Hammer and Bolter 11 Page 4

  Ludendorf’s heart went cold. ‘Minotaurs,’ he hissed.

  ‘Sigmar preserve us,’ Krumholtz grunted. ‘And Myrmidia defend us. We need to fall back. Get to the guns!’

  The Greatswords began to retreat.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Ludendorf barked, glaring around him, holding the men in place. ‘We hold them here. Form up!’

  ‘Mikael–!’ Krumholtz began, but there was no time to argue. The Minotaurs drew closer and their snorts seemed to rattle the teeth in every soldier’s head as the Count’s Own stepped forward to meet the stampede, led by their Elector.

  A stone-headed maul thudded down, showering the Count with chips of cobble and he stumbled aside, slicing his sword into a titan elbow. Malformed bone snapped and the Minotaur bellowed as it turned. It reached for him with its good hand, leaving itself open for the swords of his men. The creature staggered and swatted at its attackers as Ludendorf swept his sword across the backs of its jointed ankles. His arms shuddered in their sockets, but more bones snapped and popped and the creature fell face down as the Runefang chewed through its twisted flesh. Greatswords rose and fell and the monster’s groans ceased. Ludendorf spun away and slammed his shield into the clacking beak of a bird-headed beastman, knocking it head over heels.

  ‘That’s one down,’ he said to Krumholtz. The Elector’s Hound, his face painted with blood, shook his head and pointed.

  ‘And there are far too many to go, Mikael!’ Krumholtz said. Two more of the Minotaurs waded through the Greatswords, slapping the life out of any man who got in their path. One lowered its head and charged. Krumholtz shouldered Ludendorf aside and brought the Butcher’s Blade down between the curling horns, dropping the beast in its tracks. But even as he hauled at the weapon, trying to yank it loose, the second Minotaur was on him.

  Ludendorf’s sword interposed itself between his advisor’s neck and the axe. The Elector grunted as his arms shivered in their sockets and went numb. The Minotaur roared and forced him down to his knees. Hot drool dripped from its maw and spilled across his face, burning him. Ludendorf whipped his sword aside and skidded between the creature’s legs as it bent forwards, off-balance. Rising to his feet, he opened its back to the spine and the monster slumped with a strangled shriek. Ludendorf grabbed one of its thrashing horns and twisted, forcing the wounded beast to expose its hairy throat. Arms screaming with strain, he cut the Minotaur’s throat and stepped over it, shivering with fatigue. ‘Aric?’

  ‘I’m fine. Fall back,’ Krumholtz snarled, lunging past the body of the monster and shoving Ludendorf back. ‘Fall back now!’

  ‘How dare you–’ Ludendorf began, until he caught sight of what lay beyond his cousin. The Count’s Own were down and dead to a man, and the warherd was advancing over them. Rage thrummed through him and he made to face the beasts, but Krumholtz slapped him.

  ‘No! Move, Mikael. They died because you didn’t know when to run! Go!’ Hurrying him along, Krumholtz forced the Elector to turn and stagger away, out of the blood-soaked court. Behind them came the hunting cries of Chaos hounds and the louder, more terrible cries of the monsters who had cracked the gate. The air above the city was filled with greasy smoke and shrieking harpies.

  Stones hurtled from the rooftops as the citizens of Hergig joined the fray and more than one beast dropped to the street, skull cracked open. But not enough. A grotesque hound sprang at the Elector as he stumbled and landed on his back. ‘Mikael!’ Krumholtz shouted, grabbing the animal’s greasy fur.

  ‘Get off of me!’ Ludendorf howled, shrugging the growling beast off and grabbing its throat. Face going red with effort, he strangled the Chaos hound as it kicked and thrashed, whining. More hounds closed in and Krumholtz killed two, putting the rest of the pack to flight. Ludendorf hurled the body of the dog at a wall and screamed in frustration as the scent of smoke reached him. ‘They’re burning my city! Damn it, Aric, let me–’

  ‘Get yourself killed? No! Go, you bloody-minded fool!’ Krumholtz snapped. ‘Just up this street. Let’s– Look out!’

  The street groaned as one of the barn-sized monsters charged towards them, its horns and spikes cutting vast trenches in the walls and buildings that rose to either side of the street. Krumholtz grabbed Ludendorf and threw him to the ground as artillery pieces – field cannon and organ guns – entrenched in the surrounding townhouses, coaching houses and stables at the other end of the street opened up. Men in Hochland’s livery reached out to grab the stumbling Count and pulled he and his cousin out of the line of fire. The bounding monster fell, its brains turned to sludge by a cannon ball. Its massive body slid down the street, blocking it and preventing the beastmen that had followed it from reaching their prey.

