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Heroes of the Empire – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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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.’

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 beastmen 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 trust 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.

‘Helblasters!’ shouted Grunwald.

With a crack, the cannons ignited. Grape and shot spun into the oncoming tide, punching holes in the first rank. Squeals of agony mingled with the guttural baying.

Still the beasts came.

‘Gunners!’

The handgunners released their first volley. In the wake of their lead shot, arrows whined into the fray. More beasts fell, clutching at their sides in pain. They were trampled by their fellows.

Still the beasts came.

‘Blades!’

The pikemen lowered their poles and thrust them forward. The front row of creatures slammed into them. Some were impaled, seemingly heedless of the pain. Others leapt over the steel tips, just as far as the waiting line of halberds. The blades whirled, and the beastmen were thrown back. As long as the ranks held, there was no way through.

Grunwald sprang from his vantage point and entered the fray. There was no point standing back once battle had been joined. Now the assault was on them, and every sword was needed. With his last glance towards the forest edge, he saw the scale of the task. There were more beastmen then ever. The ground beneath the ridge boiled with grotesque bodies. They were clambering over one another to get at them. They only sensed one thing, only smelled one thing, only lusted for one thing. Blood. Their blood.

‘For Sigmar!’ he shouted, and hurled himself into the assault.

If they wanted his, they’d have to earn it.

Verstohlen hurried through the ranks towards the command enclosure near the summit of the Bastion. On either side of him, close-knit detachments of troopers waited nervously. They had the advantage of high ground, but little else. The beastmen could scale the slopes with ease, and there would soon be scores of them. The Imperial advance into the forest had roused the whole Drakwald. Verstohlen was as versed in the lore of the wilderness as any seasoned general. When there was blood to be spilled, they would come.

Ahead of him, the massed flags and standards marked out the general’s vantage point. Functionaries were scurrying around it, desperately conveying last-minute orders to the field captains. The ornate battle-standards flapped wildly, driven by the wind. There was no sign of the commander. Verstohlen looked around in vain, before catching sight of Tierhof, the Master of Ordnance.

‘Where’s the general?’ asked Verstohlen. Tierhof looked at him coldly. They all did, these soldiers. For some reason, he seemed to repel them. One day he would have to work out why and do something about it.

‘With the Knights Panther,’ said Tierhof. ‘What do you want him for? He’ll be riding to the front in moments.’

Verstohlen sucked his teeth irritably.

‘Then I’m too late,’ he said. ‘Have you had word from Herr Grunwald?’

‘Not since the morning.’

‘And from the Marshal?’

Tierhof laughed. It was not a merry sound.

‘You’re still expecting him? We’re alone here, Verstohlen. You’d better get used to it.’

The Master made to leave, but Verstohlen was insistent.

‘If we no longer expect Helborg, then we must send word for Grunwald to withdraw. The forest is alive with beastmen. He cannot hold his position.’

Tierhof gave him a disdainful look.

‘The plans have been drawn up. The southern flank is held by Grunwald. Whether or not Helborg arrives, he must hold the line until the deployment is complete. There’s no time to give you a lecture on tactics, Verstohlen, I’m needed with the gunnery crews.’

Tierhof gave a brief nod, and was gone. Verstohlen stood alone, forgotten amongst the bustle of the senior officers. From far down below, cries of alarm rose into the air. The scouts had sighted something. Trumpets rang out across the bastion, and the clash and scrape of steel blades being raised echoed around the defensive lines.

‘So this is it,’ said Verstohlen to himself, taking a flintlock from his holster and checking it over. ‘Too late for Helborg now. And maybe for all of us.’

‘Fall back! Fall back!’

The beastmen had broken through the defenders and on to the ridge. The huge bull-like monsters, blood-red and rearing furiously, shattered the fragile defensive lines. Even as Grunwald raced towards it, he could see the defences around him disintegrate. As long as they maintained a solid line, backed up with artillery and archery, they could hold out. Once a melee had formed, there were too few of them. The beasts numbered in their thousands.

The breach became a rout. Pikemen and halberdiers, hurrying to escape the swelling tide of beastmen, were trampled in their wake. The Helblasters roared a final time, and then the monsters were among them. Tusks gored with a blind fury. They hated the machines more than anything.

