Wolff and the others turned to see that marauders were now flooding the
hillside in such numbers that the Empire troops had no option but to retreat.
Huge crowds of the black and white clad figures were rushing back towards the
banners at the top of the hill. Trumpets were blaring in several places as the
sergeants ordered their men to retreat.
Mormius spread his wings to the breeze that was buffeting the hillside and
lifted himself up over the heads of his opponents. “I’ve no time to entertain
you,” he called, apologetically, as he flew up the hill towards the command
group. As he glided over the soldiers, he lifted his long horn from his back and
the mournful, undulating sound washed across the hillside once more, driving the
marauders to new levels of ferocity as they rushed after him.
Wolff vaulted up onto his horse and without even pausing to acknowledge his
friends he raced up the hill.
Maximilian and the other knights charged after him, led by the flashing shape
of Mormius. The retreat was quickly becoming a rout. A second wave of ogres had
swelled the ranks of marauders and as they grunted and stomped their way into
the fray, the Empire soldiers fled for their lives.
As they thundered back up the hill, Ratboy saw that the enemy had even
overrun the command tents, trampling the striped canvas to the ground as they
chased their prey. “Where’s Fabian?” he called.
Maximilian shook his head and gave no reply as they raced towards the tents.
As they reached the summit, Ratboy saw no sign of the Iron Duke, or his
officers. The tents were empty and as the Ostlanders saw they had been abandoned
to their fate, they screamed in fear and confusion, before fleeing down into the
narrow valley behind Hagen’s Claw. Thousands of them were already scrambling and
tumbling into the ravine, leaving a trail of broken weapons and banners as they
went.
Mormius was flitting back and forth like a carrion bird, searching
desperately for Fabian and lashing out at the fleeing shapes in frustration. His
great wings were silhouetted against the moon as he landed on top of one of the
stone columns and looked down over the battlefield. Even from such a high
vantage point, his enemy eluded him and the champion howled and gibbered at the
stars, as though the heavens themselves were responsible for Fabian’s escape.
Without their general to lead them, the Empire army lost all sense of order
and its neat ranks collapsed into an unruly jumble of beleaguered knights and
panic-stricken foot soldiers. Ratboy scoured the confusing scene for any sign of
his master, but it was impossible to make out individual figures in the riot of
plumed helms and tattered banners. This is it, he decided. This is the moment my
master feared. Fabian has abandoned his army to its doom. He’s led them here to
die.
The ringing of swords filled his ears and he turned to see that Maximilian’s
knights were now a lone island of purity, surrounded by a host of screaming,
grotesque brutes. The marauders were clambering over each other in their
desperation to attack the knights and Ratboy saw immediately that they were
about to be overwhelmed. “We must flee with the others,” he cried. “Into the
valley.”
Maximilian shook his head and hissed with frustration, lashing out at the
clutching fingers trying to drag him from his horse, unwilling to show weakness
in the face of such a barbarian rabble. Within seconds of Ratboy’s cry, however,
the whole front rank of knights collapsed with a scream of twisting metal and
injured steeds.
“Retreat,” cried the baron in a despairing voice, as several of his men were
dragged to the floor and butchered right before his eyes. “Pull back into the
valley.” He turned his horse up the hill and led his men in a desperate charge
away from the advancing hordes.
Even then, on the very edge of defeat, the knights carried themselves with a
quiet dignity that belied the hopelessness of their situation. As they reached
the summit of the hill, they slowed to a canter and formed themselves back into
neat, ordered ranks.
Maximilian and Ratboy looked back to see a myriad of grotesque shapes teeming
over the hillside: towering, slack-jawed ogres, sinewy, broad-shouldered
barbarians and lumbering, unnatural shapes, all heeding the call of the winged
monster perched on top of the obelisk.
“My master’s probably down there,” cried Ratboy, straining to be heard over
the din and pointing down into the crowded valley on the other side of the hill.
“He’ll be trying to find his brother.”
Maximilian had regained his composure and nodded calmly at the acolyte. “We’d
not last a minute up here on our own anyway. And down there we can at least
defend our countrymen as they retreat.” He signalled to his men with a flourish
of his sword and led them down the hill after the fleeing Ostlanders. “Whatever
Fabian’s motives,” he cried as they rode down the hill, “he was right about this
ravine. The pass is so narrow, the marauders will find themselves in a
bottleneck as they try to attack. Their numbers will work against them in such a
confined space. Mormius will pay dearly for every foot he advances.”
