Mark of Chaos (11 page)

'For Sigmar!' shouted Stefan. 'For Sigmar!' roared his army in response, and the two battle lines charged towards each other.

Stefan roared wordlessly as he ran, sword held high over his head. He blocked a descending axe with his shield and swung his sword down into the warrior's neck. Blood spurted and the blond-haired Norseman fell. The greatswords swung their massive weapons into the foe, using the momentum of the charge to make their blows even more powerful. One warrior raised a shield to deflect a strike, but his shield was hacked in two by the force of the blow and he went down, clutching the stump of his arm.

Stefan used his shield to batter another warrior off balance before plunging his sword into the warrior's gut. He deftly turned aside the thrust of another attacker, and his return blow cut a bloody trail across the warrior's face, smashing his helmet loose. A blow from a greatsword took him in the chest, cutting apart his chainmail and carving into bone and flesh. The weapon was embedded deep in the warrior, and as the greatsword struggled to pull it free an axe smashed into his face.

The screams of the dying cut across the clash of weapons and war cries. A tall warrior, his blond beard braided and decorated with black iron skulls and beads, bellowed as he struck at Stefan with a two-handed axe. He turned aside the blow with his shield, his arm jarring with the impact. He hacked his sword into the warrior's leg and he fell with a curse. Von Kessel kicked the downed warrior in the jaw, sending him sprawling backwards, and struck out at another Norseman.

Reiksmarshal Wolfgange Trenkenhoff surveyed the battlefield with a seasoned eye. The Ostermark infantry were engrossed in the melee, their ranks blurring with those of the Norse as they battled furiously.

With a shout, he ordered the handgunners and crossbowmen further out onto the flanks, as the bustling melee threatened to enfold them. Von Kessel's aides nodded, and the sharp notes of bugles rang out over the field. The sergeants of the regiments heard the sounds, and swung their troops away from the expanding battle line. The cannon fired again, aiming over the top of the fighting and into the ranks of the fully armoured Chaos warriors who were drawing near to the battle.

Out on the right-hand side of the battle line, von Kessel saw the disorganised rabble of flagellants hurl themselves into the fray, screaming and chanting. On the extreme right-hand flank he could see a small group of handgunners, smoke rising in front of them as they fired upon the horsemen who were drawing near. Many of the horse warriors were punched from their saddles, but they continued on. The reiksmarshal was not concerned. The engineer with his beloved volley gun,
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was out on that flank. He had seen the devastation that could be wreaked on the enemy by those powerful weapons countless times, although he doubted that the Chaos horsemen knew the danger that they approached.

The fully armoured Chaos warriors were just entering the fray, and he could see the halberdiers lined against them begin to falter under their assault, their line beginning to buckle. That was where the danger was, he knew, and he shouted to his Reiklandguard. With another shout, he kicked his powerful destrier forwards. As one, the knights galloped down the hill, angled so that they could pass through the gap formed by the handgunners pulling back. The earth rumbled beneath them.

The engineer, Markus
, chortled in triumph as he knocked another two horsemen from the saddle with a pair of quick shots. He lowered his repeating handgun, marvelling at its accuracy and distance. Only on the practice fields of Nuln had he used this weapon, and he had longed for the day when he could test it in earnest. He was not displeased. The clockwork cogs smoothly rotated the barrels of the gun into the firing position, and he was pleased that the sight of the handgun was perfectly adjusted. The horsemen were close now, however, and he gave the
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a final look over with his trained eye.

The horsemen, galloping hard and guiding their steeds skilfully with their knees, unleashed a volley of fire from their short, powerful bows. Markus heard the groans of pain as arrows struck the handgunners. He tutted in irritation as an arrow clanged off one of the barrels of the
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'Heathen barbarians.' he snarled, and ordered the crew of the war machine to rotate the weapon to face the horsemen. He grinned as the horsemen drew even nearer. An arrow pierced his flamboyant, feathered hat, knocking it to the ground.

'Fire!' he screeched, and all hell was unleashed. The three firing mallets struck, and three gouts of flame burst from the ends of the uppermost barrels. They boomed loudly, smoke spewing from the chambers. Working smoothly, one crew member rotated the crank wheel, and the next three barrels swung into position.

