Chapter 51
The day could not be called sunny, nor was it truly overcast. Ragged clouds veiled about sixty percent of the sky, the sun peeking out only to vanish again behind the gray. Yet, it was undeniably a day of destiny. Tamurkhan's horde had nearly reached Nuln. The Imperial forces arrayed before the city prepared to receive the blow.
About an hour and a half ago, I had said my goodbyes to Marcus Schlossberg and Adora, who, along with the bulk of the ragtag Reiksguard, remained to defend a redoubt on the left flank of the fortifications. I had been assigned a different task for this battle.
Magg, Liandra, Erik, two loaders, and I stood beside one of the landships. Nuln possessed six of these motorized coffins in total. They had been positioned in the hills behind the left flank, nestled in well-protected emplacements screened by mages and a multitude of marksmen. The Chaos-worshippers were not supposed to see the landships from a distance. For that matter, we couldn't see the enemy either; our view was obstructed by the hills and the fortifications atop them.
— When we get on boat? — Magg inquired, shifting from foot to foot and adjusting his tricorne. — When we get on boat, I say!?
The Ogre grabbed the collar of one of the engineers scurrying around the vessel.
— Another five minutes, sir! — the man replied with a nervous smile. — Ten at most.
I felt as though I had heard that same estimate forty minutes ago. I truly hoped that at least some of these "miraculous" inventions would actually move. Even if these landships were an insult to physics and material science, we needed some kind of answer to the war machines of the Dawi-Zharr.
The engineers were in a frenzy. They had long since lit the furnaces of all six machines. From within the wooden hulls came the clanking and tapping of mechanisms. Occasionally, something would thud with particular violence, usually followed by the desperate hiss of venting steam. The engineers were forced to lower the pressure in the boilers to avoid a catastrophic explosion.
While waiting for the landships to start, I surveyed the other members of the boarding parties. It was a motley crew. Aside from the support staff and gunners, half of each team consisted of Nuln Ironsides—elite handgunner units. Unlike many other detachments of musketeers or arquebusiers, these men were heavily armored. The Nuln Ironsides were renowned for their steadfastness under both enemy fire and in the heat of melee.
Another third of the boarding parties comprised the Blades of Manann—a mercenary outfit from Marienburg. Landsknechts. They were accustomed to fighting both on soil and on the decks of ships, and they were armed accordingly. Alongside the units of swordsmen trained for formation fighting were rowdy bands of cutthroats wielding axes, boat hooks, and falchions. Their demeanor screamed brigand, but their equipment was of excellent quality.
The Blades of Manann conducted themselves with considerable arrogance, and one of their officers openly declared:
— These little boats are the property of the Free City of Marienburg. We paid for their construction. By Stromfels' shark-cock, you Imperials better guard them more dearly than your own hides. Is that clear?
The Nuln Ironsides and the support staff did not react to the provocation; their discipline allowed them to avoid a confrontation. However, there were guests among the Nulners. One stepped toward the mercenary and spoke:
— You are insulting my honor, peasant?
The words belonged to a Bretonnian knight. He spoke in Reikspiel, which he did not master well, leaving his accent thick and heavy.
We had Dwarfs, an Elf, an Ogre, and a halfling without a nose, but even against that backdrop, the Bretonnians looked... strange. I had grown accustomed to the appearance of Imperials—their clothing, manners, and gear. But the Bretonnians seemed like refugees from another era, or a reenactment club on a field trip.
The three knights wore mail, and over it, colorful surcoats emblazoned with heraldry. I didn't know if there were breastplates beneath the cloth or if they relied solely on chain armor. Furthermore, the knights bore many ornaments, including elaborate crests atop their great helms.
— I no understand you, little lordling, — the Marienburger replied insolently, though he took a few steps back into the cover of his comrades. — Learn the words first before you start throwing them around.
