Chapter 57
The Nurgle Chosen who had finished off the overbold young knight was now heading in our direction. Through the rents in his helm, one could see roughly a third of a mutilated face, covered in knotty growths and bulbous scars. Following the Chosen, ordinary northern Marauders were beginning to close in.
I moved forward to meet them, taking the front rank of our improvised formation. During the trip on the landship, two bars of the Blood Chalice had drained, but the magical infusion was still active. The wizards had not left us without support even now. Golden, metallic sparks rained down upon us from above, settling on the warriors' harnesses. The armor began to shine brilliantly, as if it had just been perfectly polished. Excellent. A boost to defense was exactly what I needed right now.
The Chosen of Nurgle was now directly opposite me. I looked into his eyes: cloudy, indifferent, and infinitely weary. Some foul substance dripped from his rusted sword onto the packed earth. Raising his blade above his head, the Chosen advanced on me, not particularly hiding his intention to attack. Bracing with my shield was simple enough. The enemy brought his blade down on me from above. My left arm struggled to hold the weight. The impact on the metal-rimmed, magic-imbued shield rang out like a strike on a gong.
The predictable sword attack turned out to be a diversion. With his free left hand, the Chosen tried to grab the edge of my shield. The Nurglite was a head and a half taller than me. I was certain he had enough strength to prevent me from blocking the next blow. However, the Chosen's hand was intercepted by the massive paw of Magg Gutrom.
— Don't touch my skinny-one! — the Ogre barked, and with his right hand, he attempted a strike with his trophy Dawi-Zharr axe.
Sparks flew in every direction. The Chaos warrior managed to block the Ogre's attack with his rusted sword. A stalemate? Not a chance. I now had a trophy Dawi-Zharr axe of my own. I had been holding this heavy uber-chopper on my shoulder. Seizing the opportunity, I crouched slightly and brought the axe down on the Chosen's left knee. He still had thick, albeit damaged, armor there. However, the Chaos Dwarfs were famous for their craftsmanship for a reason. The Infernal Guard axe bit into the damaged plate, and the blade sank deep into the Nurglite's flesh.
I heard neither a cry nor a muffled groan from this rotted warrior. However, the knee injury affected his stability. Magg pulled the Nurglite toward him by the arm.
I wrenched the axe free on the second try and, dodging the enemy's attempt to kick me, hacked again. This time I aimed for the back of the knee. A hit! But it took another blow to the same spot for the Nurglite's leg to buckle.
Magg took advantage of this. He pulled the enemy toward him and simultaneously rammed him with his armored gut. The Nurglite fell to one knee. Then we rained down blows from our two trophy axes. The Chosen, as befits a follower of Nurgle, refused to die for a long time. His armor, even riddled with grapeshot holes, made our task difficult, but we succeeded, of course. The indifferent gaze of the Chaos warrior's cloudy eyes didn't change even as Magg hacked off his head.
Thus we avenged the death of the over-brave young knight. What can you say?
Lady's Blessing < Nurgle's Gifts < beating the shit out of him together with trophy axes. The moral of the story is—with a crowd, you can take down even a lion.
Northern Marauders took the place of the fallen Chosen. How can I describe their appearance without using tier-three profanity? Viking-Mongol-Satanists, a single glance at whom could cause food poisoning.
Immediately, someone tried to poke me with an extremely dubious-looking spear. The suspiciously brown tip was "decorated" with plucked crow feathers. I took the thrust on my shield and tried to shove the enemy's spear aside to counterattack, but a big man with a two-handed axe was already lunging from the other side. I had to go into a full defensive turtle.
However, the Chaos followers were also having a hard time. I was not inferior to them in strength. After the Dawi-Zharr and the Nurglite Chosen, their attacks felt like light caresses. The Blood Chalice had already filled to three bars. This was enough to react to the actions of both northerners without issue.
First, I caught the Spearman. Taking his weapon on my shield, I hooked it with the axe blade and pulled it aside, stepping forward at the same time. I closed the distance sharply. The opponent didn't have time to step back.
Hello, would you like a shield-rim to the face? Actually, your answer won't change a thing.
