CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The tall elf
stepped lightly onto the battlements, her ghostly white waist-length hair flowing around her in the breeze. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and utterly flawless. She cast her icy gaze across the battlefield that raged below her.
The arrival of the Empire troops had been timely. She knew that they had been coming, but had feared that they may have arrived too late. They may yet be too late, she thought, but did not truly believe it.
'You should step down, Lady Aurelion. It is not safe.' said a soft voice at her side. She turned towards Carandrian, her personal bodyguard. He stood at her side, dutiful as always. He was a proud warrior, and wore a tall gleaming silver helm, as did all the Swordmasters of Hoeth.
'We are besieged, Carandrian. Of course it is not safe.' she said, and continued to survey the battlefield.
The Empire soldiers had swiftly reorganised themselves after their initial foray, and were on the move. They marched down towards the castle to engage the rear of the besiegers. Their wide battle line would overlap the enemy on the north side of the castle, she noted. That should draw the Norsemen away from the gatehouse, which was the only exit from the castle. The Empire knights had cantered along the hillside to the north, and were charging down from the headland onto the beachfront, slaughtering everything in their path.
The dull thud of cannon fire reached her, accompanied by puffs of smoke that obscured the Empire war machines from even her sharp sight. Crude, dirty machines, those cannon, barbarous and dangerous, and as deadly to those using them as to the enemy. She could not understand why anyone would wish to use the black powder favoured by the humans, for the risks were great. They have a different regard for life, she reminded herself. Their lives were so short that they did not see how valuable life was. Still, she thought, the life of a human was nothing to her. They were crude creatures, as likely to tend towards evil acts as good. She found it ironic that her forces were besieged by humans, and that humans had arrived to aid her.
The proud warriors of Ulthuan stood all along the battlements. Many had fallen, and Aurelion grieved for them, but many remained, defiant and honourable. They fired their gleaming white bows smoothly, mindful that they were short of arrows, and each carefully targeted shot slew one of the attackers. Even before the Empire forces had arrived over the brow of the hill, they had fought without fear, killing efficiently and ruthlessly with cold pride and nobility: true warriors of Ulthuan.
She glanced seawards, and saw the gleaming dragon ships cutting across the water. If the ships could land, the siege would be broken.
She stepped lightly down from her exposed position on the walls, and called across to Arandyal, the leader of the Silver Helm knights. Their steeds were standing still in the courtyard below, untethered - the steeds of Ulthuan needed no such crude methods to keep them from running away. The knights had joined the other warriors on the walls, lending their swords to aid the defence. Arandyal broke off from the combatants he faced, and ran lightly along the walls.
'My Lady Aurelion?' he called.
'Ready your Silver Helms, Arandyal. You must aid the humans to clear the beach.'
The elf signalled his understanding, and ran back into the melee. His men began to pull back along each side of the wall, fighting as they retreated towards the crumbling stone staircases at either end. The enemy swarmed over the unprotected wall.
Drawing power into herself, Aurelion began a softly sung incantation, the intricate and difficult words rolling off her tongue effortlessly, musical and beautiful. Raising her staff, she pointed it at the midpoint of the wall, where the enemy gathered in the greatest numbers. Searing flames burst at their feet, and they shouted in shock and pain. The flames took hold of the warriors, their cloaks, hair and flesh burning and melting. Screaming, the warriors stumbled blindly, falling from the walls and setting their comrades on fire. Aurelion extended the spell outwards, so that the flames ran left and right along the wall until the whole area blazed with roaring flames. With every second that passed, the flames roared hotter and higher. She could feel the heat on her face, flushing her icy pale cheeks red.
She turned back to look over the crenellations once again, and saw the warriors swarming below her. 'They come again.' she said as ladders were thrown against the wall. She stepped back, behind Carandrian. Many of the ladders were pushed backwards by the warriors on the walls, to fall amongst the tide of evil that swarmed at its base. Norsemen swarmed up the others, and the wall was suddenly the stage for vicious, close-quarters fighting once again.
