03 - Sword of Vengeance (44 page)

Gruppen wheeled round, feeling a sudden chill strike his
breast The ranks of dog-soldiers parted. In their midst was a figure on a dark
horse, clad in crimson armour and carrying a black sword. The rider came
forwards slowly, deliberately, singling out Gruppen and lowering his blade
towards him.

“You can take the others,” Grosslich snarled to his men.
“This one’s mine.”

Volkmar strode down the slope and into the thick of the
fighting, his staff burning with a corona of golden flame, his face locked into
a mask of mania. The Bright wizards flanked him, pouring bolts of screaming
orange brilliance into the ranks before them. Warrior priests came in their
wake, deadly and unbreakable, swinging their warhammers to crack the skulls of
any who survived the magisters’ barrage. Maljdir was among them, holding the
standard aloft, bellowing hymns to Sigmar and rousing the troops in earshot.
Behind came the columns of regular infantry, pulled along by Volkmar’s
spearhead, sheltering behind the white-hot path he carved through the sea of
enemy blades.

None could stand before the Grand Theogonist. Working from
afar, the Light wizards had cast at last, and their protection was on him. He
shimmered beneath an aegis of swirling luminescence. Those closest to him in the
Imperial ranks could see that he’d lost all semblance of control. His whole
being was suffused with the searing drive of faith. His armour blazed like the
morning sun, throwing spring-yellow beams of dazzling brilliance into the heart
of the horde. Grosslich’s troops, immune to fear, blundered into his path only
to be blasted apart limb from limb, ripped into flapping shreds of flesh by the
power of the Staff.

Stride by stride, the golden vanguard ploughed deep into the
massed ranks, an isolated pool of streaming light amid the spreading cloud of
ash-streaked darkness.

“There!” roared Volkmar, pointing ahead.

A war engine loomed out of the fiery gloom, surrounded by
ordered ranks of iron-clad infantry. It was preparing to fire again. Coils of
steam rose from the furnace at its base and a dozen Stone-slaves crawled across
its surface, adjusting levers and mumbling prayers to the Lord of Pain. The
daemon-bound machine soared into the night, vast and terrible, as large as a
siege tower and glowing with the angry sigils of the Dark Prince.

Undeterred, the Theogonist raised his bare arms into the air
and swung the tip of his staff at the mighty construction.

“Shatter!”

His staff exploded in a nimbus of blinding light. A ball of
golden fire kindled in the heart of the cannon barrel, shining in the well of
darkness like the full face of Mannslieb. The florescent sphere grew, rushing
outwards, bulging at the iron flanks of the massive machine and cracking its
metal hide.

The infantry around it surged forwards, crystal-bladed
halberds lowered, lumbering towards the bellowing Theogonist. From within their
narrow visors a lilac glow bled out, and a low canine growl rumbled in their
iron-cased chests.

“Forward!” roared Maljdir, rushing into the fray to protect
his master, swinging the standard aloft as he went. Warrior priests swept around
Volkmar and crashed into the advancing ranks of masked dog-soldiers, their
warhammers coming into play with devastating, neck-breaking force.

The Bright wizards stood back and sent a hail of crackling
bolts spinning into the flanks of the war engine. The bolts caught and kindled
on Volkmar’s holy fire and exploded in their turn. The cannon barrel expanded
further, stretched almost to breaking point by the vast forces unfurling within
it. A filigree of cracks, each leaking golden light, rushed across the beaten
iron. The furnace began to stutter, sending rolls of soot-clogged smoke coughing
into the night.

“Shatter!” Volkmar roared again, eliciting a fresh inferno
from the Staff of Command.

Still the war engine resisted, somehow maintaining its
structure in the face of the onslaught. The swirling maelstrom within it bulged
further, bleeding golden incandescence from the growing web of cracks. Metal,
hot as coals, showered down from the hulking barrel as the iron fractured.
Bronze bindings broke and spun free. The furnace choked out and flared back up
again, knocked out of rhythm by the ceaseless, grinding power of the Theogonist.

