Chapter 36
Interlude. Holger Hoch.
With every passing minute, the battle turned more and more into a rout of the Imperial army by the forces of Tamurkhan's horde. The first fortifications, upon which the Margrave had placed special hope, were swept away far too quickly.
— Curse it! — Hoch berated himself and his bitter fate.
Lietpold the Black had lied his entire wretched life, and he had to go and tell the truth this one time. Holger had been unable to believe him completely. When that youth Jurgen brought the head of the Dawi-zharr, the Margrave admitted there was a grain of truth in the cursed mercenary's words, but it turned out Lietpold had not exaggerated one iota; in some ways, he had even understated the threat. Tamurkhan's horde was terrifying.
Back in Nuln, Hoch had been troubled by Lietpold's proposal to release him and give him command of a unit. The Margrave had perceived all the mercenary's previous horror stories as a warm-up to push through his final offer and avoid the scaffold.
But now the time had come to pay for his mistakes. To pay in blood.
Beneath the old warrior and his griffon seethed a loathsome gathering of the most nightmarish monsters. Beastmen, Northmen, mutants, giants, trolls, and heretics of every stripe. Hoch saw a monstrous Cygor, emerged from the very depths of the dark thickets, lifting a cannon barrel from which the wreckage of the carriage fell, and hurling it into the line of spearmen still defending the gaps between the redoubts. Horror. Neither the courage nor the pride of ordinary men could withstand such crushing power. Only gunpowder could have helped, but the firepower was lacking.
The cursed Chaos Dwarfs possessed a far more impressive artillery park. From a safe distance, they were knocking out the Empire's engines while the human cannons and mortars unsuccessfully tried to weaken the onslaught of the main horde.
Lietpold, damn him, had not lied. Tamurkhan's horde surpassed Hoch's army in literally everything. There remained only one phantom chance to turn the tide of battle—to destroy or at least wound the Chaos leader.
Holger Hoch knew perfectly well that all armies of the Ruinous Powers were bound together by the will and strength of the leader. If this pillar were destroyed, even in the victorious army of heretics, strife would begin. The chieftains would start at each other's throats, remembering past grudges and fighting over who would be the new leader.
Hoch decided to seize this final chance.
The moment the enemy dragons, manticores, and other flying beasts set upon the rear, the Margrave took to the air on his griffon, with whom he had gone through dozens of battles. Holger Hoch could also rely on the power of an enchanted sword, which he had acquired eight years ago for an enormous sum through connections with the Gold Order of Imperial sorcerers. This blade possessed phenomenal sharpness. It cut through metal almost as easily as unprotected flesh, and it hewed through bone as if it were boiled gristle. This blade, named "Swift Kill," Hoch had hoped to one day pass down through his lineage. It was not meant to be.
Only Baron Otto von Krause on his griffon and five other aristocrats on pegasi could support the Margrave's desperate aerial attack. This was very little compared to the swarm of the enemy's diverse monsters.
A dozen Chaos Furies immediately surged to intercept the Margrave. The daemonic creatures knew no fear, even before the superior power of the griffon. The claws and beak of the war-beast easily dealt with several Furies, whose bodies fell downward, dissolving into dust. However, a quintet of daemons fell upon the Margrave himself. The metal of his armor screeched under the talons of the foul spawn of Chaos.
— Begone, filth, in the name of the Hammer-Wielder! May evil fall before thy face!
Hoch held the reins of strong silk with one hand and swung his enchanted blade with the other. The edge shimmered with a silvery hue. The Margrave had to act quickly but cautiously to avoid damaging his own armor with the magical sword. The plate protected Hoch from the daemons' claws. First-class Tilean steel from the finest masters held the line.
Despite the lashing wind, Holger Hoch managed to catch the sickening stench with which the Furies dissipated. The vile creatures croaked and seemed to laugh even as the enchanted sword sliced them to pieces. The foul smell made the Margrave's stomach knot. A sharp, acute pain pierced his chronically unhealthy stomach, but the old knight paid no mind to such trifles. Below, the bloated bulk of the horde's leader was already looming.
Tamurkhan.
The closer the Margrave flew, the more enormous this scion of the warped Wastes seemed. A deathly pale spawn of the distorted Void, covered in sores and scabs. The scourge of mankind. Merely looking at him, Hoch felt a surge of loathing, but mainly of righteous fury. This ridiculous, foul creature, looking like a walking corpse, was the cause of countless miseries heaped upon the heads of the innocent subjects of Karl Franz.
