[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  SWORD OF JUSTICE

  Heroes - 01

  Chris Wraight

  (An Undead scan v1.0)

  With love to Hannah—thanks for putting up with all the late nights at the keyboard.

  WARHAMMER HEROES

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  Chapter One

  Andreas Grunwald scrambled backwards up the ridge. The beast was on him. Its musk was sharp in his nostrils. It sensed a kill.

  Grunwald gripped his sword more tightly. He could feel his muscles protest. He was tired to the bone. His thick clothes hung from his body, heavy with rain. The water streamed across his face, nearly blinding him.

  The beast bellowed, and charged up the slope.

  “Sigmar,” whispered Grunwald. It was twice his height. Powerful muscles bunched under matted fur. Massive hands swung a crude, notched cleaver. A trooper’s sword still stuck out from its back, right where the man had plunged it, seconds before his death under the hooves.

  Grunwald steadied himself, testing the uncertain ground beneath him. A heartbeat too soon, and he’d be lost. Timing was everything.

  The beast was on him. Grunwald swung his broadsword. The blade sliced through the air, gore flying from the steel. The cleaver rose to parry. At the last moment, Grunwald shifted his balance, falling to one side, twisting the sword around the cleaver. He dropped to one knee, slipping under the beast’s guard. With all the strength that remained, he plunged his sword-tip upwards. The point was still keen. It punctured flesh, running deep into the beast’s innards.

  The creature roared in pain. Its weight was thrown forward. The cleaver fell heavily, but Grunwald stayed firm, both hands on the blade, twisting it further. Thick entrails slipped down the edge, hot against his flesh. For a moment, the beast’s head lolled a few inches from his own. Grunwald could see agony on the horse-like features. So human. So utterly inhuman.

  The light extinguished in its whiteless eyes. The beast’s bellows drained to a low growl, and it toppled. Grunwald pulled the sword free as the massive body rolled onto the sodden grass. Panting, his arms throbbing, he stood up and stole a look along the ranks of men on either side.

  The line was still intact. All along the ridge, the other Imperial troops held their positions. Eight hundred men, Reikland State Troopers, battled to hold the high ground. They were arranged in long ranks, three deep. The halberdiers and pikemen were in the forefront, desperately trying to repel the beastmen advance from the forest cover at the base of the rise. Behind them, archers and handgunners struggled to maintain a protective barrage. The foul beasts were still trying to force the ascent. There were hundreds of them, surging up the slope. More emerged from the forest canopy every moment. Even though it was the middle of the day, the lowering sky made it look much later.

  “Use the damn Helblasters!” Grunwald shouted, staggering back up the bank.

  As he went, he felt fingers close over his ankle. A grasp like a steel trap. The beast wasn’t dead.

  With a cry of exhausted frustration, Grunwald arced the sword back round. He stabbed down again and again, hacking at the stinking flesh. The monster’s blood, hot and black, coated him. Still he plunged, working the blade like a blacksmith’s hammer. Only when he felt dizzy from the effort did he stop. By the time he was done, the carcass at his feet was little more than a puddle of meat and hair.

  Finally, the Helblasters blazed out. From higher up the ridge, a volley of shot flew through the air. There weren’t many of the precious guns left, but their cargo was still deadly. The front ranks of the beastmen stumbled, their fury broken. The creatures were deadly up close, but they had no answer to the artillery.

  A second volley rang out, close-packed and lethal. More beasts fell. For a moment, the ragged lines wavered. They were driven by bloodlust, but they could still taste fear. The pikemen on the front lines sensed a change. Some began to creep forward.

  “Hold your positions, you dogs!” Grunwald bellowed. All down the line, sergeants shouted the same thing. Staying tight against the ridge-top was their only chance. The guns bought them time, nothing more.

  From over the heads of the defending lines, arrows span into the faltering ranks of beasts. Only a few found their mark, and the cattle-like roar of attack started up again. But the Helblasters had a third load to deploy. The barrels were rotated, and the shot rang out again.

  That was enough. The beasts disengaged. Huge, shaggy creatures lumbered back to the cover of the trees below. Between them, smaller horrors scampered for cover. They didn’t go far. A few hundred yards away the open ground was swallowed by the forest. They were safe in there. Safe to lick their wounds, regroup, and come back stronger. It wouldn’t be long.

  Grunwald limped back up along the ridge. All around him, detachments were re-forming. The harsh cries of the sergeants rang out amid the shuffling lines. Discipline was everything. As soon as the perimeter broke, it was over. For all of them. On the far side of the ridge lay the road, the vital artery they were protecting. The surface was churned and shiny with mud, but it was still more passable than the tangled forest around. It had to stay open. The Cauldron was only a few miles to the north, but every yard of it counted.

  As Grunwald gained the higher ground, he saw Ackermann heading towards him. The captain was as covered in blood, sweat and grime as he was. His chainmail was caked in red filth and his beard was twisted and matted. Despite everything, Grunwald let slip a grim smile. The two of them looked like carnival grotesques.