Then there was a great crack, a rolling boom. The air
shuddered, and the earth rocked. With titanic force, the vast war engine blasted
itself apart.

The huge shell of iron flew high into the air, pursued by a
deafening explosion of shimmering gold. The carcass of the monster was cloven
into pieces, reeling in all directions as the heart of the cannon was torn
asunder. Men and beasts alike were blasted from their feet, lost in the whirling
storm of consuming power.

Volkmar’s fire flared up against the daemonic energies locked
in the core of the device, flattening the troops beyond and tearing up the earth
on which it rested. Priests were bowled over alongside the creatures they
grappled with. The wizards were hurled back and the Imperial standard ripped
from Maljdir’s desperate grip. A backdraft of green-tinged flame rushed out in a
corona of destruction, spiralling into the night and blasting aside all in its
path. Men were thrown up like leaves in a gale, their armour shattered, and
hurled into the cowering forms of their comrades further back.

Only Volkmar stood firm, his robes rippling against the
howling aftershock of the cannon’s demise. He kept his arms raised, defiantly
screaming his wrath amid the shards of spinning iron. The halo of unleashed
power expanded further, ripping through the ranks of soldiers, shaking the
ground and echoing out across the plain.

As the worst of the backwash passed, Maljdir clambered to his
feet and staggered back to Volkmar’s position. All was confusion. Bodies,
twisted and broken, were heaped up against the steaming hide of the ruined war
machine. Dog-soldiers lay amongst warrior priests, steeped in a cocktail of
their own blood. The Empire spearhead was in ruins. The device had been
destroyed, but at a massive cost.

“What are you
doing
?” Maljdir roared. This was no
strategy, no tactical advance, just a headlong charge into the heart of
darkness. Already the vast hosts of enemy soldiers were coalescing around
Volkmar’s position, drawn by the destruction of one of their totems. Elsewhere
across the plain the Imperial forces were being driven back. Only Volkmar
pressed forwards, carving his way deeper into peril. The unity of the army was
fracturing.

The Theogonist looked back at Maljdir, hardly seeming to
recognise him. His eyes were wild and staring. His knuckles were white from
grasping the Staff of Command and a sheen of glistening sweat covered his
exposed flesh. His torso shivered with hatred.

“I will find him, Odain,” Volkmar hissed. “Do you not see it?
He
is here.”

Maljdir recoiled in horror.

“You do not—” he started.

It was too late. Volkmar brushed past him, striding through
the wreckage of the war engine, his staff a golden halo amid the fire-wracked
gloom.

“Everchosen,”
he whispered as he went, and his staff
kindled again with snapping, crackling fire.

In his wake came the surviving priests, the limping wizards,
the remnants of the halberdier vanguard. Inspired by his rampage, the Empire
troops just kept on coming.

“Tears of Sigmar,” cursed Maljdir, ignoring them and stooping
to retrieve the charred standard from the blood-soaked earth. Efraim Roll came
to his side, emerging from the press of men, his sword running with blood. The
confessor had a long weal across his neck and his armour was dented. The man had
been busy.

“We’ve lost him,” reported Maljdir grimly. “He’s gone mad.
You should’ve let me restrain him at Streissen.”

“
Restrain
him?” Roll shook his head in disbelief. All
around them the Imperial troops piled forwards, filling in the wounds in the
defence rent open by the Theogonist’s inexorable advance. “You’re the madman.
He’s the only hope we have left.”

“But his soul…”

“Damn his soul!” Roll’s voice shook with fervour as he barged
past Maljdir in pursuit of Volkmar. “This is about survival now. Keep waving
that damn flag, priest. If we falter now,
all
our souls will be
forfeit.”

Grosslich flicked an armoured finger and his dog-soldiers
surged forwards. They crashed into the circling Knights Panther, studiously
avoiding the one he’d picked out. The preceptor was soon isolated, cut off from
the battle raging around and left for Grosslich to deal with. Gruppen remained
on his horse, raging pointlessly as his comrades were driven further from him,
hacking at the dog-soldiers swarming around them in ever greater numbers.