Ratboy nodded vaguely, but he was only half listening to the baron. As they
raced down the hill, with the enemy hordes at their backs, he scoured the crowds
of fleeing soldiers for any sign of a white-robed girl or an old man with pale,
staring eyes.
If there were any officers left alive, Ratboy saw no sign of them as the
reached the valley floor. The Ostlanders were less an army than a terrified,
demoralised mob. For months, Fabian had been the cornerstone of their faith: the
incredible luck and charisma of the Iron Duke had made the impossible seem
possible, but now he was gone the full horror of their situation had hit home.
Handgunners, swordsmen and halberdiers all piled together in a desperate,
headlong stampede through the narrow valley. The Knights Griffon brought up the
rear of the fractured army, but all they could do was flee with the others as
Mormius swooped down into the ravine at the head of his daemonic host.
“They must stand and fight,” snarled Maximilian, as they raced after the
receding army. “Where’s that wretched traitor, Fabian? If no one turns this army
around, they’ll just spill out onto the plains and be butchered. At least in
here we’ve
some
a chance of seeing the dawn.”
Ratboy nodded weakly, but could think of nothing to say in reply. He had
scoured the terrified faces that surrounded them, but had seen no sign of Wolff
or Anna. His oath to protect Wolff, whatever the cost, had been proven worthless
and he had failed the priestess too. He looked down at his beautiful sword with
disgust. What use had it been, in the end? As they fled from Hagen’s Claw, all
his earlier doubts returned to him. The Empire had raised an army of incredible
size, thousands of good men had abandoned their lives in the name of Sigmar and
what had it achieved? What began as a noble crusade was about to end as a
pitiful farce. He realised his dreams of following in Wolff’s footsteps were
nothing more than a romantic fantasy. As the army neared the end of the valley,
he shook his head in despair and let the sword slip from his hand.
A rolling boom, like the sound of thunder filled the ravine. The horrified
Ostlanders looked back over their shoulders to see what fresh horror had been
summoned to assault them. The whole army stumbled to a halt and gawped in shock.
The far end of the canyon was collapsing in on itself. The walls were engulfed
in smoke and dust as a curtain of crumbling rock hurtled down onto Mormius’
men. The champion flew clear of the explosion, beating his wings in a desperate
attempt to escape the avalanche, but the great host beneath him vanished, as the
walls of the valley slid downwards in a lethal, deafening storm of granite.
As the dust and stones settled, the Ostlanders stared in bewildered silence
at the huge, silvery cloud rippling towards them. Then a movement far above it
caught their eye. All along the sides of the ravine, rows of soldiers began to
appear, led by a proud, slender figure clad in dark plate armour and wearing a
helmet styled to resemble a wolfs head. Behind him fluttered a black and white
banner, showing a wolf and a bull.
A chorus of shocked voices erupted from the men around Ratboy. “It’s the Iron
Duke,” they cried. “He hasn’t abandoned us.”
Maximilian tugged at his stiff, silver beard and gave out a bark of laughter.
“The old devil must have planned this. He intended for us to retreat into this
ravine.”
Ratboy peered through the thinning smoke and saw the surviving marauders
climbing from the rubble. They made a pitiful sight as they dragged themselves
clear on twisted, broken limbs while howling up at their champion to save them.
Grey dust covered their bodies, giving them the appearance of ghosts, or
revenants, crawling from a rocky grave. “But how could Fabian have predicted the
avalanche?”
“He didn’t predict it, he created it,” replied Maximilian with a nod of
grudging respect. “I thought it was scouts he sent out here all those weeks
back, but they must have been engineers.” He waved along the top of the canyon,
where the ranks of soldiers had appeared. “This whole area must have been lined
with black powder, primed and waiting for us to lead the marauders to their
doom. And meanwhile Fabian kept back a reserve of soldiers, waiting here to
strike.”