  “What d’you think?” growled Ackermann. He was breathing heavily, and he cradled his shield-arm gingerly.

  Grunwald took a long look along the lines. The whole regiment was arranged near the summit of the snaking ridge. High up the slope, the pikemen had dug in. In between the extended pikes crouched the halberdiers, supported by a secondary row of state troopers. Further up the ridge, archers and handgunners had been placed, high enough up to have a line of sight over the halberdiers’ heads, but close enough to give the troops cover. Dotted amongst the pistoliers were the few artillery pieces they had left. They’d proved their worth already, and steamed ominously in the rain.

  “We can’t take too much more of this,” said Grunwald. “They’ll come again soon.”

  Ackermann nodded.

  “That they will. We’re losing men, sir. We’ll have to pull back.”

  “Where to? There’s nothing behind us but trees all the way back to the Cauldron.”

&nb
sp; Ackermann muttered into his beard.

  “He’s not coming. This is a damn fool errand. This ridge’ll be our grave.”

  Grunwald lost his smile.

  “Orders are orders,” he snapped. “Until we get the signal, we hold the position.”

  Grunwald’s voice was iron-hard. Ackermann hesitated, then nodded. He looked resigned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He headed back towards the front lines. Grunwald watched him go. The man was right. Ackermann was a veteran of twenty years. Few in the ranks lasted that long in the Emperor’s armies. He knew what he was doing. So did Grunwald. The longer they stayed on the ridge, the more beasts would come. The hordes were massing. Sooner or later, their position would become impossible.

  Grunwald turned from the ridge and looked back to the empty road.

  “Where is he?” Grunwald hissed impatiently.

  His thoughts were interrupted. Back down at the foot of the ridge, the bellowing had begun again. The trees shook, and the first beasts burst from cover once more.

  Wearily, Grunwald took up his broadsword and headed back to the ranks. The answer would have to wait.

  North of the ridge, above the mighty Turgitz Cauldron, the sky was black with piled cloud. Squalls were being driven east by a powerful gale and the western horizon was dark with more. There would be no let up.

  Captain Markus Bloch strode up the steep sides of the Bastion, his halberd light in his hands. The streaming rain did nothing to dampen his spirits. He’d been on campaign in Nordland and was used to the ice-cold blasts from the Sea of Claws. There was little the Drakwald could offer in comparison. He let the rivulets run down his grizzled face and under the collar of his jerkin.

  He paused for a moment to survey the scene. The Cauldron was a vast, natural depression in the otherwise seamless forest. It was several miles across, huge and stark. Few trees grew within its limits. The earth enclosed by it was dark and choked with stone. The rain had turned it into a thick slurry of mud, but it was still more easily negotiated than the endless twisted leagues of woodland beyond.

  The army had chosen to make its stand in the time-honoured place. The Bastion was the name given to the vast outcrop of dark rock that rose up in the very centre of the ancient bowl. It rose in a smooth hump from the floor of the Cauldron, half a mile wide and three hundred yards high at the summit. It was like a huge, natural fortress, capable of housing thousands of men and beasts on its back. The incline was shallow enough to ride a horse up on the lower flanks, but soon got steeper. All the way up the flanks of the mighty rock formation, terraces and clefts offered protection from the elements. Centuries of use had worn pathways between them into the hard stone. At the pinnacle, high above the Cauldron, great spikes of rock twisted up into the air like a crown.

  The terraces carved into its flanks had been the redoubt of choice for commanders since before the annals of the Empire had been started. The local people, such as there were, said that Sigmar had created it with a celestial plough taken from Ulric while the god of war slept. Bloch was a devout man, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe stories like that. The Cauldron was just what it was—a place where armies had come to fight for thousands of years. Maybe the blood in the soil was why the trees never grew back.

  All around him, the host was preparing for battle. Companies were being marched into position by their captains. They looked like drowned rats, shuffling miserably in the downpour. As always, there was confusion. This was a large army. It took a lot of organising, crammed along the narrow pathways scored into the natural citadel of stone. There were baggage trains and artillery wains, all of which could be accommodated comfortably in the natural gorges of the huge edifice. Several thousand footsoldiers, three companies of cavalry, artillery barrages, irregulars, and mercenaries all crouched in their positions. The bulk of the army were halberdiers and spearmen, augmented with smaller detachments of handgunners and archers. There were more elite soldiers too, such as Baron Ostmer’s own greatswords and a whole company of Knights Panther. Almost all the forces were now deployed on the Bastion, leaving the wide floor of the Cauldron empty. The only exceptions were those who had ridden off to hold the southern approaches in the hope that Helborg would still come. Much as he liked a fight, Bloch didn’t envy them at all.