“You have doomed them, knight,” said Grosslich, waiting
patiently.

The preceptor whirled to face him. His visor was still down
and his expression hidden, but Grosslich could sense the anger boiling within
him. He knew he’d pushed too deep.

“Do not
speak
to me, traitor!” spat Gruppen. “You
disgust
me. You’re filth. Worse than filth. The lowliest serf on my estate—”

Grosslich snapped his fingers again, and the tirade stopped.
The preceptor would never speak again. If he’d wanted, Grosslich could have
killed him then with a single casting, but he had no intention of doing so.
Sorcery was a useful tool, but it was no substitute for proper combat, fighting
the way a man should. Despite all Natassja had done to him, Grosslich had still
not forgotten his roots.

“Save it,” he said, wearily. “You’re a dead man, so at least
try to make this worthy of a song.”

He kicked his steed, and the hell-beast lurched forwards.
Gruppen did likewise, sword whirling, and the two men crashed together. The
preceptor was quick. He got his blade round sharply against Grosslich’s flank
before he could respond. The metal bounced from the spell-wound armour and the
knight was nearly knocked from his saddle by the recoil.

Then Grosslich brought his own blade to bear, lashing heavily
with his broadsword. The edge of it bit hard, carving through the knight’s plate
and digging into the leather beneath. The preceptor pulled back, somehow
managing to haul his steed round in the tight space and drag himself away from
the assault. Grosslich pressed the attack, bringing his blade back for a
decapitating lunge.

Instead of pulling away, Gruppen darted back towards him,
displaying incredible mastery of his steed. He ducked low to evade Grosslich’s
blow and slashed at his mutant steed instead. The knight aimed truly, slicing
into the warped creature’s scaly face and pulling the flesh from the bone.

The monster reared, almost throwing Grosslich from the saddle. Its clawed
legs kicked out in agony. Grosslich cursed, trying to bring it under control,
reeling around and out of position. The knight pursued the advantage, landing a
heavy strike on Grosslich’s back. Again, the armour was his saviour, though the
force of the blow knocked him forwards, further maddening his pain-deranged
mount.

Grosslich snaked back round in his saddle just in time to see
the knight’s blade coming back at him again, aimed for the head and moving with
bone-breaking force. Grosslich snatched his gauntlet up. He grabbed the
sword-edge and held it tight. Gruppen frantically tried to pull it back, seizing
it with both hands and yanking at the hilt.

Smiling beneath his helmet, Grosslich crushed his fingers
together, squeezing the metal and bending it out of shape. With a final twist,
the sword shattered. Still the knight didn’t give up. He continued to attack,
jabbing with the broken stump of his weapon, trying to find some way to
penetrate the spell-soaked armour.

Grosslich kicked his steed forwards and the pain-maddened
beast lurched straight into the knight’s skittish mount, knocking it sideways
and causing it to stumble. Whip-fast, Grosslich grabbed Gruppen’s cloak and
hauled him from the saddle, hurling him to the ground with a sickening crack.

Gruppen tried to rise again, dragging himself to one knee and
bringing his broken blade up for a new lunge at the mutant’s shanks. The beast
was now in range, though, and the animal knew the author of its pain. With a
throaty scream it reared again, scything its clawed feet before bringing them
down on the still-rising preceptor. One taloned hoof slammed against his
breastplate, crushing the plate and cracking the man’s chest. The other crunched
hard against his helmet, breaking the metal open and shattering his skull.

Gruppen fell back, choked on his own blood and bone.
Grosslich rode over his body, trampling it into the slick of mud beneath,
letting his wounded creature take its revenge. Only when there was nothing left
to stamp on did he pull the raging beast away, tugging at the reins hard. The
scourge of the Drakwald was gone, his proud career ended at last on the
corrupted plains of Averland, alone and surrounded by the enemy.