Dazing the Spearman with a shield bash and breaking his nose, I tucked my head, taking the axe on the dome of my helmet. Then I slammed the blade of my choppa into the neck of the still-stunned northerner.
Minus one, and immediately plus one. Before I could finish off the second opponent, his place was taken by a foul-smelling Pestigor.
Great.
It felt like we were supposed to be attacking the flank of the enemy center, but it felt more like the flank of the enemy center was attacking us. The Chaos worshippers were tired of waiting in line for the main battle. They found a new target in us.
Marauders, Pestigors, Chaos Warriors, and Bile Trolls pressed against the small detachment of ship marines. Even magical support and volleys from the Ironsides didn't do much to dampen their enthusiasm. However, before the situation took a serious turn, the Imperial cavalry struck.
It seemed Lietpold had a tactic and he was sticking to it. Specifically, he let some of the Chaos scum pull away from the main mass of the center to engage the ship marines. When they locked into combat with us, the Outriders, Reiters, and mercenaries attacked them from two sides, catching them in a pincer.
Paradoxical as it sounds, Lietpold was attacking the flank of the enemy center in its own flanks.
On the left, we were supported by the Imperial riders. Discharging their pistols and arquebuses, their first rank gave way to the second, which already had its firearms ready for combat. They let fly with grenade launchers as well, though the riders used such projectiles further away from us. The most elite Nuln Reiters were armed with repeater pistols. They were a sort of primitive revolver; the barrels spun like a cylinder and fired bullets in succession, providing an incredible rate of fire by local standards.
On the right, we were supported by the poorly armed but more numerous mercenary cavalry. These men, having discharged their pistols and thrown their javelins, entered close combat. Cavalry broadswords, sabers, spears, long-handled axes—Lietpold's brave boys were armed with everything imaginable. The former Border Prince himself, his face hidden behind his visor, swung his enchanted blade as if he were twenty years younger than he looked. The sorcerous blade smoked. It easily sliced through Pestigor hides and the primitive armor of Marauders. The flesh of his victims flared up as if soaked in oil. The fire damage didn't cover massive areas of skin, but it clearly caused the victims excruciating pain. One of the Bile Trolls, after a couple of hits from such a sword, turned and fled with a roar, shoving aside its own allies.
The Chaos pressure on our squad slackened. Now we were advancing. I moved forward, wielding the terrible axe. With this weapon, one could rely on strength alone. The weight and sharpness of the blade allowed me to bypass blocks and even split the wooden shields of ordinary Norscans.
In less than a minute, I finished off three. The Blood Chalice was full again.
The Chaos forces fell back. The Trolls and some of the Marauders fled. A few Chaos Warriors retreated without showing their backs, covering themselves with heavy metal shields that could withstand even firearm hits.
Our squad didn't pursue the enemy too actively. Instead, we returned to the ship's ramp. Lietpold gave this order. With his enchanted sword, he pointed toward the ships and then drew a line in the air.
Both cavalry detachments also pulled back. Hm. They retreated quite far, even hiding behind the hulls of the ships. Did Lietpold want to repeat the whole performance? To lure another chunk of the enemy center toward us and attack it from two sides again?
It seemed such an obvious trap shouldn't have worked, but we were dealing with Chaos followers. Among them, only the Tzeentchians and Dawi-Zharr could boast of cunning. Nurglites were not about that.
Another Chosen joined a dozen Chaos Warriors. He held a massive greataxe high above him—essentially a variant of a halberd. New Marauders, Pestigors, and Trolls hurried to join the attack. In a couple of minutes, nearly two hundred warriors gathered to strike us. The corpses of their comrades lying between us and the main crowd of the center didn't bother them in the slightest.
Here we go!
The second Chaos attack followed the script of the first almost exactly. At first, it was hard for us. The enemy forces rushed forward with particular fury. The situation was somewhat stabilized by accurate fire from the Ironsides, a shot from a cannon taken from the prow and moved to the gunwale, and several magical projectiles from our wizards.
