03 - Sword of Vengeance (25 page)

“We
have
crushed Averland, have we not?” he murmured,
running his fingers up to her hair.

“Oh, we’ve only just started,” breathed Natassja, and her
pupils seemed like chasms to a whole new realm of terrible wonder. “Believe me,
my love, this is only the beginning.”

Bloch paused for a moment from the march, shading his eyes
against the setting sun. The sinking orb was huge and red, and the sky above was
angry and inflamed like a giant wound. He stood with Kraus at the head of his
small force, less than two hundred men, poised at the mouth of the passes. The
Keep was several miles behind, garrisoned and provisioned after two days of hard
work. Ahead of him, the land fell sharply, falling in a cascade of cliffs and
sharp defiles. The road threaded through the broken land before snaking
eventually down through the highlands and towards distant Grenzstadt. On either
side, the shoulders of the mountains reared into the evening sky, their
snow-streaked flanks rosy from the dying sun.

“You all right?” asked Kraus, looking at him keenly.

“Fine,” said Bloch, starting to walk again. He’d be pleased
enough to get down out of the high passes and back into warmer climes. There was
still another hour before they’d make the next way-fort, and he’d kept the pace
hard.

In truth, though, something about the sunset troubled him. He
remembered Schwarzhelm’s face before he’d left. Whatever he was returning to
face in Averheim had scared him. And that was where he was headed too.

“We need to pick up the pace,” he muttered, striding down the
road with purpose. “Marching down here in the dark will be dangerous.”

Behind him, the column wearily picked up their weapons, and
the trek resumed.

Skarr crouched down low under the cover of the trees. The sky
was a light grey, overcast with high cloud and full of the chill of a failing
summer. Around him his men did likewise, keeping their blades sheathed and
armour covered. There were thirty of the Reiksguard with him, the majority of
those who’d escaped Averheim and joined Helborg in the wilderness. He felt his
body tense for action, his muscles responding instantly despite the long days in
the wilds. His fingers remained tight around the hilt of his sword, still in its
scabbard but ready to be drawn.

His eyes narrowed. After a couple of yards the trees gave
out, revealing a slope of grassland and gorse. Thirty yards away, down at the
base of a shallow depression, was the road, one of the main trade routes running
east towards Heideck. On the far side of it the land rose again, enclosing the
route on either flank.

The position was far north of Drakenmoor. Word had come to
Leitdorf’s men that Grosslich was using the road for the transport of arms and
supplies. No doubt thinking the province entirely subdued, the guard was light.
Such complacence would have to be punished.

Skarr studied the descent carefully, noting the quickest
routes down.

“I see them,” hissed Eissen, crouching to Skarr’s left.

From the west, to the left of the hidden Reiksguard, a
caravan of wagons and carts made its way steadily towards the cleft in the
hills. There were about a dozen of them, heavily built and drawn by a team of
four horses each. All were covered, and the scarlet boar’s head of Grosslich had
been painted on their wooden flanks. In front of the wagons was an escort of
twelve mounted troops armed with spears and round shields. At the rear were
perhaps two dozen more, marching on foot and arranged in a loose column
formation.

Skarr watched carefully, judging the character of the guards
and their likely responses from the way they moved. Their captain, mounted on a
sable charger at the head of the escort, was a burly man with a shaven head and
a heavy coat of mail over his broad shoulders. He didn’t look like an
Averlander. A mercenary, perhaps, brought into the province by Grosslich’s famed
bottomless coffers.

The trail of wagons crawled closer. As it neared the
depression an order was barked out from the head of the escort and the guards
drew closer together. There was no real urgency about their movements, just a
calm, professional caution. They had no reason to suspect resistance; as far as
they knew, Averland was entirely at peace.

The first horsemen came into range. Skarr gestured to Eissen
in Reiksguard battle-signals, flickering his fingers to indicate deployment and
tactics. He was to take ten men to deal with the rearguard, while Skarr and ten
more dealt with the armoured column at the front. The remainder would hang back,
mopping up stragglers and ensuring none got back to Averheim to report the
ambush.

Wait for my signal,
he gestured, then turned back to the
road.

The head of the escort passed them and the carriages came
into the centre of the view, swaying on their heavy axles under the weight of
the cargo.

Now,
signalled Skarr, balling his fist and plunging it
down.

Silent as ghouls, moving as one, the Reiksguard burst from
cover. Skarr tore down the slope, drawing his sword and aiming for the leader.

It took a few moments for them to be noticed. By the time the
alarm was raised, the Reiksguard were almost on them.

“Ambush!” came a cry from one of the horsemen, and the
carriages ground to a halt. From the rear of the column the infantry guards
reached for their weapons, hurriedly pulling on helmets and buckling up loose
breastplates. A second later and Eissen’s men tore into them, felling three
before the rest began to mount any kind of defence.

Skarr felt his blood pumping fiercely. After so long skulking
around like thieves, it was a savage joy to get back to proper fighting.

The escort leader kicked his horse towards him, shouting
invective in some foreign tongue and pulling a curve-bladed halberd from his
back. Skarr ran straight at him, keeping his sword loose in his hand. On either
side his comrades fanned out, running at full tilt into the heart of the cavalry
formation. They all knew the effectiveness of cavalry on the charge, but also
how vulnerable the animals were once men got among them.

The black charger went for him, hooves kicking up turf as it
laboured up the slope. Skarr waited until the last possible moment before
swerving sharply to his right, dropping low and ducking under the swing of the
rider’s halberd.

The horse thundered past him. Skarr spun sharply, stabbing
his sword-edge deep into the beast’s hamstrings, severing them cleanly. With a
scream, the horse tried to rear, buckled, and collapsed onto its side, pinning
its rider beneath half a ton of muscle, tack and armour.