Hoch realized his hour of death had come. He dreamed now of only one thing: to cleave the loathsome head of this spawn in two with his sword. Let the price of the old Margrave's life be thousands of other lives saved. Let the Chaosites tear each other's throats in the name of their foul gods and leave decent folk in peace. That would be right. That would be just.
Ignoring the Furies, their stench, his aching stomach, and the rest of the world, Holger Hoch raised his sword high and gave a battle cry through the visor of his helmet:
— Sigmar! The Empire! Karl Franz!
Hoch's griffon began its dive. The Margrave did not see what his allies were doing. All his attention was concentrated on Tamurkhan, seated upon the back of some monster. Around the horde leader, there were no dangerous marksmen or engines capable of downing a griffon in flight.
"I can do it! If only I can reach him! If only..."
The world flipped and spun. Hoch spent several seconds in freefall, followed by a violent impact with the ground. His armor clanged deafeningly loud. His entire body erupted in pain. Some bones were clearly broken.
Hoch, making a superhuman effort and feeling the taste of blood in his mouth, propped himself up on his arms. The Margrave had fallen from the griffon's saddle. His war-beast roared nearby, attacked from all sides. Holger himself was given only a brief respite. He was surrounded by Chaos Warriors, Plaguebearer daemons, and massive Beastmen. The enemies hesitated because they were shoving each other aside, each wanting to be the first to strike the fallen Imperial commander.
— Foul spawn... — Holger Hoch spat through the bloody foam rising from his mouth.
Despite the fall, the Margrave had not let the sword slip from his hand. He could not deliver a full blow, but Hoch sliced the knee of one of the horned Beastmen. The Chaosite lost his balance, falling with his shoulder against a neighboring Pestigor. The latter fiercely elbowed the wounded one. Whether their brawl continued, Holger Hoch did not see. A storm of death descended upon him. Axes, clubs, Ogre cleavers. Tilean steel held, but every strength has its limit.
The old warrior felt it a shame to die knowing his final attack had failed. However, fate does not reward every instance of desperate bravery.
"Morr, shelter my soul from the daemons' claws and..." — the Margrave managed to think before consciousness, and then life, left him.
---
Absolute ruin.
Holger Hoch, at best, died quickly and was not taken prisoner. I doubted he was capable of contending with Tamurkhan, but the Margrave wasn't even given a chance. Just as he was flying toward the horde leader, a massive silhouette of a pendulum blade emerged from the shadows and mist in the sky, as if anchored to the grim clouds above us. The spell swung, hitting Hoch's griffon exactly. The noble beast took a wound to its rump and lost part of a wing. The latter proved fatal. Instead of a diving attack, the griffon plummeted.
Perhaps that one-eyed Fimir sorcerer was responsible. He seemed to be a master of the Lore of Shadows.
The other winged riders, seeing their commander fall, tried to save themselves. However, several pegasi were almost immediately surrounded by Manticores and Rot Flies. It was unlikely the flying horses would manage to break away.
On the ground, the situation was equally catastrophic. My unit and I were finishing off the last Plaguebearers summoned into the rear, but the vanguard of Hoch's army had already been ground up and rolled into the dirt. Only scattered Imperial detachments still held onto the redoubts, losing more soldiers with every passing second.
Directly ahead of us was a line of fortifications with two light cannons. Fifty spearmen with shields and a dozen swordsmen attached for reinforcement were defending there. They were aided by local militia armed with crossbows, pistols, bows, and short spears—about thirty men with mediocre training.
For almost the entire battle, this fortification had not been subjected to direct enemy strikes. The flying filth preferred to attack the deeper rear, like us. But now it was our neighbors' turn to join the fight. Nurgle's heavy infantry had broken through to the light cannons, and ahead of them, walking like a living tank, was a War Mammoth.
In the Total War game series, spear infantry has charge defense against large targets. However, I didn't see that the wretched Imperial infantry was capable of doing anything at all against the hideous war machine. The Mammoth, covered in sores, scars, and signs of mutation, carried a wooden war-howdah. Several Norscan warriors and a shaman bedecked with many amulets were seated there.
Leaving the last couple of Plaguebearers to Liandra, I darted toward Magg.
— Again! — I shouted, pointing first at the second cannon of our redoubt and then at the Mammoth.
— Let's make it go bang! — the Ogre was clearly delighted.
The artillerymen, including their sergeant, were waiting for us at the gun. Magg immediately grabbed the barrel of the heavy cannon. Grinning with strain, he began to lift it.
— No! No! — the artillery sergeant protested. — Don't take it off the carriage!
— Don't you worry, thin-un... — Magg grunted, his wounds reopening from the effort. — I'll put it back... Make it bang!