The knight's face turned crimson. His waxed mustache twitched. The Bretonnian's gauntleted hand fell upon the hilt of his hand-and-a-half sword.
Five mercenaries stood before him, but he surpassed them in height and stature, and there was something peculiar in his gaze. It wasn't just contempt or rage; I was used to that. It was something else. Something slightly terrifying.
— You offend me, as I understand. You pay now with your life, — he said calmly enough, while two younger knights approached to assist their countryman.
Bloody hell.
The ships won't start, but the crews are ready to blow a fuse and cut each other's throats before the battle even begins. I attempted to intervene.
— Forgive me, milord, — I addressed the knight in Bretonnian. — These ignorant brutes were not attempting to insult you. They were merely bickering with the Imperials. Local squabbles.
The knight turned to me with a look of surprise.
— It is not often one hears the tongue of noble Gilles le Breton spoken here, boy, — he said, eyeing me with an appreciative glance. — It is quite exhausting trying to drum anything into the heads of the local serfs.
It seemed the crisis was averted.
Then the knight glanced back at the mercenaries and said in a heavy tone:
— However, their insolent stares can already be considered an insult.
The Bretonnian reached for his sword again. Nothing was averted, damn it!
The situation was saved by the intervention of Magister Gerard. The wizard of the Jade Order not only knew Bretonnian but was also an aristocrat by birth, meaning his words carried more weight with the knights than mine did.
To be honest, I was surprised these leftover Lancelots had decided to go into battle on a ship. I had assumed that for Bretonnian chivalry, fighting without a horse was a grave dishonor. However, the eldest of them explained the situation in a conversation with Gerard.
— Most of the Imperial nobility conduct themselves improperly, — he complained. — Like shepherds who have let swine into their homes, they have become far too close with the rabble. However, Countess Emmanuelle von Liebwitz is a truly magnificent woman, of whom these wretched lands are unworthy. She asked us to take the fight to the deck of a wheeled vessel. The Countess assured us that this would place us at the very tip of the spear, allowing us to perform great deeds for the glory of the Lady.
The more I listened to the Bretonnians, the more I realized how different their mental programming was from the locals. These knights lived in some fairy-tale world of their own. Deeds, glory, honor—to them, these weren't just pretty words, but unbreakable dogmas.
Besides the Nulners, the mercenaries, and the three Bretonnians, our vessel was to carry fifteen Dwarfs into battle, including a Slayer. It was my first time seeing one of these bearded combat-suicides in the flesh. An orange crest, a greataxe on a long haft, no armor, and a body covered in tattoos and scars. The Slayer kept his distance from everyone, occasionally casting contemptuous glances at the Imperial engineering teams.
The other Dwarfs were far more social. A few tried to help the engineers patch a leak in the steam pipes, while others puffed on pipes, arguing in their own tongue about how quickly the landships would fall apart.
— We're going on them anyway, — reasoned a Dwarf with a long gray beard. — An umgi invention won't kill the sons of Grungni. Even if the boiler blows, it'll just be a singe. Just watch your beards, friends.
I remembered this venerable Dwarf. We had crossed paths in the city. He had been one of the judges when I was arm-wrestling that arms dealer.
In addition to all these warriors, our landship was to carry several mages. First, there was Gerard, whom I already knew well. Second, they had assigned Hel to us.
The young shamaness was accompanied by two older representatives of her order. Significantly older... they were essentially a grandfather and grandmother in the garb of forest hobos. Both looked as if they were literally overgrown with moss. The old man was hunched, missing teeth, and his right eye was clouded with a cataract. The old woman looked slightly younger but still seemed to be hanging on by a thread.
The elderly shamanic pair stood on either side of the young spellcaster, whispering advice to her. Likely sharing the secrets of a special magical ointment made from bear shit.