  He absently ran his finger along the blade of his halberd. It probably needed sharpening. Too late now. He’d have to test the edge on the necks of beastmen instead, and they’d be here soon enough. They’d been massing for months, raiding and pillaging. The decision had been taken to quash their menace in one massive, orchestrated campaign. As Bloch gazed across the hurriedly organising ranks, that decision didn’t look as good as it had done in Altdorf.

  He turned away from the vista and resumed his walk up the slope of the Bastion. Ahead of him, a familiar figure waited.

  “Herr Bloch,” said Verstohlen. “You’re getting wet.”

  Bloch never knew when Pieter Verstohlen was mocking him. It was always the same with the damned aristos. Their cut-glass accents were designed to make you feel inferior. Not that Verstohlen had ever explicitly said anything to slight his honour. He’d always been the soul of politeness. But Bloch didn’t like it. There was a place for smooth manners and cleverness, and it wasn’t on the battlefield.

  “That I am,” replied Bloch. “I see you’ve come prepared.”

  Verstohlen wore a wide-brimmed leather hat and a long coat. At his belt were two exquisite flintlocks. He wore a finely-tailored jacket and hardwearing boots. It was all plain, understated and utilitarian, but Bloch was enough of a man of the world to know how expensive it was. Unlike most of the men of the army, Verstohlen wore clothes that fitted him. They’d been tailored. It was unnerving. Unnatural.

  Verstohlen nodded, and the rainwater slewed from the brim of his hat.

  “As always,” he said. “No word of Commander Grunwald?”

  Bloch shook his head.

  “We got a message at dawn. He’s engaged them to the south. Nothing since then.”

  “Is it wise, to wait so long? I’m not a commander, but…”

  Bloch scowled. What was Verstohlen, exactly? He could almost have passed for a witch hunter, but the man was no Templar of Sigmar. He had the trust of the big man, that was certain, but why? It wasn’t like him to listen to a civilian.

  “He’ll hold the line,” snapped Bloch, unwilling to debate tactics with the man. “He knows what he has to do.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Herr Bloch. But, as I understand it, the support from Marshal Helborg was due to arrive last night. If he’s not here now, and there is no prospect of his appearance from the dispatches, then perhaps keeping the road open is an unnecessary risk. The beast-men are already massing. Herr Grunwald is exposed.”

  Bloch didn’t want to agree with him, but there was something in what he said. The big man was waiting too long. Helborg wouldn’t arrive. They all knew it. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

  “So what d’you want to do?” he asked, affecting a casual disdain. “Try to persuade the chief? Good luck.”

  Verstohlen remained impassive. He never seemed to react to anything. He had ice running through his veins. That was another thing Bloch didn’t like. A soldier should have some passion. Some spirit.

  “Where are you assigned?” asked Verstohlen.

  “On the west front of the Bastion with the Fourth and Ninth halberdiers. Why?”

  “Keep an eye on the southern approaches, will you? I will try to remedy this myself, but I may run out of time. Keep some good men about you. There may be a need to make adjustments. Grunwald is a good fighter. We can’t afford to lose him.”

  Bloch felt one of his fists balling, and unclenched it. Why did Verstohlen’s speech irritate him so much? It wasn’t even that the man was weak. Bloch knew that Verstohlen had killed plenty in his time. Those pistols weren’t for show, but there was something strange about him. He didn’t fit. And in an army, where you had to tru
st the man at your shoulder like no other, that was a problem.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Bloch, turning away. He could hear Verstohlen start to say something else, but he pretended not to hear, and the rain drowned it out.

  Bloch stalked over to his regiment. In the north, a low rumble of thunder echoed. The troops looked up nervously. At the edge of his vision, he was dimly aware of Verstohlen shrugging and walking off towards the command post. He took up his place beside the halberdiers.

  “All right, lads,” he said. “The waiting’s almost over.”

  There were a few murmured responses, but no fancy words. These were his kind of men. Grim, stoic, simple. Good to have at your shoulder.

  He stared out westwards. The rain continued to drum on the rock. Far below the Bastion, at the edge of the Cauldron’s sheer sides, the trees were tossed about by the wind. In the far distance, right on the edge of hearing, there was a faint howling. The storm was coming. When it broke, the creatures of the forest would be hard on its heels.

  Back on the ridge, the beastmen had come again. This time there were more. They piled out from under the tree line, bellowing with a fresh fury. Huge creatures strode amongst them, towering over the scampering horrors at their feet. One had the shoulders of a giant bull, the colour of dried blood and scored with tattoos. When it roared, the earth shook.

  Grunwald hefted his broadsword with foreboding. So many.

  “Hold your fire,” he cried. “Wait for the signal!”

  All along the line, archers fitted their arrows to the string. They looked pale with fear. The constant attacks had got to them. Handgunners took aim, squatting amongst them, sheltering the matchcord against the rain. Pikemen fingered the poles of their weapons agitatedly, waiting for the horrendous clash of arms.

  The gap closed. The eyes of the beasts became visible. They were like burning coals. They tore up the ridge towards the defenders.