before.
Ratboy saw the muscles tighten in his master’s powerful jaw and wondered if
the priest’s anger was at the sight of the monster or at the thought of his own
inaction.
“Sigmar,” bellowed Wolff, with such fury that everyone within earshot paused
and looked in his direction. Even the ogre hesitated, lowering its guard for a
second and turning to face the priest with a slack-jawed grunt. “Absolves you,”
continued Wolff, slamming his hammer into the thing’s knee. The
crack
of
breaking bone rang out, audible even above the gunshots further down the hill.
The ogre’s leg folded backwards, sending it crashing to the ground and the
last traces of doubt vanished from Wolff’s eyes. Dismounting, he grasped the
hammer in both hands, strode towards the dazed creature and slammed the weapon
into its face. As he did so, the rekindled flames of his devotion rushed from
his flesh and into the metal, so that as it connected with the monster’s jaw,
the head of the hammer was throbbing with white, holy radiance.
The ogre’s skull detonated in an explosion of blood and light and it sprawled
backwards across the scorched grass.
Wolff looked around at the soldiers charging down the hill with surprise on
his face. Then he clambered back onto his horse and turned to face Maximilian,
Ratboy and the knights. His ornate, iron cuirass was drenched in the ogre’s
blood and his face was flushed with exertion but, as he wiped the gore from his
shaven head, he smiled at his friends. “We’ve work to do,” he said, nodding at
the carnage below.
The initial wave of ogres had been replaced by a crush of human marauders so
great that the Ostlanders were already being forced to concede ground. A chorus
of grunts and screams had replaced the sound of gunfire as the two armies locked
together in a heaving, flailing forest of limbs and spears.
Maximilian nodded in reply and signalled for his standard bearer to raise
their colours. As the cloth unfurled in the breeze, the baron snapped his reins
and began riding down the hill at a slow trot. Behind him, the ranks of knights
followed suit, maintaining their neat, orderly lines as they made their way
through the battle.
As they neared the bottom of the hill, Ratboy realised that despite the size
of Fabian’s army, the tide had already turned against them. Marauders were
flooding out of the darkness like a plague. The horizon had vanished behind a
sea of pale, muscled flesh and scaled, mutated limbs: Ratboy saw horsemen, with
long, drooping moustaches and others with helmets fashioned from the skulls of
great beasts. Behind them marched blue-eyed tribesmen wearing human pelts and
bearded, screaming goliaths with chains woven through their tattooed flesh.
Despite their initial display of firepower, the sheer volume of the enemy was
now overwhelming the Ostlanders. Guns were useless in close combat and the
bare-chested marauders hacked and clawed their way through them in an orgy of
bloodletting.
Ratboy swallowed hard as he neared the frontline. The din of clanging swords
and screaming wounded was horrendous and as the last traces of sun vanished the
slaughter became a strange, gruesome, tableau. The rows of grim faces looked
suddenly flat and unreal as silver moonlight threw them into sharp relief.
The crush of bodies was so great that before Ratboy and the others could
reach the marauders, their horses ground to a halt, hemmed in by clanking,
serried ranks of Empire soldiers, several feet away from the fighting. The
heaving mass of shields and spears was rocked by tides of movement, lurching and
stumbling from left to right and Ratboy’s horse strained beneath him, struggling
to keep its balance in the tumult. Despite his fear of the marauders, Ratboy
found it worse to be stranded like this, so close, but unable to act.
“What do we do now?” he called to Wolff. The priest was right next to him,
but he had to yell to be heard over the clamour.
Wolff was looking back up the hill at the banners that surrounded the command
group. There was no sign that Fabian and his officers were going to join the
fighting. At the sound of his acolyte’s voice, Wolff turned to face him with a
frown of confusion. “What?” he yelled back, leaning forward and cupping his ear.
“What do we do?” repeated Ratboy, raising his voice to a hoarse yell.
Wolff pointed his hammer at the advancing ranks of marauders. Their numbers
were quickly overwhelming the Empire soldiers. “Wait,” he replied, making the
sign of the hammer over his chest. “And pray.”
They did not have to wait long.
Far down in the valley, there was a flash of silver, as a winged figure
lifted up over the heads of the marauders. From this distance it was barely more
than a glittering speck, but Ratboy thought he could make out multiple pairs of
wings, shimmering in the moonlight as it flew towards them. “It’s Mormius,” he
gasped, leaning forward in his saddle to try and see more clearly. The din of
battle drowned out his words, but he assumed he was right. As Mormius
approached, Ratboy saw him raise a long, tapered horn to his lips and the awful,
undulating sound echoed around Hagen’s Claw again.
At the sound of Mormius’ horn, his army surged forward with renewed vigour.
They seemed utterly consumed by passion, howling furiously and throwing
themselves against the Ostlanders with complete abandon.
The captain of the Oberhau tried to rally his men, swinging his greatsword
with such phenomenal speed that a circle of headless corpses quickly built up
around him. As the marauders pushed the other Empire troops slowly back up the
hill, the captain found himself alone in an island of calm at the heart of the
enemy vanguard. As the rows of muscled, mutated barbarians crowded around him
the captain’s strikes grew so fast his movements were hard to follow. Only the
wolf mask of his helmet was visible, seeming to snarl with delight at the
constant supply of fresh blood. Finally, inevitably, the circle closed in on him
as the marauders used the sheer mass of their bodies to stifle his blows. Ratboy
saw the lupine snout of his helmet one last time before it vanished under a
tsunami of swords, axes and spears.
As Mormius’ horn pealed out across the battlefield, driving his men onwards,
Ratboy’s concerns about reaching the frontline evaporated. The Ostlanders were
now falling in droves and the fight was moving towards him with alarming speed.
A nearby group of halberdiers dropped their weapons in panic and tried to
scramble back up the hill, but they were blocked by the dignified, immovable
presence of the Knights Griffon. The marauders made short work of the stranded
men: hacking at their backs with broad, iron axes and ripping out their throats
with crab-like claws.
As the last of the halberdiers fell to the ground, Maximilian’s knights
finally had room to manoeuvre and he waved them on with a twirl of his sword. As
their chargers leapt forwards, Ratboy’s horse followed suit and he found himself
flying towards the screaming, blood-drenched marauders, with Wolff’s broad,
armoured back just ahead of him.
The knights fought with vicious, carefully drilled efficiency. Their swords
rose and fell in graceful arcs, quickly cutting a path through the enemy and
leaving a trail of broken claws and splintered shields. Wolff seemed-to forget
his brother for a moment and let the heat of battle consume him, swinging his
hammer with brutal effectiveness and screaming out blessings as he pummelled and
crunched his way through the marauders.