Carandrian stepped forwards, moving like a dancer, and swept the head from the first attacker to leap over the crenellations with a sweep from his two-handed sword, the blade humming through the air. The warrior fell from the walls without a sound. Another fell to the blade of Carandrian as he plunged the weapon into its chest, the thin blade sliding through the ribs to pierce the warriors heart.
Glancing down, Aurelion saw that Arandyal's warriors were nearly ready. Most were in the saddle, their long lances held aloft. She signalled to the eagle claw bolt throwers on the roof of the keep to direct their fire outside the gatehouse. They reacted instantly, swinging their war machines around lightly, and began to fire down into the masses. Each bolt fired was four feet in length, and the machines had a phenomenal rate of fire. Dozens of the bolts streaked down, skewering the warriors beyond the gatehouse.
'Have the Empire soldiers engaged fully?' she asked Carandrial. The tall warrior dispatched another foe, his blade first slicing across its stomach and then back across its throat in a smooth motion.
'They have, Lady Aurelion. Now would be a good time for Lord Arandyal to sally forth.' he said calmly, the point of his blade piercing another warrior's neck. With a deft movement, he ripped his victim's throat out.
The elf mage signalled to Arandyal, who raised a hand in recognition and, perhaps, farewell. The warriors atop the gatehouse increased their rate of fire, sending arrows streaking down into the foe, clearing the immediate area around the gates. With a groan, the portcullis was raised, and the heavy drawbridge was released. Chains rattled as the bridge was dropped, striking the earth with a heavy thud.
A note from a horn was blown, clear and high, and the Silver Helms galloped from the castle and onto the battlefield.
'Prince Khalanos, cousin.' said Aurelion quietly. 'Where are you?'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Captain Stefan von
Kessel slew another Norseman, and seeing that no other enemy was immediately before him, took a deep, shuddering breath. His hand was slick with blood, and his sword was beginning to slip in his grip. Wearily, he wiped a hand across his blood-smeared brow. He winced as pain flared up his side. He could feel the scrape of bone as ribs rubbed against each other. He knew that he had been lucky, but it didn't feel like it. He ordered his greatswords to the north, to aid Albrecht's halberdiers still battling there.
The attack towards the castle had gone well. Caught between his advancing army and the walls of the castle, the Norsemen and the last of the remaining beastmen had been cut down without qualm or mercy. The impact of the halberdiers and the greatswords had been great, and the enemy had buckled in front of them. Those at the back were being peppered by the arrows of the elf defenders. Occasionally, magical gouts of flame would roar forth from the white-haired sorceress on the battlements. Charred corpses fell to the ground, but continued to burn, the flames seeming to grow hotter as the minutes passed. Stefan was wary and suspicious of magic generally, but he was glad that the sorceress was on his side.
The men around him were bloody and bone-tired, and all sported minor wounds. Many of their number had fallen, for the Norse were savage warriors, their skills honed by lives of constant warfare and battle. They were big bastards too, thought Stefan, generally standing a full head taller than the men of Ostermark. Despite this, his men had fought well, and at first had inflicted far more casualties on the foe than they had received themselves.
As the battle played out however, the greater numbers of the Norsemen began to take its toll. The Empire line had been pushed back at its wings. The only part of the battle line that had continued to make ground against the Norse was Stefan's greatswords. Even then, their forward momentum had gradually been halted, and they had fought desperately for some time not to be pushed back. For all that, Stefan was proud of his men, and none of them had fled in the face of the terrible enemy. Brave men, Ostermarkers, he reminded himself.
The enemy had been unable to move around the flanks of the Empire army, despite their greater numbers. The handguns and crossbowmen back on the hill had advanced, and their fire, together with that of the cannon, had kept the flanks clear.
Stefan prayed that the reiksmarshal was faring well, and that the attack towards the castle itself had drawn most of the Norsemen away from the beach. He had heard a clear, high note blown from a horn that was clearly not a human instrument, followed by the thunder of hooves, but that had been almost an hour ago.
A flood of Norsemen raced into view. He wondered if Albrecht had routed them, just as the Norse threw themselves at Stefan and his soldiers. They seemed desperate to break through the greatswords, and lashed around them wildly. Wearily, Stefan raised his sword and shield, feeling more tired than he could ever remember. You are getting old, soldier, he thought.