Enduring the bombardment, the Nurglites transitioned to melee. I had to drop a Pestigor first, driving the axe into its chest, and then spend a long time dealing with one of the Chaos Warriors. Our strengths were practically equal.
Both large, both armored, both superior to ordinary men. I was faster, and he was tougher. My one-handed axe and his were both trying to bypass shield defenses. It continued like that until the allied cavalry attack.
Once again, pincers from two sides, shooting, grenade tosses, spear thrusts. Lietpold's armor was already heavily coated in enemy blood. When the Chaos forces began to fall back, the former Border Prince rode in my direction. In addition to his enchanted sword, he now held a cavalry lance. Setting it against the lance-rest on his breastplate, Lietpold gave his horse a slight gallop and struck my opponent directly in the back. The lance shattered. A piece of it seemed to lodge in the Chaos Warrior's back. Even his heavy plate couldn't hold.
Tossing away the lance fragment, Lietpold saluted me with his enchanted sword. He recognized me, apparently, despite the dust, blood, ash, and gods-know-what-else covering my armor.
The Chaos Warrior stood for a few seconds and then collapsed forward. There was no need to finish him. A fragment of the lance protruded from his armored back.
The Chaos attack fell back again, leaving behind dozens of corpses. Just as many of the less resilient or wounded northerners hurried away, deciding to leave the battlefield.
And...
It looked like Lietpold was going to pull this scheme a third time. Brutal. On the other hand, why not? Even if we weren't crushing the enemy center, we were taking some of the load off our defending allies. The stream of Chaos Warrior reinforcements should start to run dry. This would give our people in the center a chance to finally turn the tide of the battle. I hoped they wouldn't waste that chance.
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INTERLUDE. Sayl the Faithless.
He did not intend to submit to Chaos, but he wanted to make Chaos submit to him.
The chieftain and sorcerer Sayl the Faithless, at the head of a dozen Dolgan War Mammoths, a horse-horde, and non-Nurglite northerners, immediately spotted a weak point in the enemy's defense. Where the great river made a sharp turn by the city, the southerners' positions were easiest to breach.
Sayl raised his Serpent Staff high. Sparks of magical power tore from it and flew forward, indicating the path for the Dolgan horde. The earth thundered under hooves. Following the cavalry, warbands of Beastmen and cultists ran. All who were not favored by Tamurkhan had found a patron in Sayl.
The Faithless sat upon a throne secured to the back of a mammoth. Directly behind him was a Chaos Warshrine, though it was not dedicated to any specific god. From the eight-pointed star, which Sayl himself had covered with signs of power, blew the Winds of Magic rushing from the realm of daemons. However, sorcerous energies were already plentiful in the surroundings.
The magical gaze of the sorcerer's single eye saw the glow of power raging over the battlefield. Every moment someone died. Every moment blood was spilled. The Chaos Gods triumphed. However, Sayl didn't care for their favor. He desired not gifts, but conquests. Not the mercy of almighty lords, but freedom and power.
These were dangerous thoughts, but as long as Sayl the Faithless was needed by the gods, they would tolerate his stubbornness and try time and again to sway him to their side.
— The sorcerers here are stronger than I imagined.
It was both unpleasant to admit and at the same time gave hope that power could be achieved without the patronage of the Great Four. That woman on the dragon was strong. A dark witch wielding the Wind of Death. Sayl wouldn't mind possessing her body and soul to pull out the secrets of the southern casters, but first, victory was required.
The enemy cannons thundered. Roundshot and bullets gathered their bloody harvest. However, the southerners' long-range weapons did not bother the sorcerer. He had formed a barely visible but durable shield of mist around himself, and the mutant mammoth was hardy enough to withstand even a direct cannonball hit. Moreover, Nightmaw—Sayl's personal Chaos Spawn, created from the bodies of his former comrades and teacher—ran nearby. If anything happened, this beast would protect him from any southern warrior.
Sayl raised the Serpent Staff again. A red flash lit the battlefield. It was the signal for a decisive attack.
Guided by Sayl, the troops surged forward. The riders spurred their mounts. Bullets struck men and animals, but the Dolgans endured.