  Ludendorf turned and pulled himself free of his men’s hands. ‘Fire again! Pulverise them!’ he spat. ‘We can’t let them remain within our walls!’ He turned, wild-eyed. ‘Form up! Spearmen to the van! We–’

  As the Elector roared out orders, Krumholtz caught him by his fancy gorget and drove a knee up into his groin. Ludendorf sagged, wheezing. ‘Stop it,’ Krumholtz said. He turned. ‘Bosche! Heinreich! Muller! We need to pull back towards the palace. Begin fortifying this street. We’ll block the streets where they’re the most narrow and form a choke point. Organise a spear-wall and bowmen to defend the builders… I want a proper Tilean hedgehog by Myrmidia’s brass bits and I want it now! Bors! Commandeer some wagons from the palace walls! They’ll work well enough to begin ferrying survivors to safety!’

  ‘You… you hit me,’ Ludendorf wheezed, getting to his feet.

  Krumholtz looked at him. ‘For your own good. We’re falling back.’

  ‘No, we can beat them,’ Ludendorf said. ‘We can drive them out!’

  ‘They outnumber us fifteen to one, cousin,’ Krumholtz said tiredly. ‘They’ve taken the walls and they don’t care about losses. Look around you,’ he continued. Ludendorf did, albeit reluctantly. The battle-madness that had clouded his eyes faded and he saw the exhaustion and fear that was on every face, and the loose way that weapons were clutched. Hochland had fought hard, but his army was on its last legs. He looked down at the Runefang in his hand and felt the trembling weakness in his own limbs.

  Ludendorf’s mouth writhed as a single bitter word escaped his lips. ‘Retreat,’ he said hoarsely.

  Gorthor the Beastlord stood in his chariot and watched as his warriors streamed back towards the walls and away from the inner city, battered and bloodied. He snorted in satisfaction. They had taken the outer defences of the town as well as a number of prisoners, as he’d hoped, despite a surprising amount of continued resistance. Even better, he had divested himself of his more fractious followers in the process.

  In one stroke he had weakened both the enemy to the front and the enemy within. He knew that he was not alone in recognising that fact. Surly chieftains glared at him from their own chariots. He had insisted that they stay behind, not wanting to waste their lives, merely those of their warriors. He grinned, black lips peeling back from yellow fangs. The expression caused a brief spurt of pain to cross his snout where the bullet had touched him. Annoyed, he rubbed the still drizzling wound. His spear quivered in sympathy and he glanced at it.

  The blade of Impaler was sunken haft-deep into a bucket of blood that sat beside him on his chariot. It was crafted out of a giant’s skull and every so often it trembled like a sleeping predator, twitching in its dreams of savagery and mutilation. The blade craved blood and it was whispered by many among the herd that if that craving was not quenched, that Impaler would squirm through the dirt like a horrible serpent, seeking what prey it could find among the warherd. He drew the spear from its rest and ran a thumb along the blade. It pulsed in his grip, eager to taste the blood of the man called Ludendorf, even as was Gorthor himself.

  Ludendorf. He sounded out the confusing syllables in his head, relishing their taste. A worthy enough foe, as men went. The man would have made a good beast, had he been born under different stars. Gortho
r shook the thought aside. ‘The city is ours,’ he grunted, looking at Wormwhite, where the albino shaman was crouched with the other wonder-workers. They huddled and muttered and hissed. Wormwhite, as their spokesman, was shoved forward and he hopped towards Gorthor. Like all the rest, he was more a prisoner than an advisor, kept close at hand to interpret the dark dreams which sometimes blistered Gorthor’s consciousness with painful visions of the future.

  ‘No! Walls still stand,’ Wormwhite whined. ‘Gods say attack again!’ He gestured towards the sloping walls that surrounded the inner keep of the city, where the Elector’s palace sat.

  ‘Do they?’ Gorthor rumbled, leaning on Impaler. The spear squirmed in his grip, hungry for death. ‘Why do they want me to do this?’ he said, fixing a baleful gaze on the shaman. Wormwhite cringed. ‘What is there that is not here? Death? Gorthor has built cairns of skulls along the length of the man-track!’ He leaned over the edge of his chariot, his teeth clicking together in a frustrated snap at the air. His nostrils flared at the scent of blood and fear. ‘They are trapped! Why waste warriors?’