— Left! — the sergeant instructed him. — A bit higher and... Fire!
Once again, the thunder of gunpowder shook me from head to toe. My ears rang. Nausea rose in my throat. Smoke stung my eyes. However, all of that was nonsense. The main thing was that we hit the target.
The cannonball struck the Mammoth in its flank above the front right leg. The titanic beast lurched and tilted. I am sure such a hit would have killed many monsters, but this woolly mutant elephant was too massive to die instantly. The Mammoth stumbled. The impact site gaped with a huge, jagged wound. The leg bone was likely shattered. The creature collapsed onto its side, emitting a deafening trumpet roar from its trunk, the tip of which was ringed with many teeth.
The Mammoth survived but halted its advance. The spearmen and militia got a chance to recover from the enemy's first onslaught, but the second did not keep them waiting long.
While the Chaos heavy infantry was advancing on their fortifications, faster Pestigors and Ungors reached us. Instead of engaging in combat, they bypassed the remaining pockets of Imperial resistance; the Beastmen were eager to raid the rear. Fifty goat-legged creatures fell upon our redoubt, practicing a damn loose formation.
— Spears! — Max commanded, stepping forward.
I needed to find a shield or change my weapon as soon as possible. Going into battle against a crowd with only a one-handed sword is a bad idea. However, I didn't have time to change equipment. The fight caught me on the left flank of our unit. Before me were five Ungors and a Pestigor with a two-handed greataxe. Behind me were the unit's spearmen, marksmen, and sorcerers.
The effect of the flaming sword spell had already ended. I had to rely only on the steel of my blade. An Ungor with a distorted face covered in scabs lunged at me. The goat-man tried to ram me on the run with a primitive spear, its tip made from a kitchen knife. I shifted to the side easily, slashing the freak across the face. The Ungor immediately dropped his weapon and bolted. I struck him in the back. Swinging from the shoulder, I slashed diagonally to hit his unprotected flank. The blade easily sliced through the hide covered in sparse, curly wool. I pressed the blade into the wound and pulled back. The Ungor continued to run, but blood and guts spilled from the hole in his side. I don't think he's long for this world.
There was no chance to observe the further fate of this goat-man. I had other problems. A Pestigor pounced, swinging a two-handed axe on a long haft.
This time I couldn't dodge; I had to take the blow on my cuirass. The axe pierced it but didn't go far beyond the armor, causing only a superficial wound. Perhaps the ribs on the right side where the blow landed were cracked.
In response, I immediately spun, delivering a thrust toward the creature's belly, where a gap could be seen between the plates of its primitive armor. The blade sank in almost halfway, but the Pestigor didn't seem to notice. Bloody Nurgle-worshipper!
He swung to split my head open. Even with a helmet, I really didn't want to receive such a blow.
Dive down? Drop to my knees? It might have helped, but it would have put me in a disadvantageous position.
Without releasing the blade stuck in his belly, I took a diagonal step to the side, moving around the freak in a semi-circle. I dragged the sword's edge, lengthening the wound. Foul blood gushed from it—black, thick, with white spots of pus and wriggling maggots.
I immediately had to dodge again, wrenching my sword from the wound. Another Ungor was attacking me from the other side. Simultaneously, a stone thrown by one of the Beastmen rang against the dome of my helmet. The situation could have become threatening, but Max came to my aid. The sergeant rammed the Ungor attacking me with his shield. Now I could concentrate on the wounded Pestigor. He pushed the attack despite his ripped-open belly. However, now I had room to maneuver. Letting a wide swing pass by, I brought my sword down on the rotting beast's left arm. The blade met bone. My blow nearly severed the enemy's limb. Thank the bonuses from Blood Rage. The Pestigor could still be dangerous. I had to finish the freak.
His next blow, delivered effectively with one hand, I took on my armor without issue. Now the beast could no longer pierce my cuirass. I slashed him across the right arm. The Pestigor roared, coughing up green bile. I guessed what would happen next. I immediately moved aside. I already knew what kind of tricks Beastmen like to throw.
The Pestigor tried to gore me with his horned head. Letting him pass by like a bullfighter, I slashed the enemy from behind across the spine. The armor there was almost nonexistent on the Pestigor. Of course, one blow proved insufficient. Nurgle's rot is characterized by its durability. I struck again and again until I severed the Pestigor's spine.
The unit's spearmen were already actively engaging. They were smiting the poorly protected Ungors. The spiteful roar of the goat-men quickly turned into pitiful bleating. Only individual Pestigors, of whom there were no more than a dozen, continued to resist. They fell under the thrusts of spears, the blows of Magg's axe, Liandra's blade, and my sword.