Having finished instructing Hel, the old man approached the rest of the crew with an air of self-importance and declared:
— Watch the girl. Watch the girl, I say. She is a good one. Foolish for now, but who isn't foolish when young? I cannot go with you. I have another front. But you watch over her. If you don't, I'll... — the old man shook a withered fist at the mercenaries from the Blades of Manann and even the Dwarfs.
Someone chuckled in response, others frowned. However, no one sought a conflict. Likely, everyone understood that the old shaman had one foot in the grave and the other in senility.
— And kill plenty of Chaos-worshippers, — the old man continued his lecture. — You won't kill more than me, but you try! You try!
Nearly everyone present began to snicker, though the old man didn't seem to notice, continuing his "inspiring" speech.
— For Taal! For Rhya! For Sigmar! Kill the heretics. Tear them with claws, tear them with beaks! Kill! Drown them in the bogs!
— Boris! — the old woman approached him from behind, placing both hands on the raging old man's shoulders. — Boris, don't snarl at me for nothing. It is time. The girl will manage. It is time for us.
— Kill the heretics?!
— Yes, yes. We must show the graveyard maiden that there is power in the forests as well.
The pensioners stepped aside, ascending the slope of a hill. There, something began to happen that ensured no one would laugh at the old couple again. An amber-gold radiance enveloped the pair. Spectral leaves swirled, closing over the shamans in a solid canopy. A flash, and where the humans had stood, two mighty monsters appeared.
The old man had transformed into a Griffon—a beast that surpassed every specimen I had ever seen in size. Its silver-gray hide gave it a haunting appearance.
The old shamaness had turned into a Giant Eagle. The bird's wingspan was at least five meters. A single flap sent gusts of wind through the air, forcing us to shield our faces from the dust.
The pair of shamans soared toward the ragged clouds.
— That means the fight is soon, — Helena said breathlessly, looking from me to Liandra. — We're...
— Ready! — the joyful cry of one of the engineers interrupted her. — All aboard!
The landship finally lowered its gangplank, and its motley crew began to board. The battle was very close.
INTERLUDE. Elspeth von Draken.
For hundreds of years, the people of the Empire had grown accustomed to Chaos coming from the north, but today, Elspeth von Draken felt the tide of corruption moving toward Nuln from the south. With her magical sight, the sorceress observed the approach of a wave of destructive forces. Chaos-worshippers were not merely madmen in grotesque armor and hordes of monsters. They served as physical manifestations of the dark will of the powers of the Immaterium. Ordinary people could not see it, but the war against Chaos was fought on every level of existence, and Elspeth could observe it in all its grim glory.
The sorceress's Carmine Dragon had settled upon one of the city's highest and sturdiest towers, granting her an excellent view of the field where the battle was about to erupt.
With her magical sight, Elspeth von Draken could observe more than just the tide of Chaos filth. For a master of the wind of Shyish of her caliber, life and death were two sides of the same coin. Elspeth felt the fluctuations of the souls of the people gathered at Nuln with delicate precision. Between the rivers Aver and Upper Reik lay the fortifications where thousands of soldiers, knights, militia, engineers, and many other defenders of the Empire would soon meet their fate.
Resolve, fear, hope, rage, impatience, cold-blooded calm, a strange intoxicating euphoria—a multitude of shades of different emotions could be discerned in the pulse of the flickering souls. Some burned brighter than the rest. These were the heroes upon whose actions the fate of Nuln largely depended.
The best of the soldiers, experienced veterans, renowned knights, wizards, priests, warriors. They were all so different from one another.
A savage, sullen, and sinister cruelty—a feeling that any champion of Khorne would be proud of—warmed the soul of Theodore Bruckner with a steady heat. The protector and executioner of Countess Emmanuelle von Liebwitz sat upon the back of his Demigryph, anticipating the slaughter. Elspeth could easily imagine a timeline where Bruckner ended up on the side of the enemy. But fate had already woven a different path, and von Draken knew that Theodore would not betray them now.