Again, the three mallets struck, and three more gouts of flame accompanied the booming as they fired. The other crewmembers were hastily reloading the weapon even as the last shots were fired. Markus was grinning like a maniac.

The smoke began to clear, exposing the devastation that the weapon had wreaked. The field was strewn with horses and men, and their screams filled the air. Severed limbs and bloody torsos were scattered across the ground.

The handgunners drew long daggers and ran towards the fallen horsemen, stepping over the gory remains, and seeking out any survivors. They dispatched the living with cuts to the throat. Soon, the screams were silenced. Markus rubbed his hands with glee.

The ground pounded
beneath the hooves of the heavy warhorses as they charged across the field and into the fight from the flank. The knights lowered their lances as one as they closed on the foe. Many of the fully armoured Chaos warriors turned to face the charge, holding their shields up defensively. Picking out his target, Reiksmarshal Trenkenhoff aimed his lance tip at the warrior's chest. As the warrior raised his shield he altered his aim slightly, and the lance punched into his throat, driving through the plate gorget there. Impaled, the warrior was lifted from his feet and driven backwards, the lance tip bursting from the back of his neck. The reiksmarshal's well-trained and battle-hardened steed lashed out with flailing hooves, crushing another, and he continued the charge deep into the enemy formation.

The Reiklandguard ploughed through the enemy, smashing them aside with their sheer bulk and momentum, lances embedded in the foe. They discarded their lances and drew their sabres, hacking down at the foe milling around them.

The reiksmarshal drew his own blade, a beautifully crafted and potent weapon. Runes ran up its perfect blade, and he could feel the power contained within those runes as he held it. It was one of the twelve Runefangs forged by the dwarfs for the leaders of the Empire, the weapon of Emperor Magnus himself. The Emperor had presented it to the reiksmarshal just before he had left Nuln and ridden north.

Striking down with the Runefang, he cut through a helmet as if it was paper, splitting the warrior's head from crown to jaw. The standard-bearer of the Reiklandguard was at his side, holding the embroidered flag high, even as he drove his sword down, cutting the arm from a warrior that reached for his reins. The knights drove deep into the enemy formation, hacking and slaying.

Stefan could see the banner of the Reiklandguard, and could feel the desperation of the Norscans building. With renewed vigour, he smashed the pommel of his sword into the face of an enemy, and then slashed his sword across his throat.

'For Sigmar!' he shouted again, and drove forwards into the enemy. The greatswords pushed forwards with him, hefting their deadly weapons, although they were already tiring. Still, the greatswords were the toughest and bravest of Stefan's troops, and they took strength from the sight of their captain fighting by their side, cleaving into the enemy fearlessly.

A Norse warrior at the back of the press of men, seeing the knights driving through the flank of the warriors in front of him, turned and fled. The warriors on either side of him saw him run, and thinking that they had not heard the order to pull back, turned to run with him. Soon the Norsemen were streaming from the battle in an unstoppable rout.

Stefan cut down a warrior as he turned to flee, feeling the other Norse running behind him. The greatswords leapt forwards and hacked down countless others as they ran. The only warriors who did not flee were the fully armoured warriors, who closed ranks and stood fighting defiantly, shoulder to shoulder. They were soon surrounded on all sides by halberdiers, knights and greatswords, but fought on still, exacting a terrible toll on the warriors of Ostermark. The captain saw several of the glorious Reiklandguard fall, dragged from their saddles as their horses were slain beneath them. The knights were much more vulnerable now that they had lost their forward momentum. The Chaos warriors were cut down one by one, but each one that fell slew two or more of the Empire troops. Finally, they were all slain.

Stefan roared for his troops to regroup. Short horn blasts sounded, and the Empire troops, flush with victory, moved back into formation. The cannon boomed once again, firing at the enemy that was now several hundred yards down the hill.

