Mark of Chaos (35 page)

One of the crewmen of the
Wrath of Sigmar
swore suddenly. 'What is it?' asked Markus sharply.

The crewman held up his thumb. 'Caught it in the gears, sir. Hurts like hell.'

'If that is the only thing you are worried about, then you are a braver man than me, or just plain stupid,' replied Markus in a scathing voice. 'I'd be inclined to lean towards the latter. How is Hans?'

'He's bled almost dry, but he is alive, for now,' replied the man, motioning towards the unconscious man slumped against the wall. Blood pooled out below him, seeping through the cloth bindings that had hastily been bandaged around him. A misfired handgun shot had ricocheted off the wall and struck him in the stomach. Markus would be surprised if the man survived. It was a shame, for Hans was one of the more efficient of the cannon crew, but then it probably mattered little, for the siege was rapidly nearing its end, and the engineer was pessimistic about the outcome.

Markus believed that the enemy
would
make it across the killing ground below. There were just too few of them to halt the tide completely, but he knew that it would be no easy task for them, and that they could lose hundreds of warriors in the process, perhaps a thousand. There was enough powder and shot to last almost half an hour of firing. He hoped that was enough time for von Kessel to organise his defences, and that his guns could inflict enough casualties on the enemy for him to stand any chance of survival once they
did
break through.

The engineer held the captain in high esteem. He was certainly not the brightest man he had ever met, and was in no way a good speaker, but then he was a soldier, and Markus respected his skills and instincts in war as he respected none other than the reiksmarshal himself. He knew that the captain was a battle-hardened general, and that if there was a way for victory to be secured, then he would fight hard to find it, but the engineer was not hopeful.

The balcony where Markus stood with the
Wrath of Sigmar
was some twenty feet above the cobbled killing ground. Fifty feet of open ground, with eight grapeshot-loaded cannon and the helblaster to guard it. There were other defences: searing oil had been heated and was ready to pour down through the murder-holes, and there were several handgunners to pick off any survivors of the cannon's fury. The men waited tensely as the roars of unearthly fury echoed up to them. They had not sighted the enemy yet, but they knew that this vanguard force was not human.

The gears of the portcullis strained as the enemies below attempted to lift the massive iron gate. That was not going to happen, Markus thought, having surveyed the mechanisms earlier in the week - massive cogs and wheels that once locked in place would be impossible to shift without completely destroying them. Those below clearly came to the same conclusion, and the sound of a heavy weight smashing against the iron echoed through the tunnel. It sounded to Markus like a battering ram.

Hroth threw himself
against the portcullis again, and the metal began to buckle under the force. He took a step back and threw his shoulder against the iron latticework once more, wrenching it further out of shape.

Hans stirred in
his unconsciousness, the pounding and wrenching of metal piercing his comatose mind. Blood pooled out beneath him, and he groaned in pain and horror. His eyes opened heavily, waking to a nightmare. A daemon was rising from the blood pooled out before him, curving horns rising from its long head, its eyes blazing with fire and hatred. Hans tried to cry out, but his throat was dry and sore, and his weak croak was drowned out by the wrenching of metal from below. The bloodletter rose fully from the blood,
his
blood, and opened its fang-filled mouth, snarling at him. It rammed its hellblade into his guts, and then turned its gaze upon the other men on the balcony, whose backs were to it. It leapt forwards, roaring in bloodlust, and swung its deadly weapon into the back of the closest man.

Markus spun around as the hellish roar was joined by a scream of pain. Blood splashed over his face and across his silk shirt as the man besides him was decapitated. The bloodletter, towering over him, roared and cut down another two men in an instant before launching itself at the engineer.

Markus quailed and staggered backwards in horror. The hellblade slammed into his shoulder, shattering bone and cutting deep. He screamed and fell to the ground. Stepping close to deliver the fatal blow, the bloodletter suddenly staggered forwards, struck from behind by a handgun shot. It swung away from Markus, snarling in anger, seeking its foe. Fiery eyes narrowed as it saw the man frantically reloading his gun, and the daemon leapt towards him, cutting down everyone in its path. With a roar, the daemon leapt at the man, cleaving its massive blade straight through his ribcage, sending fountains of blood spraying into the air.

