Chapter 50
The city was preparing for the decisive struggle. The last expected reinforcements were streaming into Nuln, and laborers were working in a frantic rush to complete the defensive lines. Rumors of the approaching Chaos army spread like a wildfire across the steppe. Soon, everyone from the youngest child to the oldest veteran knew that Tamurkhan's horde was on the move. The host of Chaos had roughly one hundred and fifty kilometers to traverse to reach Nuln, and they had already crossed a significant portion of that distance. At the council of war, the results of aerial reconnaissance were read aloud. It was an incredibly perilous undertaking, considering the enemy had plenty of winged horrors at their disposal, but there were always those brave or foolish enough to volunteer.
— The enemy is moving with unusual speed for a mob of barbarians, but do not hope that the march will leave them exhausted, — reported a youthful officer with a set of magnificent sideburns. — The most dangerous of the enemy's warriors and monsters are practically strangers to fatigue.
Every meeting of the command staff resembled a small concert in terms of the sheer number of attendees. Representatives of the provincial army, mercenaries—including Lietpold the Black—aristocrats, and warriors from other regions had all gathered to assist, alongside the high clergy. A fever of religious fanaticism had broken out in Nuln. Lectors of the Church of Sigmar preached daily in the squares to massive crowds. In addition to the standard military reinforcements, long processions of pilgrims and flagellants were converging on the city.
It was a sight not for the faint of heart. These were throngs of rag-clad wretches bearing the marks of horrific self-inflicted tortures. Like clockwork toys, the flagellants screamed in hoarse voices, proclaiming the imminent end of the world. A few had enough wits left to string together somewhat coherent sentences, while others simply repeated a single refrain: — Repent, repent, repent!
Their self-proclaimed prophets, amidst wails and shrieks, spoke of humanity's terrible transgressions and shouted that only those who joined their agonizing procession would find salvation. At first, there were hundreds; then, there were thousands, comprised of both local citizens and those who had traveled from all the surrounding provinces.
The attitude toward the flagellants among the knights and professional soldiers varied wildly. Some saw them as the pinnacle of righteousness. Marcus Schlossberg, for example, the standard-bearer of our unit, remarked more than once that were it not for his duties to us, he would have joined a procession himself.
However, most perceived the flagellants as unsettling but useful lunatics, feeling mostly pity for their plight.
— Many among them have lost everything—family, friends, their homes, — a familiar artillery sergeant explained to me. — And what is a man without those things? What is left? So they wander the roads, flaying their own backs. They seek death, and they find it, of course. If there is one thing we have enough of here, it is death to go around.
Compassionate souls and the priests of the Cult of Sigmar fed these vagabonds, while Warrior Priests did their best to direct that chaotic energy toward the coming threat. There were excesses, however. Occasionally, a mob of aggressive flagellants would fall upon someone suspected of heresy or mutation. The unfortunate victims were literally torn limb from limb. Though who knows... perhaps there really were agents of the Ruinous Powers among them. I had noticed, for instance, that the activity of the Yellow Claw cultists had completely vanished.
Witch Hunters and Warrior Priests protected the flagellants from the law, legitimizing their brutal justice. Yet, observing these atrocities, many knights and educated men held the fanatics in near contempt. When Baron von Krause took the floor at the war council, he was blunt.
— My men are to be stationed far from these beggars. I do not want my flank covered by a mob of rabble armed with clubs.
In response, the Arch-Lector of Nuln, a man some five years older than the baron, remarked that virtue graces a man as much as a brocade doublet. Though in the case of the flagellants, I suspected it was less about virtue and more about the clubs. The fanatics were a fighting force, and they had to be reckoned with.
The largest reinforcements had arrived from Stirland and Averland, but the combined army held companies from nearly a dozen provinces, including several detachments of the Reiksguard.
The city had mustered both professional soldiers and the militia, though these less combat-ready units were mostly relegated to rear positions. The exception was the Nuln Dwarf militia. This force included both permanent residents of the city and a construction crew that had been repairing an aristocratic palace when the call to arms went out.
The host assembled at Nuln was significantly larger than Olger Hoch's army at Pfeildorf. It was difficult for me to estimate its true scale. Only the high command knew the exact figures, but rumors suggested anywhere from twenty to thirty-five thousand. The truth likely lay somewhere in the middle.
In anticipation of the Chaos horde, a layered defense had been erected around the city. There were trenches, tank traps, and redoubts. These earth-and-timber works served two primary goals: to hinder the movement of enemy cavalry—including both riders and monsters—and to shield our troops and engines from the artillery fire of the Dawi-Zharr.
Aside from standard weaponry, Nuln's workshops had been mass-producing caltrops in recent weeks. These small metal spikes could be sown across the approaches to cripple enemy mounts. While a Toad Dragon, a Giant, or a mutant War Mammoth might barely feel them, the horses and woolly mammoths less distorted by Chaos would certainly notice when Imperial steel bit into their flesh.