  ‘Gods demand!’ Wormwhite said, slinking back. The others murmured encouragement. So too did the chieftains. Gorthor growled in frustration.

  ‘Gods demand,’ he grunted, and shook his head. Black claws scratched at his wounded snout as he considered his options. The gods demanded much… at times, too much.

  Visions wracked him suddenly, causing his body to shudder and his jaws to snap convulsively. When the warp was upon him, it was all he could do to keep his body from ripping itself apart. Every hair tingled and stood out from his body like a razor-spike as Wormwhite and the others gathered close, their nostrils quivering as they scented the strange magics spilling off of him. He longed to drive them back, scavengers that they were, but he could only hunch forward and yelp in agony as the images ripped across his mind’s eye. Ghost-memories of the future, where blighted trees of copper and meat burst through undulating, moaning soil and pale things danced continuously to the mad piping of chaotic minstrels. That was the future that Gorthor was charged with bringing to fruition, and though he saw no sign of his people there, he was determined to fulfil that destiny all the same.

  Breathing heavily as the warp-spasm passed, he leaned on his spear. Amidst the screaming cacophony of the vision he had seen flashes of beasts wandering the ruins of Hergig drunk and careless, and of an avalanche of brass and steel horses falling upon them. Was that what the gods wanted? For his mighty herd-of-herds to be cut to pieces as it squatted drunk in the ruins?

  His scouts had reported that forces were mobilising to the north and south. The Drakwald was being razed and while his army yet swelled, it was a tenuous thing holding it together. His people had no taste for prolonged conflict of this kind, and more and more of them would give in to the urge to attack the so-far so-solid walls of the Elector’s palace, or, even worse, they would slink away, glutted on the loot of the city.

  Wolfenburg had been easy compared to this. Taken by surprise, the defenders had fallen back from the main gate and from there they’d slowly lost the town. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, they’d been easy prey. But this was more difficult. The battle with the humans on the forest road had blunted his momentum and given them time to fortify and make ready. The lands around Hergig had been turned into a killing ground, full of traps and obstacles. Speed had been his primary weapon, and now it was lost. He glanced to the side at his chieftains – they traded looks among each other, grumbling and gripping weapons that might, at any minute, be turned against him. Even the blessings of the Dark Gods could only protect him from so much.

  Idly he stroked the tattoos and brands that criss-crossed his hairy flesh, tracing them with one blunt finger. Each mark had been earned in battle with one enemy or another… there, the memory of his battle with a chaos-giant as a youngling. Now he had a half-dozen of the beasts serving him. There, where the razor-fingers of one of the brides of the Goat with a Thousand Lovers had caressed him before she’d tried to devour him. Her sisters danced now at his beck and call. And had he not slain a mighty Black Orc warlord only weeks before, and set an army of the creatures to flight? In each battle, one common factor – he’d known the gods were watching over him. But now, now he wasn’t so sure.

  Every rudimentary strategic instinct the Beastlord possessed had screamed at him to ignore the walled city of Hergig and continue on, even as they now pleaded that he ignore the palace. But the gods he served demanded that the sack of this town be complete. Thus, it must be done… but it would be done well. Experience had taught Gorthor there was always a weak point in any defence… a crumbling wall, a fire-weakened gate, loose stones, something. Anything. Like the bared throat of a defeated enemy, the weak point could be torn out and the battle won in one swift blow. He just had to find it. ‘Prisoners?’ he grunted.

  ‘Many-many,’ Wormwhite said, holding up his claws. ‘Not good though. Not many live long.’

  ‘Show me,’ Gorthor snarled, slamming the butt of his spear against the chariot base.

  A few minutes later a captive screamed shrilly as he was dragged before Gorthor, blood staining his red and green livery. Arms stretched to the point of dislocation between the fists of a Minotaur, he hung awkwardly. His legs were shredded masses of meat and malformed hounds pulled at them hard enough to cause the Minotaur to stumble. With a grunt, a goat-headed gor chieftain slapped the dogs aside with the flat of his axe and kicked the stubborn ones into submission with his hooves. Then he grabbed the dying man’s chin and jerked his head up.

  ‘Whrrr?’ the gor rumbled, placing the notched edge of the axe against a hairless cheek. ‘Whrrr?’