‘To me!’ cried Grunwald, swinging his broadsword wildly over his head. They had to stay together. An orderly retreat could still be salvaged, but the moment was slipping.

He stood at the summit of the ridge, eyes flickering as he assessed the situation. The regiment standard-bearer was soon beside him, sliding in the mud. All around, men toiled to escape the frenzy behind them. Some still fought. Ackermann was right in the thick of it, hammering away at the advancing beastmen with a fury nearly as savage as their own.

‘Retreat, Morr damn you!’ bellowed Grunwald.

The disengaged Imperial forces began to run down the far side of the ridge, down past the road and into the waiting maw of the forest below. There was no mad dash. Companies kept close together, their halberds and pikes in formation. They knew they’d have to cut their way out. Panic would finish them for good.

Cursing, Grunwald ran over to Ackermann. The man was holding his ground, trying to give the breaking ranks behind him more time. A goat-faced monster towered over him, raining down blows with a cudgel. Ackermann raised his shield to parry, but it was knocked from his grasp. The goat-creature bared its yellow teeth and swooped for the kill.

Grunwald barrelled into it, knocking it sideways. He felt his bones jar as the beastman reeled. It recovered quickly, whirling around. But Ackermann had recovered too. With a vicious slice, his blade took the creature’s distorted head clean off its shoulders. For a moment, that opened a gap. Grunwald grabbed Ackermann and pulled him from the fighting. The beasts were trampling the Helblasters in an orgy of rage. This was their opportunity. They had to withdraw.

‘I can hold them!’ spat Ackermann, regaining his balance and running alongside Grunwald.

‘Use your eyes!’ snapped Grunwald. There was no time to argue. As he ran, one of the swifter creatures, skinny with legs like a dog’s, tried to drag him down. He smashed his pommel into its face, barely breaking stride.

Ahead of him, the bulk of the regiment was streaming down the far side of the ridge. The foremost were already in the trees beyond. Those too slow or unlucky were caught by the beastmen, now swarming over the defences. The sound of their flesh ripping was like a stab in Grunwald’s stomach. The vantage point had been lost. Their only hope was to keep ahead of the pursuing beasts. If they were surrounded in the deep forest, there was no hope.

He and Ackermann reached the base of the ridge and plunged into the shadows of the trees. Grunwald’s earlier fatigue had left him. Now all that was left was the sharp fear that came from being hunted. They were at his heels. Even as he sped through the forest, leaping over fallen trunks in the semi-dark, he could hear them crashing through the undergrowth. The bellows had risen in ferocity. The Helblasters were forgotten. Now they were after human prey.

At his side, Ackermann laboured. He was a thick-set man clad in chainmail. Already his face was red and streaming with sweat. Ahead of him, he could see the rearmost ranks of the halberdiers. To their credit, they were still holding together. Maybe half of them had made it down, perhaps more.

‘How far?’ gasped Ackermann.

‘A mile to the Cauldron’s edge, then more to the Bastion. But we’ll be seen by the sentries.’

Ackermann spat as he ran.

‘If they’re still there.’

Grunwald felt the creepers snag at his feet. His heart hammered. One false step, and he’d be down amongst the briars. The light was poor. Little rain penetrated the thick canopy above, but the ground was a treacherous mire. He could hear his own breathing, heavy and thick. His muscles protested. His legs felt as heavy as lead. But he had to keep going.

‘Commander!’

The voice rang out through the trees. Grunwald spun round. A detachment of troopers had lagged behind. They were in the very jaws of the pursuit. Even as he watched, two of them were cut down by the lumbering beasts behind. They would never make it.

Ackermann responded instantly. He abandoned the flight, and ran back to their aid.

‘Morr damn his eyes,’ muttered Grunwald, struggling to stay with him. He knew he should keep going, marshal the retreat. But he couldn’t leave a man behind. Ackermann would be the death of him.

Then he fell. Something twisted round his feet in the murk, and he staggered forward. He landed heavily in the stinking gunge, his sword spinning into the gloom. He rolled over quickly, only to see the towering shape of a beastman above him. It whinnied with triumph, and raised its blade.

‘Merciful Sigmar…’ whispered Grunwald, scrabbling backwards. Too slow. He’d never make it.

The blade fell.