He shook his head at the pitiful state of the Ostlanders that surrounded
them. “He really must be made of iron though. Rather than let his men know the
plan and risk it being discovered by spies, he let them fight on, oblivious to
his intentions, until so many had died they were forced to pull back in a
genuine retreat.”
Ratboy gasped at the brutal logic: to sacrifice so many men on a gamble made
his head spin. What if they hadn’t retreated? What if the explosives hadn’t
detonated? Then he remembered: Fabian would have no qualms about sacrificing
Empire soldiers if he was worshiping at the altar of some dark, ancient power.
As Mormius flitted back and forth above his screaming, broken wreck of an
army, Fabian led ranks of fresh men down into the valley. With a pounding of
drums and hooves they charged into the crowds of wounded marauders.
The soldiers around Ratboy lifted their tired heads and cheered. Then,
forgetting their fear and exhaustion, they rushed back down the gully, eager to
join the slaughter. Maximilian led his men after them in a slow, stately trot.
At the sight of Fabian, Mormius let out a strangled wail and dived towards
him. His wings blurred and he drew his greatsword from his back as he fell. He
smashed into the ranks of the Oberhau with the force of a comet, sending a plume
of dust from the side of the ravine. For a few minutes, Ratboy struggled to make
out what was happening. Then, as the haze cleared, he made out the two men,
locked in a fierce duel on an outcrop of rock. The colossal, winged champion
dwarfed Fabian, but as he swung his greatsword at him in a flurry of wild,
furious blows, the Iron Duke danced easily out of the way, wielding his own
sword with calm, controlled skill.
As the lines of fresh, eager-faced soldiers charged down towards them, the
surviving marauders turned and fled, limping and clambering back up towards
Hagen’s Claw. Many of them were too crippled to run and the vengeful Ostlanders
fell on them with undisguised glee.
As the clouds of dust folded and banked through the moonlit canyon, Ratboy
caught brief glimpses of the carnage. Most of the Empire soldiers had thought
themselves as good as dead, and their relief now manifested itself in an orgy of
bloodletting. Swords and knives plunged into the struggling marauders as they
reached up pathetically towards their embattled champion.
As the Knights Griffon approached the bloody scene, Ratboy saw a familiar
face and cried out with delight. The broad-chested shape of his master was
striding purposefully though the clouds of dust, still screaming his litany and
pounding his two-handed warhammer into the crumpled bodies of his foes.
“Master Wolff,” cried Ratboy, leaping from his horse and sprinting towards
him.
At the sound of his acolyte, Wolff looked up from his work with a fierce
expression on his face. The ornate scrollwork of his cuirass was glistening with
blood and his dark eyes were burning with rage. As he saw Ratboy his eyes
cleared a little and his expression softened. He looked down at his
gore-splattered chest and limbs in confusion. Then he lowered his hammer to the
ground with a
thud
and took in the shocking brutality that surrounded
him. In their fury the Ostlanders had become as bestial as the marauders,
tearing through the wounded northmen like rabid dogs. As Wolff’s fury waned, so
did his strength. He had only taken one step towards Ratboy when his legs
collapsed beneath him. He dropped to his knees with a grunt of exhaustion.
Ratboy rushed to his side and, taking his arm, helped him to his feet. “We’ve
won,” he gasped, trying to sound cheerful despite the horrific sights that
surrounded them. He gestured to the crowds of figures scrambling back up towards
the obelisks. “The marauders are retreating.”
Wolff’s face remained fixed in a grim scowl. “Where’s my brother?” he
croaked, through bloody teeth.
Ratboy pointed up to the duelling figures, lunging and slashing at each other
on the rocky outcrop. It was an incredible sight. They seemed to Ratboy like
gods, locked in a contest to decide the fate of all humanity. Even at this
distance though, it was obvious that Mormius was struggling. The whole of his
blackened left side looked twisted and deformed and his leg kept buckling
beneath him as Fabian forced him closer to the edge of the precipice.
Wolff’s amour rattled as he fought through the bloodthirsty mob, trying to
get a better view. He and Ratboy both gasped as they saw Fabian plant his boot
into the champion’s deformed leg and send him stumbling back towards the chasm.
Mormius’ wings thrashed one last time as he crumpled to the floor, but before
he could lift himself, Fabian turned on his heel and sliced his sword cleanly
through his neck.