  The man sucked in a breath as if to answer and then, with a shudder that wracked his ruined frame, he went limp, his eyes rolling to the white. The gor shook him, puzzled. Then, with a roar, he swept the corpse’s head from its broken shoulders. The head bounced along the filth-covered ground, pursued by the snapping hounds. The gor spun and shook his axe at Gorthor’s chariot.

  Gorthor stroked Impaler like a beloved pet as he eyed the body with something that might have been consternation. Another captive dead was one less who could tell Gorthor what he needed to know. He made a disgusted noise and turned to Wormwhite, crouching nearby. ‘Weak, Wormwhite,’ he grunted.

  ‘Men are weak,’ the shaman replied, bovine lips curling back from the stumps of black, broken teeth. Wormwhite’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘I talk, yes?’

  ‘Dd!’ the gor trumpeted, stomping a hoof onto a cobble, splintering it. He waved his axe at the shaman, spattering the latter’s ratty cloak with blood. ‘No tlk!’

  ‘Talk,’ the shaman said. He looked at Gorthor.

  ‘Yes,’ Gorthor snorted. ‘Talk.’

  Nodding, the shaman hopped towards the body. Grabbing a hound by the scruff of its neck he yanked it up and pried the gnawed skull out of its jaws and flung the beast aside. ‘Make talk easy. Not dead long.’

  With that, he drove two stiffened talons into the ragged neck stump and swung the head around to face the herdstone Gorthor had commanded raised two weeks previous, on their first night encamped before Hergig’s walls. Muttering, the shaman raised the head and held it as a chill mist seeped from the surface of the herdstone and crept towards him. The tendrils of mist found the stump of the head and began to fill it. Wormwhite jerked his fingers free and let the head drop. Only it didn’t. Instead, it hung supported by the clammy mist, and slowly it rose, turning the head around. Mist seeped from the punctured eyes and dripped from the slack lips and Wormwhite howled and capered.

  ‘Ask it,’ Gorthor grunted.

  ‘Where is weakness?’ Wormwhite shrilled, dancing around the column of mist and the bobbing head.

  The mouth moved loosely, as if it were being manipulated by stiff fingers. ‘N-nor-north wuh-wall… s… stones… luh-loose…’ it said in a voice like a whisper of air. Wormwhite cackled and jerked his hand. The mist abruptly retreated and the head fell with a
thump. The hounds leapt on it in a snarling pile as the shaman turned back to his chieftain.

  ‘North wall,’ Wormwhite said, stamping a hoof. ‘Lead attack, crush the hairless,’ he continued, his eyes blazing. The gathered warriors of the herd rumbled in assent, and weapons clattered.

  Gorthor’s lips twitched. ‘Attack when I say, Wormwhite. Not before,’ the Beastlord snorted with false laziness. His dark eyes fixed on the shaman and then passed across the muzzles of the half-dozen wargors who made up his inner circle. The gor who had been questioning the dead human was one of their number, a brute named Crushhoof who shook his axe at Gorthor in a vaguely threatening manner. ‘Ttack now!’ he snarled. ‘Gds wnt t’ttack!’

  ‘I speak for gods,’ Gorthor said, shifting on his throne. ‘Not you, Crushhoof.’

  Crushhoof reared back and brayed loudly, foam flying from his jaws. He pawed the ground and his warriors howled and rattled their spears. ‘Ttack! Ttack! Ttack!’ they shrieked in unison. Other herds picked up the chant and Gorthor suddenly thrust himself up out of his seat. Silence fell.

  Crushhoof glared up at him, his gaze challenging. It had been coming for a long time now, and Gorthor wasn’t surprised. Crushhoof swung his axe through the air and grunted ‘Defy gods?’

  ‘Said before, gods speak through me,’ Gorthor said slowly. ‘Challenge, Crushhoof?’

  ‘Chlnge!’ Crushhoof cried and bounded up onto the dais, his axe swinging. Gorthor stepped aside with an ease that was surprising for one of his size. As he moved, he grabbed Impaler. Crushhoof reacted quickly, twisting around and slicing at Gorthor. The axe scratched across the surface of Gorthor’s patchwork armour, leaving a trail of sparks.

  Impaler slid across his palm smoothly and, almost of its own volition, the blade shot into Crushhoof’s belly. He brayed in shock as Gorthor jerked him into the air. Impaler wriggled deeper into the wound and the tip exploded out through the dying gor’s back.