The full force of the storm hit the Cauldron. All across the northern horizon, thunder rumbled. Forks of lightning lit up the trees in savage relief and insubstantial, bestial shapes seemed to march across the heavens. It was barely after noon, but already as dark as dusk. The sun, ever the friend of man, was hidden. In its absence, the horrors of the forest would come out to play.

Bloch peered down from the Bastion. The beasts had not made themselves known yet. The expanse below them was still empty and howling with wind, but he knew they were there, just on the edge of sight, sheltering in the eaves. As he watched, the last of the scouts rode hard across the Cauldron’s base, anxious to get back to the safety of the rock before the beasts came after them.

One of them made it to safety and rode up towards Bloch’s position. As the incline became too steep, he dismounted and walked the horse up through the defensive lines.

‘How many?’ demanded Bloch as the man passed him.

The scout looked back blankly for a moment before answering. His steed’s flanks were coated with sweat and rainwater, and it shivered as it stood. The man’s cloak was sodden, and his face was grey. Bloch noticed that his hands shook too as they held the reins.

‘More than I’ve ever seen,’ he said weakly. He looked resigned. ‘Thousands. Thousands.’

Bloch looked uneasily over at his men. He didn’t want to get them more scared than they were already. He laughed casually, hoping it sounded convincing.

‘Lots of them, eh?’ he said, and gave his halberdiers a knowing look. ‘Just like at Kreigschelff, I’ll warrant. And they ran back into the woods with their tails between their legs, then. It won’t be any different this time.’

The scout didn’t respond to the bravado. His long dark hair hung slick against his face. He was still shaking, and it wasn’t from the cold.

‘The whole forest’s alive,’ the scout murmured, not really looking at anything in particular, lost in his own private horror. ‘D’you hear me? They’re coming for us. They’re numberless. The forest is alive.’

Bloch wanted to respond, but something in the scout’s expression stopped him dead. The man had lost it. He’d stared into the abyss, and it had got to him.

‘Go on,’ he snapped. ‘Get up to the command post. They’ll want your report, if you’ve the stomach to deliver it.’

The man didn’t reply, but turned back to his horse and trudged up the slope towards the limp row of standards at the summit.

Bloch felt disgust well up within him. Giving in before a blow had even been struck was spineless. That was the problem with the Empire of his time. If Magnus the Pious had had to work with such weaklings, Praag would never had been recovered.

He turned to his men. They looked up at him expectantly, like children to their father. Some of them were barely more than boys. A few clasped their halberds in fear, their knuckles white. The scout’s mood was contagious.

‘Don’t listen to that filth, lads,’ said Bloch, sweeping his gaze across them, daring any not to meet it. ‘He’s been out on his own for too long. We’re all in this together. Remember, no backward step. No surrender.’

He lifted up his halberd and planted it firmly against the stone.

‘There are thousands of us here, all good men of the Reikland. They’ve no answer to honest courage, these beasts. And you know who’s leading us. The big man. He’ll see us–’

His speech broke off. All around the Cauldron, a low drumming had started. Long, deep rolls began to thud out from the trees. It grew in volume. Across the Bastion, men halted their chatter, and fell silent. The drums were coming from everywhere. North, east, west. The Bastion was almost entirely encircled. The floor of the Cauldron seemed to resonate with the rhythm. Only from the south was there no noise. Where Grunwald had been stationed. The beastmen still hadn’t closed off those approaches. Perhaps the commander still held his position. He should have been called back. He was doomed.

Despite himself, Bloch felt his nerve begin to go. How many must there be, to make that much noise? He remembered the ashen face of the scout.

The forest is alive.

He took a deep breath and clutched the shaft of his halberd.

‘Come and get it then, you bastards,’ he hissed, flexing his arms in readiness. ‘Just come and get it.’

Grunwald couldn’t even scream. He saw the blade descend, powerless to resist. Then there was a dark shape, tearing in from his left. A man slammed into the beast, knocking them both to the floor.

Ackermann.

Grunwald scrambled to his feet. All around him, there were cries of combat from the trees. His men were being slaughtered. He retrieved his blade from the undergrowth, hands slipping as he fumbled for it. The creature and Ackermann rolled through the bracken, each trying to gouge and throttle the other. Grunwald raced over to them. The shadows were heavy. It was hard to make out which was which. But then, from the north, a flicker of lightning penetrated the gloom. A twisted, tooth-filled face leered up at him from the forest floor, streaked with blood and rain.