Markus felt his lifeblood seeping from his body and out onto the floor. He felt suddenly tired, and a strange sense of calm descended on him. All he wanted to do was to sleep. He closed his eyes.

Within a minute, every crewman on the balcony was dead. The frenzied bloodletter was finally brought down by a handgun shot, even as it delivered the fatal blow to this last defender. Still, the daemon had done its work - the deadly guns protecting the killing ground had been silenced before they had even fired their first shot.

With a roar
, Hroth hurled himself at the portcullis a final time, and the iron buckled and gave way before him. Bellowing in triumph, he led the charge across the cobbled floor of the inner fortress. The bloodletters raced at his side, and behind them came the full force of the army of Hroth the Blooded. The final battle was at hand, and the fate of Talabheim hung in the balance.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The legion of
daemons burst out of the inner fortress, the heavy gate smashed into a million shards of tinder. Into the fields of Talabheim they raced, intent on slaughter and bloodshed. Stefan shouted, and handguns and crossbows fired, scything down many of the daemons, but still more raced towards the thinly spread Empire lines. The great beast beneath Stefan growled dangerously at the daemons, and he patted its muscular side comfortingly. She was a magnificent creature. Eagle-headed, with the body of a massive lioness, she was an awesomely powerful mount, easily capable of ripping apart fully armoured knights with her taloned forelegs and her leonine back legs. She could kill a man instantly with a single bite of her tooth-filled, wickedly sharp beak, and her large eyes stared angrily at the daemons as they raced towards the Empire lines. Fearless and proud, the griffon was a noble creature, and Stefan felt honoured that she had accepted him as her rider.

On the point of exhaustion, the halberdiers and swordsmen readied themselves for this final assault, fear in their hearts. The only defenders who seemed unconcerned by the enemy were the last twelve elf swordmasters, standing protectively around the mage Aurelion. Stefan could feel the tension and terror of his troops - in truth he felt it himself - and he called out to steady them, invoking the name of the warrior god Sigmar.

Hearing the captain's voice, the massive, winged daemon prince swung its heavy head towards him. In a voice filled with hatred and derision, it spoke. 'Your god is nothing, little mortal.'

The creature spoke in the maddening tongue of the daemon, yet Stefan and the last of his soldiers could somehow understand the words, as if they were spoken directly into their minds. 'Your god was a mere mortal - nothing more. The true gods of Chaos feast upon his soul, just as I will feast upon yours.'

Captain Stefan von Kessel felt the words claw at the edges of his sanity, and his stomach knotted in horror. A man to his left dropped his weapon and fell to the ground, clutching his head in his hands. Others swore, or made protective symbols to ward off evil. The resolve of the soldiers withered away, and every man on the field of battle knew that he had only moments to live. Stefan felt his faith in Sigmar falter, and doubts filled him. What if the daemon spoke the truth? Despair pulled at him, and he barely resisted the urge to flee.

A single figure stepped forwards to face the charging daemons. Gripping his heavy warhammer tightly, the figure of the warrior priest, Gunthar, stood defiant, his eyes glowing with righteous anger. The daemon prince slowed his charge, allowing his bloodletters the honour of cutting down this one, and they roared as they closed on the single figure, swinging their murderous hellblades.

'In Sigmar's name, begone, daemon filth!' roared Gunthar, hefting his warhammer high over his head. A halo of light surrounded him, bright and pure. The daemons shied away from the searing glow. With a shout, Gunthar slammed his hammer into the ground, and the light surrounding him exploded outwards, engulfing the bloodletters. They bellowed in pain and rage as their physical forms were ripped apart, the essence of Chaos that kept them in corporeal form melting away as they were sucked back to their native realm.

The light faded. The daemons were all gone, except the towering form of Hroth who was stalking murderously towards the warrior priest. His mortal army burst from the inner fortress, and began to pour out around him onto the field. Hatred billowed from the daemon prince like a dark cloud, and it leapt towards Gunthar, roaring in rage.

The warrior priest leapt at the massive daemon as it screamed towards him, hefting his hammer. The Slayer of Kings flashed down, meeting the hammer in an explosion of sparks. Swinging its heavy axe, the daemon slammed it into the warrior priest's chest, and the man was sent flying through the air, his armour and ribs crushed.