Alongside the caltrops, laborers prepared pit traps—simple snares covered with burlap, straw, and earth. They were deep, some reaching three and a half meters, with sharpened wooden stakes waiting at the bottom.
The Gunnery School also promised to plant several black powder mines before the battle, intended to be detonated during the heat of the enemy assault.
Day after day, the meetings briefed us on the location of the pits and caltrop fields, showing us the fortification schemes so that everyone, down to the commanders of small mercenary companies, could navigate the battlefield.
— Forgive me, gentlemen, but is it wise to make such information so widely known? — asked one of the aristocrats at a session. — What if the enemy has spies in our midst?
— Of course they do! — Lietpold barked with a smirk. — You think you can find a hundred Imperials without a single heretic among them? Ha! But what can the bastards of Chaos do with this information? Relay it to their chieftains, memorize it, conduct drills, and carefully bypass our traps? Double ha! They will charge headlong as they always do, filling the ditches with their own dead. And do you know what the most goddamn annoying part is? It will work for them again.
Unfortunately, he was right. Although Tamurkhan's horde had suffered some losses at Pfeildorf, I was certain they still had plenty of cannon fodder. Cultists, Beastmen, mutants, and Northmen tribes—the enemy did not value these lives, sending them in waves ahead of their elite units.
Soon, fresh word arrived from the aerial scouts. Tamurkhan's horde had split into three massive columns. They were moving in parallel, likely intending to converge just before they reached the city.
In the center moved Tamurkhan himself. His column was composed entirely of followers of the Plague God: Nurgleites, Plague Ogres, Bile Trolls, Toad Dragons, and daemons.
To the left of the Lord of Maggots marched a massive, if disorganized, column of the other Chaos factions. Norscan tribes, Marauder Horsemen, shamans from the far north, mammoths, common trolls, Skin Wolves, and other horrors.
— Are there Fimir among them? — I inquired. — One-eyed, beaked monsters.
— I have read everything the aerial reconnaissance reported, young man, — the officer replied sharply. — If I did not list them, then none were observed. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! The godless filth of the Chaos Wastes...
Had the Fimir decided to retreat after the death of their leader? Excellent, if so.
Finally, on the right flank moved the smallest but most disciplined column: the Dawi-Zharr. Their infernal armored train with its heavy artillery, elite units of Chaos Dwarfs, throngs of Orc slaves, and Hobgoblin lackeys.
— Our scouts also report that a multitude of prisoners are being held in one of the border fortresses. The greenskins, for some reason allied with the heretics, have herded several thousand people there. The unfortunates are felling timber and mining coal and peat.
The Chaos Dwarfs were already putting their captives to work? It seemed they had long-term plans for this campaign. No matter. The Bastion of the South would not fall as easily as Pfeildorf. The Nuln Gunnery School had already mounted hundreds of engines on the city walls, towers, and earthworks. They ranged from small-caliber falconets to Great Cannons, Mortars, and more exotic machines. Helblaster Volley Guns and Helstorm Rocket Batteries stood ready to unleash Sigmar's wrath upon the Empire's enemies.
Haunted by the memories of Pfeildorf, the guns were placed at a distance from one another and protected as much as possible by earthen embankments, sandbags, and gabions filled with stones. This would prevent the Dawi-Zharr artillery from wiping out multiple batteries with a single lucky shot.
Despite the dense defensive rings, well-guarded corridors were left open for our cavalry to harass the enemy's flanks. It wasn't just Pistoliers who intended to defend Nuln in the saddle; there were Outriders with multi-shot weapons and even portable grenade launchers. Knights from the provincial nobility, the Reiksguard, the Morrite Order of the Black Rose, and several other orders were present. Their presence inspired hope.
Preparations were in full swing, yet until the very last moment, it wasn't clear what role I and my unit would play. Then, Rudolf Hoch summoned me for a discussion. Beside the knight stood an Imperial Engineer.
— Captain Jurgen, I assume? — the engineer smiled, revealing several teeth that had been replaced with gilded prosthetics.
He offered a hand that was simultaneously calloused and stained with the dark, indelible blotches of alchemical chemicals.
— That's me, — I nodded, returning the grip.
— We've heard of your unit and the fine work you've done, — the engineer flattered me. — Successfully defending the wizards at Pfeildorf, and then eradicating that dangerous non-human sorcerer.
— We did that with Master Rudolf's assistance, — I replied modestly.
— Yes, yes, quite, — the engineer waved it off. — However, Herr Hoch will be entering the fray on horseback, as befits a knight, I assume?
— Get to the point, — Rudolf Hoch urged him in a dark tone.
— Very well, gentlemen. Our guild has a specific assignment for Captain Jurgen's squad. An Ogre, an Elven Swordmaster... we would be very happy to have such rare assets on deck.
— You want to attach us to the River Watch? — I asked, surprised.