Grunwald plunged his sword down. There was a scream, a twisted mockery of a man’s pain. Then a gurgling. Then limpness. Grunwald withdrew the blade and grabbed Ackermann’s shoulder.

‘Come on.’ he hissed. ‘They’re all around us!’

Ackermann rolled over. Where his face had been, there was nothing but a pulpy mass. One of the creature’s teeth had broken off and gleamed within the exposed slick of muscle and sinew.

Filled with horror, Grunwald let Ackermann’s body drop. He could hear more beasts coming up fast.

He ran.

On either side, the trees flitted passed him like shades of death. Grunwald didn’t dare look back, though he could hear the heavy panting of the creatures close by. They were on his heels, loping like wolves. He gritted his teeth, willing his legs to keep working. They were all around him. They’d got Ackermann, and now they were coming for him.

He kept running. Ahead, there was nothing but shadow, nothing but more trees. He’d lost sight of his men. All those behind him were dead or scattered. He was prey, alone in the woods.

Then, against all hope, he saw the break. It wasn’t over yet. He’d come further than he’d thought. There were only two places for miles around where the tree cover broke. One was the road. The other was the Cauldron.

From behind him, he could hear howls of frustration rise. They knew he was close to evading them. With a final, agonising spurt, Grunwald picked up speed. He leapt over fallen branches, barged through whipping thickets. There was no point in being cautious. If he tripped or slowed again, he was dead.

The light grew. All of a sudden, he broke out into the open.

The trees fell back. The vast plain of the Cauldron yawned away. It looked like a vision of some daemonic nightmare. Lightning licked the northern rim. Echoing drums rolled and boomed from all directions. The rain fell in sheets. In the centre of the depression, the dark form of the Bastion soared upwards. As he ran, Grunwald could see the detachments of men arrayed on its flanks, deployed just as his own regiment had been on the ridge. The entire army had been placed on the stone walls. There were rows and rows of halberdier companies arranged across the terraced flanks of the rock, all facing out across the plain. He could see artillery emplacements further up, dozens of them. He knew there were knightly companies among them too, as well as greatswords, handgunners, and all the troops that the Reikland could afford.

But it was a time of war across the Empire. In years past, the army would have been even greater. There would have been battle wizards, great cannons and engines of war. Many of these were detained north of Middenheim or on the blasted fields of Ostland. In desperate times, the general made do with what he had to hand, even for a campaign as prestigious as this one.

Ahead of him, out on the Cauldron floor, he caught sight of the broken remnants of his own forces. They were running, just like him. Like storm-tossed birds, they were fleeing before the deluge hit.

Grunwald felt his vision begin to waver. He was exhausted. He could feel his final strength giving out. The hours of fighting had taken their toll.

He risked a look backwards, expecting to see a few dozen beastmen pursuing him. But there were more. Many more. He was flying ahead of the horde itself. From left to right, his vision was filled with hollering, baying, snarling creatures. They had chosen their moment, and the woods were emptying. On all sides of the Cauldron, they poured towards the Imperial bulwark.

Grunwald kept going. His fear was giving way to despair. He’d never reach the Bastion. Neither would his men. At the last, they’d be overtaken. So close.

His features twisted in pain. His lungs felt fit to rupture, his legs ready to give out.

So close.

‘Sir, there’s movement on the plain.’

Bloch pushed the halberdier away irritably.

‘I can see that, lad. Stop waving that blade in my face.’

He peered forward, shading his eyes from the rain. There were men running across the base of the Cauldron towards the Bastion. They looked like insects.

‘Grunwald,’ he breathed. ‘Has to be.’

Above them, a trumpet sounded. There was the clatter of arms. All the men on the south-facing flanks had seen it. A few hundred survivors. Half of Grunwald’s command, no more.

Behind the running figures, towards the edge of the Cauldron, the beasts had broken cover. They poured from the trees in all directions. Tattered banners lurched along with them, daubed with crude figures. The eight-pointed star was on many of them. From others, mutilated human corpses hung. The drummers came out into the open. The noise rose even further. The Bastion felt like an island in a sea of madness. Soon the tide would be lapping at their feet.

Bloch glanced back down at the fleeing men. His mind working quickly, he gauged the distance. They’d be overtaken. Unless something was done, he’d have to watch as his comrades were butchered before his eyes.