Soon the beasts broke and ran.
Almost half of their small attacking detachment lay dead at our redoubt.
— Save yourselves! Save yourselves, people!
This hoarse, desperate cry was uttered by one of the surviving militiamen, running from his positions. The fortifications before us had fallen. While resistance still continued in the center of the Imperial army, our entire flank was practically destroyed. Only we remained. The Ditch Reiksguard. Mercenaries, refugees, non-humans. Plus the sorcerers and artillerymen whom we were supposed to protect.
— Here! — Max shouted. — To us!
Several panicking militiamen ran past. However, two spearmen and a warrior with a greatsword joined us. All were filthy, breathing heavily, but combat-ready. At least some reinforcement in the face of the coming threat. Should I declare a retreat?
Surprisingly, we even had some time to think. Having destroyed the fortifications before us, the Chaosites did not attack head-on but struck into the flank of the Imperial army's center. A true slaughter unfolded there. Every second, dozens, if not hundreds, of soldiers lost their lives. Many fled in panic, no longer able to endure this nightmare.
Our unit was also wavering now. Confusion was reflected on the men's faces.
— We have to leave! — the artillery sergeant was the first to voice the thought hanging in the air.
— No! — the alchemist's powerful voice thundered beside him. — We can still hold. Do not interfere! Carry out the order!
The Magister of the Gold Order immediately began to chant a spell to support the soldiers in the army's center who were suffering now. He was actively aided by the Magister of the Bright Wind, upon whose scarred face a mad smile was frozen. The young shaman Hel seemed to be on the verge of losing consciousness. Her face was pale, and blood was running from her nose. The Magister of the Jade Order felt the best of all. He continued to heal our wounds with his spells.
We received a few more minutes of relative respite. A few Beastmen and one Bile Troll tried to approach our position, but crossbow bolts and arquebus shots made them change their minds. And then...
— Sacrifices! Sacrifices!
A discordant but formidable chorus of voices, slightly muffled by hideous horned helmets. A wall of foul metal was advancing upon us, bristling with axes, greataxes, and grotesque halberds. A tight formation, shoulder to shoulder. Each of them surpassed an ordinary man in height. Many were taller even than Liandra and certainly broader in the shoulders. Chosen of Chaos. Hundreds of armored, heavily armed madmen, wishing to bring about the world's end.
At the head of the Chosen detachment walked a Chaos Sorcerer, also encased in heavy armor. With one hand, he raised a sword saturated with Nurgle's magic toward the dark sky, and with the other, he leaned upon a metal staff topped with a Chaos star.
— It's fine! — the artillery sergeant exclaimed, nervous but trying to project bravery. — We'll show them now! For Sigmar! Point-blank range! Fire!
The Helblaster Volley Gun thundered with all its barrels at once. A dozen small cannonballs struck the iron wall of the Chosen.
— Aqshy!
The Magister of the Bright Wind folded his hands as if depicting a toothy maw. They were immediately wreathed in flame. It tore from the sorcerer's fingers and flew forward, turning into a massive flaming skull with an agape mouth. The spell burst into the Chosen's ranks, passing through their formation like a wave of fire.
I didn't harbor great hopes, but I strongly counted on the enemy being thinned out or delayed. Not a damn bit.
The Chosen emerged from the flames without slowing their pace. A greenish shimmer enveloped them, though it looked little like the Wind of Ghyran. The filthy, poisonous power of the Plague God. Slime oozed from the joints and gaps in the Chosen's armor. It seemed to protect the Chaosites from the fire. Those hit by the cannonballs also walked as if nothing had happened. New flesh protruded from the holes in their armor. It closed the wounds and pushed the cannonballs back out. Moreover, the armor itself was repairing the damage! Madness! Rusted metal saturated with corruption drew together like damaged skin.
This sight caused us all to freeze. The Chosen were only forty meters away.
I realized to the depths of my soul what a monstrous threat was bearing down on us. Not just men, but living engines of destruction. Nominally living. There are no Space Marines in this world. No Angels of the Emperor's Wrath. The soldiers of the Empire are ordinary men for the most part, but the Chaos elite...
Every Chosen had surpassed human limits. They had crossed that boundary, paving their way with the corpses of Southerners and fellow Chaosites alike.
In my unit, there are very strong fighters—Liandra, Magg. I can do much under the influence of rage myself, but there are only three of us special ones. The rest of the unit are ordinary people.
The iron wall of the Chosen would pass through us almost without slowing down.
— Fall back! — I finally shouted. — We can't stop them! To the city!