Responding instantly to the shouted commands of Stefan and his sergeants, the battle line condensed its ranks, and began to march to the beat of drums, down the hill towards the besieged castle below. Two regiments of spearmen held back, and re-organised themselves upon the hillside to guard the cannon that continued to fire down into the maelstrom of battle below. A pair of smaller detachments of handguns and crossbows arrayed themselves on the flanks of larger formations.

To the south, he could see the tattered mob of flagellants running at full speed down the hillside towards the castle. He could also see the figure of Markus moving towards the other cannon, his pride and glory, the
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being dragged along the ridge by a pair of draught horses. He was glad that the engineer had survived the first stage of the battle.

'We have weathered the first attack, men!' roared Stefan as he marched. 'Now let's finish this!'

The nameless
self-proclaimed prophet of the end times screamed incoherently as he ran towards the forces of Chaos. He blinked blood from his eyes, caused by the twin-tailed comet freshly carved into his forehead. His Reiklandguard breastplate was covered with parchment scraps nailed through the steel and into his flesh. Each of these was covered in his scrawling writing, descriptions of his visions of madness and death. Above his head he brandished a scythe, a weapon that he had found just days before at an abandoned, smoking farmstead. Sigmar himself had guided him to it, he knew, for it was a fitting weapon with which to cut down the enemies of the Empire.

'Sigmar is with us, my brethren!' he screamed as he and the other crazed flagellants raced towards the enemy running up the hill to meet them. 'Our time has come! Purge the evil from them, as we have purged the evil from ourselves!'

A flaming figure ran past him, screaming in joy as he burnt to death, swinging a long chain above his head.

'See the dedication of our martyr brother! Honour him with death and pain!' screamed the nameless prophet, and the flagellants screamed their praise. The flaming martyr was the first to hit the enemy lines, smashing his chain across the face of a Norscan, ripping his helmet from his head. Another man rammed a sword into the flagellant's guts, and the nameless prophet saw it rip out of the man's back, splashing blood. The burning man wrapped his arms around his assailant, thrashing and screaming, and the pair fell to the ground, both ablaze. They were trampled beneath the press of bodies as the Norscans and the flagellants smashed into each other.

The Norse were better armed and armoured, and were skilled warriors. Most of the flagellants wore little but tattered, bloody robes, and wielded only crude weapons. Most were no more than farmers driven to madness by the horrors of the war, and knew nothing of fighting skilled opponents. Nevertheless, the flagellants embraced death, and threw themselves at their enemy with crazed intensity, hacking and smashing at the Norscans without any regard for themselves. Their limbs were hacked from their bodies, but they fought on, madness lending them incredible strength and endurance. One flagellant, a scrawny, malnourished man of middling years had his legs hacked off by an axe; he fell to the sodden ground, but fought on, plunging his dagger up into the groin of his killer and dragging him to the ground. He stabbed the man in the chest over and over again, foam dribbling from his mouth.

The nameless prophet laid about him with his scythe, cutting down Norscans as he screamed of redemption and eternal fire. The scythe broke as a warrior raised his shield against it, but he cared not, and leapt upon the man to rend him with his hands. He thrust his thumbs deep into the man's eyes, and he fell screaming. Taking up the man's axe with his bloodied hands, he threw himself deeper into the thick of the fighting, hacking left and right.

'Salvation! Salvation has come to you heathens!' he screamed as he killed. 'Forsake your Dark Gods and give yourself to Sigmar!'

A spear was hurled through the air and struck the nameless prophet's chest, knocking him to the ground, although it did not pierce his breastplate. From the ground, he lashed out with the axe, cutting the legs from a man. The Norscan fell to the ground, roaring in pain, and the nameless prophet leapt onto his chest, holding him around the head.

'Darkness comes for you!' he screamed in the man's face as he rammed his head into the ground again and again. Leaping to his feet, blinking blood from his eyes, he screamed wordlessly and smashed the axe into the face of another Norscan.

Swords cut him, axes grazed his bones, and spears pierced his limbs, but he did not notice them. All he could feel was the warmth of Sigmar's anger within him, strengthening him. He killed and killed and killed, and when there were no more to kill, he led the bloodied rabble that remained of the flagellants in a crazed charge down the hill towards the bulk of the Norscan army.