Hroth the Blooded raised both his weapons and roared his triumph to the heavens. The warbands behind him raised their weapons, and their bellows and shouts mingled with his roar, and they charged into the Empire lines, hacking and cutting.

The time for
strategy and planning was done. The day would be won or lost on the courage of the warriors of the Empire. The actions of the warrior priest in defying the daemons had fired the resolve of the troops, and they fought with a determined fury. At Stefan's prompting, the griffon leapt forwards, beating her powerful wings. She drove into the Chaos warriors, screeching in joy as she ripped the head from the first with a powerful downwards bite of her beak, and closed her fore-claws on another, crushing the life from him. Stefan hacked and stabbed with the Runefang at the warriors of Chaos that threatened to overwhelm the Empire defenders.

He felt a sudden reckless abandon overcome him, a release from the pressure of the siege over the last week. The battle was almost over - win or lose, it would not last longer than the day, and he felt a strange euphoria. He blocked the thrust of a sword, and sent a deadly riposte that punched through the eye socket of the enemy warrior. The griffon plunged her beak through the head of another man, his full-faced helmet crushed utterly.

The Empire line buckled where the daemon prince charged. Its axe and sword rose and fell, cutting and killing with every sweep. Weapons clanged off its iron-hard flesh, and its power and strength grew as its fury deepened. Stefan kicked the griffon into the sky, her wings beating powerfully. She rose from the battle reluctantly, and dropped her last kill down into the press of battle below.

From his vantage, Stefan could see the reiksmarshal charge into the fray, leading the Reiklandguard knights. They drove through the enemy, cutting them down in droves and crushing them beneath flashing hooves. Fully armoured Chaos warriors were spitted on the long lances of the exemplar knights, and others were hacked to the ground by their heavy blades.

Tearing his gaze from the ensuing battle, Stefan focused on the massive form of the frenzied daemon prince. His war mount needed little encouragement, and she folded her wings tightly over her back and screamed down towards the red-skinned creature.

Hroth hacked his axe into the head of a man, splitting it in half, the force of the blow driving it down into the man's torso. The Slayer of Kings lashed out, carving straight through a soldier's body and cleaving into the body of another. Hroth kicked another man, crushing his chest, before sweeping his axe through the air, and the man's head went flying into the fray. The daemon prince was a maelstrom of destruction, killing and rending with every movement.

The griffon hit the daemon in the back, knocking the massive creature sprawling. The griffon's claws dug deeply into the daemon's shoulders, and its beak flashed, ripping out great chunks of daemonic flesh from Hroth's neck. Stefan stabbed with his Runefang, the magical weapon driving deep into the back of the daemon, which roared in pain and fury. Hroth thrashed around and rolled over, knocking the griffon away, and the daemon prince rose, eyes of fire blazing.

With a hiss of pure hatred, Hroth hurled himself at the griffon, which sprang forwards to meet him. Hroth's axe swung out in a murderous arc. The griffon twisted its body to avoid the full brunt of the blow, the axe biting only shallowly along her flank. She latched onto the daemon with her talons, and her back legs raked down the daemon, tearing gouges of flesh from its body. Stefan stabbed towards the daemons neck with his blade, but the powerful weapon was batted aside by the daemon's own blade.

Stefan swayed beneath a deadly swipe from the daemon, and thrust his sword into Hroth's bicep, the blade sinking deeply into the flesh. Hroth dropped his daemon sword, which screamed in anger. Balling his hand into a massive fist, the daemon prince punched the griffon in the side of the head once, twice. The creature staggered and fell, its head lolling drunkenly. Rolling free of the saddle, Stefan landed heavily, the air driving from his lungs. The daemon, grinning madly, stepped forwards and punched the griffon again, and it slumped to the ground.

Stefan pulled free one of his ornate pistols, and unloaded it into the daemons face. The shot smashed the right cheekbone of the daemon, but Hroth cared not. His breathing was heavy, and he felt energy and power surging through his limbs. The bloodshed had been great this day. He could feel that Khorne was pleased. The frenzy was still upon him, and detecting a movement to his side, he lashed out with his axe blindly. An Empire soldier was torn in half by the blow. He didn't take his eyes off Stefan, and stepped towards him, ready to kill the impudent mortal.