Sayl drew upon the Winds of Magic, directing power from the cloud-shrouded skies downward. A blinding bolt of lightning struck one of the southerners' multi-barreled cannons. The weapon was torn in half. Those attempting to reload it died as well.
With a second spell, Sayl brought gusts of icy wind down upon a spot where several dozen shooters wanted to let the northerners get closer to meet them with a musket volley. Not today. The hurricane wind knocked the southerners off their feet. Ice grit sharp as broken glass cut their faces.
The northern cavalry, and following them the mammoths, burst onto the southerners' line of fortifications. They fought almost bravely but found themselves outnumbered. Sayl had specifically waited until part of the enemy pulled away toward the center. Tamurkhan was attacking there. Let him distract the enemies with his fat carcass while Sayl secured victory.
Noticing a group of southerners with swords in one of the trenches, the sorcerer directed a flow of shadow magic there. A spectral pendulum-blade scattered the pathetic humans in three swipes, bringing them death or heavy mutilation.
The Dolgan host breached the southerners' defense. Mounted warriors, mammoths, Wulfheofnar skin-shifters, and trolls swept away the first barriers. Crowds of Norscan infantry followed, consolidating the success. Warhounds and Beastmen pursued the retreating. The slaughter lasted several more minutes.
A rout. An easy victory with one powerful blow. Now all that remained was to wheel his horde and strike the southerners' center in the rear. To cut off the flow of reinforcements. After that, he could wait while Tamurkhan and the remaining southerners exhausted their strength in mutual slaughter. If the Maggot Lord lost many warriors—perfect. Then he would certainly have to reckon with Sayl.
The Faithless had already raised his staff to direct the troops into a new attack when a flotilla of small vessels appeared on the river, towing rafts and barges. Southerners in green uniforms crowded upon them.
— Likely another tribe, — the sorcerer thought.
The river-southerners began shelling the Dolgans and their allies with light cannons. Many there had those unpleasant long-barreled rifles that hit from very far away. Bullets and cannonballs caused the northerners some damage. However, these river-southerners could no longer change the course of the battle. Now Sayl the Faithless would simply turn his forces...
— Where are you going, you pathetic fools?! — escaped the sorcerer's mutation-deformed throat as his riders and even mammoth riders rushed toward the river.
Sayl launched several bursts of sparks, giving signals, but most of the northerners had already focused too much on the new enemy. The Dolgans were leading their horses to the bank, firing arrows and throwing javelins. Naturally, the southerners were inflicting much greater damage on them. Many arrows and javelins didn't reach the boats at all, while the long rifles struck accurately from there.
— Parasites! Half-wits! — Sayl was fuming, blocking the path to the bank with his mammoth for a group of Dolgans who hadn't yet ridden there. — I am your chieftain! I am your lord! You must listen to ME!
One of the morons at the head of an allied tribe managed to lead his mammoth right into the river. The beast was large enough to walk along the bottom, but, naturally, it couldn't do so quickly. Before the mammoth reached any of the boats, it had already been riddled by many rifles and several cannons. The river churned with blood.
Only after losing several hundred riders and a mammoth did the northerners finally realize how senseless it was to trade fire with the river-southerners. Sayl managed to get the tribes' attention, but by then, new enemy forces had already emerged from the center and the city itself. The southerners were preparing to counterattack. An easy victory was slipping from Sayl's hands.
Feeling this, the wrath-enveloped sorcerer decided to call upon the powers of the Four. For long years he had teased the gods, paying none of them proper respect and making only the most minimal offerings. The Four hated him, but at the same time sought to conquer, tame, and bind him in chains of pacts.
It seemed the hour had come when one could sell their soul for a higher price. If he played his cards right, then perhaps, by losing some of his freedom, Sayl would rise even above Tamurkhan. He only needed to achieve victory now!
— I call upon you, Eagle, Hound, Serpent, and Raven. I call upon you, Tzeentch, Khorne, Slaanesh, and Nurgle. Let the fabric of reality crack! Let Chaos reign!
And sprinkling the Warshrine on the mammoth's back with his own blood, Sayl sealed the dark bargain. Soon the southerners would know fear...