Elspeth felt the pulsation of the talisman she had gifted to Bruckner to protect him from the sinister magic of the foe. This artifact bound them both in a grim but necessary alliance. Would it be enough to secure a victory for mankind today?
Elspeth von Draken had received a very precise prophecy from the Celestial College regarding Tamurkhan's invasion. This terrible blow of Chaos could be repelled, though the sorceress herself would have to pay a high price. The talisman she had handed to Theodore was capable of destroying Tamurkhan, but it would drain Elspeth of all her strength. The sorceress was prepared to pay that price. She intended to follow the path of the prophecy, even if it threatened her with a heavy blow or death, but events had veered away from the prediction.
The soul of Castellan-Engineer Jubal Falk felt like the complete opposite of Bruckner's. There was almost no room in it for cruelty or rage. Only a quiet certainty that he was bound to do his duty. The resolve of a seasoned soldier, complemented by the logic of an engineer. Such was the field commander of the Nuln Ironsides. Even a fleeting observation of such a soul calmed the nerves.
However, there were also truly irritating factors. The itching, bilious malice of Lietpold the Black agitated the Immaterium. The former petty Border Prince had been placed in command of a unit of mercenaries and mobile cavalry. No matter how loathsome the man was, one could not afford to discard such experienced commanders in the hour of need. Lietpold hated Chaos. Not for their heresy, their crimes, or their all-corrupting essence. No. Lietpold was simply furious at Tamurkhan's forces for ravaging his bandit domain. The mercenary's thoughts at the moment consisted mostly of elaborate, multi-layered profanity.
Another warrior who hated Chaos was Rudolf Hoch. One of those who had been prophesied to die at Pfeildorf. He had survived despite the predictions and was ready to fight again, but his resolve seemed brittle. Elspeth sensed a weakness in the man. He was currently driven by a thirst for vengeance, yet it had not yet taken deep root in his soul. The grief of defeat had sheared away the knight's former personality like a sharp scraper. The motivations growing over the site of that wound had not yet formed the framework of a new character. Olger Hoch could become either a true hero or a broken man.
Besides broken men, there were also representatives of the elder races with similar trauma. Elspeth could observe such a personality now. Liandra—that was her name. An Elven maiden whose past was shrouded in sinister shadows. She fought with the desperation of a doomed soul, driven forward only by duty. Could Liandra be a tool in the hands of the power that had altered the flow of fate? What side of the conflict was that even?
Elspeth had already scrutinized her at the ball, yet had found nothing overly suspicious. However, some things could only be discovered with patience.
Von Draken delved deeper into her own perceptions, using her second sight to encompass the space around the Elf, who had now taken her place on one of the landships. For a few seconds, everything went as the sorceress expected. She recorded residual enchantments—the nearly faded traces of another's will. Currently, there was only one spell upon the Elven maiden: a simple enchantment of a medical nature. Looking closer, Elspeth realized it blocked the tear glands. It seemed the spell had previously covered both eyes, but then one element of the enchantment had been shattered.
Elspeth was about to turn her attention elsewhere when a shadow of powerful sorcery suddenly flickered through the invisible world of the winds of magic. Von Draken tried to track where this shadow would lead her, but it slipped away. Several new attempts to concentrate led to nothing. It seemed the spell was not directly cast upon the Elf, but it could be connected to her. This magic intrigued Elspeth. Few could hide their enchantments from her.
Von Draken's second sight continued to plunge into the space around Liandra. At times, the sorceress felt as if she were about to touch someone's spells, but they refused to react to her attention.
— Curious.
If those were indeed spells and not random echoes of surrounding emanations, they were so skillfully woven into reality that it was difficult to imagine who could have cast them. Elspeth would have dearly loved to get to the bottom of it, but time was pressing.
The wave of Chaos was drawing closer. Winged monsters soared over Tamurkhan's Horde. The hellish engines of the Dawi-Zharr thundered, answered by the cannonade of Imperial artillery. The battle was beginning.