I didn't mean to insult the brave souls who guarded the Empire's waterways, but their role in the coming battle would hardly be central. On one hand, spending the fight on a raft in the middle of the Reik or the Aver sounded very safe. On the other hand, there would be no real experience to gain, nor any significant impact on the battle's outcome.
Before I could dwell on the prospect, the engineer waved his hands dismissively.
— No, no. Not the River Watch. Come! Come! You must see for yourself. Forgive us, Herr Hoch. Only Captain Jurgen will accompany me for now. This is a matter of the highest secrecy.
The knight had no great desire to join us anyway. Even if Hoch had helped us enter the provincial service, a man on foot is no true peer to a man on horse. I followed the engineer.
We entered the city proper and then turned down the soot-stained streets of the Nuln workshops.
— You've likely heard of Leonardo da Miragliano, young man... — the engineer began.
— No. I grew up in the Badlands. All I ever heard there was Goblin profanity and the screams of people being eaten alive. So, who is this Leonardo? A captain of the River Watch?
— Oh, by the gods, no! He was one of the greatest geniuses of the Old World. A brilliant scientist, a legendary inventor, a philosopher, and a Master of High Alchemy. He built steam engines that have no equal to this day!
To the accompaniment of the engineer's rambling, we turned off the street into a closed courtyard of one of the workshops. Armed guards—Nuln Ironsides—let us pass.
— When it comes to steam boilers, size matters. Decisive importance! — the engineer continued to prattle as we navigated a narrow stone corridor.
The air smelled of oil, chemicals, and curiously, wood. The latter scent was quite pleasant, like a carpentry shop. The gods knew this world was inventive when it came to stench. Corpses, sewers, Skaven, Goblins, and Nurgleites... my nose had been assaulted by it all. The smell of fresh planks was a welcome change, even in the heavy air of an ill-ventilated bunker. But why were they working wood here? Building gun carriages?
We reached another guarded door. The engineer turned to me and announced with theatrical flair:
— Behind this door, my young friend, lies the weapon that will crush the barbarian hordes. We keep it hidden when we can, but if you agree to help us, I will lift the veil of secrecy for you.
A weapon to crush the Chaos host? Was it a very, very big gun? Fine.
— Sir, I'd be happy to help, provided using this weapon doesn't involve an astronomical risk of ending up in the afterlife. My squad can handle normal risks. No problem. But I reserve the right to refuse if this is a suicide mission.
— No, no! You'll be in no more danger than any other soldier of the Empire. Perhaps even less. We need the best fighters. Not knights, not rank-and-file infantry, but duelists. Do you understand?
— Fine. You have a deal.
We shook hands again. The engineer cleared his throat and tried to swing the door open with a flourish. It was a bit clumsy; he nearly fell as the heavy door pulled him forward. I didn't notice, however.
My gaze was locked onto what lay beyond the threshold.
It was a sort of dry dock. Inside was a newly constructed ship, but it was mounted on massive wheels.
— I present to you a Wonder of the World! — the engineer proclaimed with pride. — A Marienburg-class Landship. And we are inviting your squad to join its crew!
My first thought was: — Holy hell, how does this thing not just fall apart? — The engineer continued his enthusiastic pitch.
— Though we have not yet matched the mastery of Leonardo da Miragliano, we have our own skills. Since we couldn't make the steam engine compact enough, we decided to make the hull larger. Instead of tanks, we built ships!
The wheeled vessel differed from its seafaring cousins only in its lack of sails. It was a substantial craft, with a powerful cannon at the prow and two infantry turrets. Those were equipped with smaller-caliber weapons: swivels and falconets.
— Just imagine cutting across the battlefield aboard this...
— Monstrosity, — I finished mentally.
— ...war machine! Raking the enemy with cannon fire and arquebuses. The ship will also carry a healthy supply of grenades!
Just so that if a fireball hit us, we'd be guaranteed to breach the stratosphere and jump-start the Imperial space program.
— But beyond its firepower, the Landship has one strength that even the Steam Tank lacks. Deployment! You can punch through the enemy lines and fall upon the heretics' heads from the rear! They won't like that one bit, Mein Herr!
Attacking from the rear? Depends on the heretic. The Slaaneshi might actually enjoy it.
— For the landing party, we are selecting the finest blades. Those who can hold their own out of formation and give hell even to the spawn of the Chaos Wastes.
That description fit me, Magg, and Liandra perfectly.
— Furthermore, wizards from the Imperial Colleges will be stationed on each ship. Our winged units will provide cover. While regular cavalry might not cow the barbarians and their beasts, we are forming a truly mobile, hard-hitting reserve with you. A strike from the Gunnery School's latest invention could decide the entire battle!
— Fine. I'm in. Besides me, Magg, and Liandra, it makes sense to bring Erik and a couple of others to help reload Magg's double-barreled falconet.
— You won't regret this decision, Captain Jurgen!
I very much fucking hope so.