Skarr whirled round, hearing a second horse go down as his
men carved their way into the panicking squadron. Another halberd blade plunged
at him, stabbed down by a rider kicking a chestnut mount straight towards him.

Skarr spun his sword round, switching to a two-handed grip
just in time to meet the strike. He parried it away and leapt clear of the
charge. As the rider careered past, Skarr pulled a knife from his belt and
hurled it at the man’s back. He turned away to his next target, hearing with
satisfaction his blade thump into its target and unseat the rider.

The Reiksguard were everywhere by then, hacking at the horses
to bring them down or pulling the riders from their saddles. Two of the convoy
guards, seeing the destruction of their unit, tried to ride off down the road
and away from danger. Both were soon toppled from their steeds, clutching at the
daggers flung with expert precision at their backs.

As the defence collapsed, a third rider attempted to engage
Skarr, spurring his terrified horse at him and working to bring his halberd to
bear. Skarr danced away from the challenge, watching with contempt as the
panicked swipe missed him by half a yard. The rider’s horse stumbled on the
uneven terrain, caught up in the confusion of rearing steeds and flashing steel.
Skarr powered forwards, leaping up and grabbing the jerkin of the struggling
rider with his free hand. He pulled the man from the saddle and the two of them
hit the ground hard. In an instant the Reiksguard was on top of the stricken
soldier, sword edge at his throat, pressing deep into the skin.

“Mercy!” the man screamed, scrabbling for his own weapon.

“Not for you,” Skarr rasped, and yanked the blade down,
severing the man’s head cleanly. Then he was up on his feet again, poised for a
fresh attack, sword swinging into position.

The skirmish was over. Eissen’s men had wiped out the
rearguard and were hastening to the head of the column to join him. The convoy’s
riders lay amongst their dead mounts, slaughtered to a man by the sudden
assault. The Reiksguard were the deadliest troops in the Imperial army, and the
fighting had been almost embarrassingly one-sided.

“Secure those carts,” spat Skarr to Eissen, wiping the gore
from his face and looking round to check for casualties.

On the ground, whimpering from pain, the leader of the escort
still lived. Half of him was trapped under the flank of his steed, and his
attempts to crawl free were pitiful. Skarr walked up to him and crouched down
close, keeping his blade unsheathed. The man’s face was pale, and lines of blood
ran down from the corners of his mouth. It looked like his ribcage had been
driven in, and his breathing was thin and halting.

Skarr grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back
sharply.

“Who sent you?” he hissed. “You’re no Averlander.”

The man’s eyes narrowed in pain, but he somehow managed to
spit a gobbet of phlegm into the Reiksguard captain’s eyes.

Skarr laughed harshly.

“Good man,” he said, wiping his face and letting the man’s
head fall back against the turf. “Do it again, though, and I’ll cut your balls
off.”

He pressed his blade against the man’s neck, watching as the
honed edge parted the flesh. The rider grimaced, and his defiance ebbed.

“So I say again, who sent you?”

“You no Averlander neither,” the captain panted, his teeth
red with blood, his speech slurred and heavy with a north Tilean accent. “All
this for she. You stand no chance of it. Not against she.”

He tried a crooked smile, but the effort was too much. Blood
and phlegm rose up his throat, and he began to retch.

Skarr withdrew, watching the man die impassively. Eissen came
up to him, wiping his blade down with a handful of grass.

“Get anything from him?”

Skarr shook his head. “Dogs of war,” he said. “They know
nothing. Let’s get the carts open.”

As the Reiksguard dragged the bodies into a pile at the front
of the caravan and retrieved the surviving horses, Skarr and Eissen mounted the
first of the wagons. The driver shrank back from them as they climbed up, face
white with fear. Unlike his escort, he looked like a proper Averland merchant,
full-cheeked and running to a comfortable layer of fat. Skarr ignored him.
Behind the driver’s position there was a locked door. He kicked it heavily and
the wood around the lock splintered and broke. Inside the wagon were crates, all
of them bound with iron and locked tight. He pulled one out with difficulty. It
was heavy, and the clink of metal came from within.

“Money,” said Skarr.

“Lots of it,” agreed Eissen. He turned to the cart’s driver.
“Are all the wagons full of this stuff?”

The man nodded emphatically, eager to please. “And arms. The
elector’s been recruiting hard.”

Further down the convoy there came the sound of Reiksguard
breaking into more caches. Skarr clapped his hand on the shoulder of the driver,
and the man winced under the impact.

“You’re a good Averlander,” the preceptor said. “You don’t
need to spend your time working for these people.”

The driver looked back at him, still terrified, his fingers
clutching the reins of his horses tightly.

“What’ll I do? What do you want me to do?”

Skarr smiled, and the lattice of pale lines on his face
creased.

“My men’ll take these carts south. Take heart, my friend. An
army is growing, and you’re going to be a part of it.”

The driver didn’t seem to know whether to look pleased by
that or not.

“Play that part well, and this could be good for you,”
continued Skarr. “Lord Helborg knows how to reward those who serve him.”

“Helborg!” gasped the driver, eyes widening further.

“That’s right. Get used it. You’re working for the
Reiksmarshal now.”

* * *

Volkmar pushed his warhorse up the ridge above the road,
feeling the cleansing wind ruffle his cloak. Efraim Roll was with him, as was a
guard of twenty mounted warrior priests, all clad in heavy plate armour and
carrying warhammers inscribed with the livery of the Cult of Sigmar. The
Theogonist himself had donned bronze-lined armour of an ancient lineage, covered
in runes of destruction and adorned across the breastplate with a priceless jade
griffon, pinions outstretched.