He blocked a strike with his shield and struck back, but his attack had little strength behind it and was easily knocked aside by the large Norseman.
'You are weak, little man.' said the warrior in broken Reikspiel, and stepped forwards to knock the captain aside. He stopped abruptly as an arrow took him in the neck. He stood for a moment, before tumbling forwards onto the ground. Suddenly, arrows filled the air, and the Norsemen looked around in confusion. A group of elf horsemen thundered by, firing their arrows with unerring accuracy into the Norse. The arrows dropped dozens of them, and Stefan shouted loudly, gathered his strength, and launched himself at the remainder. He cut down two of the warriors, plunging his sword into the chest of one, and the groin of another. Suddenly he was faced with men in purple and yellow.
'Albrecht!' called the captain. 'I'm glad to see that you have avoided Morr's touch.'
'Aye captain, I ain't ready for him to come for me yet.'
A deep roar echoed across the battlefield, louder than the sound of any cannon.
'What in Sigmar's name is that?' said Albrecht, and he shouted to his troops to about face, ready to confront whatever new threat was approaching from the direction of the beach. Leaving his greatswords to aid the other regiments of state troops to the south, Stefan moved alongside Albrecht, the halberdiers stepping aside to let them through. They could hear another sound - it sounded like the canvas sails of some massive ship flapping in a heavy wind. Air buffeted around Stefan and the halberdiers, who looked around uneasily. They were as exhausted as him, their faces pale and drawn, as they awaited this new horror.
The roar sounded again, much closer this time. Von Kessel could feel the sound reverberating within him.
'Sigmar save us,' breathed Albrecht as he saw what approached. Abject terror rippled through the halberdiers.
A massive shape closed on them, swooping down from the clouds and plunging hundreds of men into shadow. With a beat of leathery wings, the dragon roared towards them, flames blazing from its nostrils.
It was the colour of the sea, a faraway sea that was warm and filled with life, not the cold, black sea that lay off the coast where the fighting was taking place. It was a massive beast, almost as long as a ship from nose to tail, and its wings seemed to cover the sky. Great spines projected from its curling, flexible backbone, extending up its neck and forming a spiked mane behind its head. Its strong, sinuous limbs were powerful enough to rip a castle apart, and its jaws could crush stone. Its serpentine eyes blazed with an ancient, feral intelligence.
Though it seemed a futile gesture, Stefan drew and cocked the one pistol he had not yet fired, and levelled it at the monstrous creature diving towards them. Its mouth was wide, and its reptilian lips curled back, exposing countless massive teeth, each as large as a greatsword. It breathed in deeply, sucking up a huge amount of air. Any second now, Stefan expected a great gout of flame to engulf him, yet he stood, unafraid. He just hoped he could hurt the creature before he was slain, and he aimed at one of its baleful eyes.
Just as he was about to pull the trigger of his pistol, he relaxed his grip and pulled his arm back.
'What are you doing?' asked Albrecht through gritted teeth, but then he saw it too.
A figure, wearing ornate armour of glinting dark green, straddled the back of the blue-green dragon. The armour was shaped to mimic the dragon he rode upon, dark green wings extending from his artfully crafted helmet. In one hand he held a long lance that glowed with golden light and in the other he bore a shield that was unscathed by any mark or dent.
'It's an elf,' breathed Stefan. The dragon roared overhead, throwing dust and debris up in its wake. The men of the Empire turned, as one, to watch the massive creature hurtle past. Great gouts of flame suddenly roared from the creature's mouth, roasting alive dozens of Norsemen, their weapons and armour melting instantly under the heat. The dragon disappeared from sight for a moment, before soaring high into the sky once again, already hundreds of yards away. A pair of Norse warriors was clutched in the claws of the dragon, and as the stunned men of Ostermark watched, they were crushed in the powerful grip and dropped lifeless to the ground. Another figure hung, impaled halfway down the shaft of the dragon rider's glowing lance. With a dismissive movement, the Norscan chieftain was thrown to the ground.