Not on his command.

‘Fourth Company!’ he cried, striding from his vantage point. ‘Form a detachment. We’re going down. Ninth Company, remain in reserve.’

To their credit, the halberdiers of the Fourth got into position quickly. They could all see the beastman horde approach. Some, the less experienced, looked ready to vomit. Even the old dogs of war said nothing. This was dangerous. But Bloch didn’t ask the men to do anything he wouldn’t, and they knew it. At heart, he was one of them. The trappings of command would never change that.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

The company filed along their defensive terrace and down the slope towards the Cauldron’s floor. As they descended, the noise grew. At the base of the Bastion, it was deafening.

‘Keep tight,’ warned Bloch. In the distance, he could see the first ranks of the beastmen. They weren’t far away. The remnants of Grunwald’s regiment were closer. They looked at the end of their strength. ‘Let’s get them home.’

He broke into a run. Behind him, his men did the same. Halberds were lowered. Even in the driving rain, the sharpened steel glinted menacingly. Bloch trusted his men. He’d drilled them hard. They stayed together, running in close formation. The distance closed.

Bloch felt his heart begin to thump harder. This was it. The first action. He gripped his halberd tightly, lowered the blade, and sought out his target. The rest was up to fate.

Verstohlen ran along the southern terrace. They could all see what was happening. Grunwald’s men would be slaughtered. The halberdiers moving to intercept them were too few. No other commanders would leave their defensive positions. He had to find the general. Losing Grunwald would be a disaster. Losing Bloch would be, if anything, worse. He began to regret his intervention with the halberdier captain.

He caught sight of Morgart, the captain of the Fifth Company of handgunners. He was standing with his men, watching. It was like some grim kind of spectator sport.

‘Where’s the general?’ Verstohlen snapped.

Morgart shrugged.

‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘If he’s got any sense, on the road back to Altdorf.’

Verstohlen shot him a contemptuous look.

‘Watch your tongue,’ he said. ‘If you knew him, you’d never say such a thing.’

Morgart was about to reply, but there was a commotion on the terraces above. Men were moving down to the lower slopes. Hooves clattered on the rock. Horses were being led down the winding paths from the summit. The Knights Panther. In the incessant rain their elaborate heraldry was soaked and sodden, but they still looked formidable in their plate armour and exotic hides. Their massive horses, enclosed in heavy barding, trod proudly. There was a whole company, nearly a hundred knights.

Verstohlen felt his heart leap. He rushed over to the preceptor, a tall, grim man with a hooked nose and scarred cheek. He knew him by reputation only. Leonidas Gruppen, scourge of the lower Drakwald.

‘Preceptor, you’re riding out?’ he asked.

Gruppen looked down at Verstohlen warily. They all did, these soldiers.

‘Those are my orders,’ he said. His voice was as hard as the rain-beaten rock beneath them.

‘Wait for me to join you,’ urged Verstohlen. ‘You could use a good shot.’

Gruppen kept walking.

‘This is a time for warriors, counsellor,’ he said. All around him, his knights were preparing to mount up. Squires hurried to their sides with lances. Helmets were donned, and the visors snapped shut. They were calm. Icy, even. The soldiers clustered around gazed at them in awe.

‘You dare to speak to me thus?’ said Verstohlen, his impatience rising. ‘I have the ear of the general. Has he ordered this? Where is he?’

Then, from the midst of the knights, a new figure emerged. He was clad in full plate armour, heavy and ornate. His horse was a sable charger, a hand taller than the others, led by a squire in the livery of the Emperor. Imperial emblems had been draped across its flanks. Foremost among them was the Imperial Seal, flanked by griffons rampant, the personal device of the Emperor. A laurel wreath crowned with an iron skull encircled his helm, and a pendant in the form of Ghal Maraz hung from his neck. His visor was raised, exposing his war-battered face. A voluminous beard hung from the close helm. Under the raised visor, his eyes glittered darkly. He carried himself with the utter assurance of command. Old scars covered the little skin that was exposed. Beside him, the formidable warrior Gruppen looked as callow as a milkmaid.

As he approached, the knights withdrew respectfully. Even against the towering pinnacle of the Bastion, wreathed in wind and lashed by rain, he seemed the most immovable object in the whole landscape.

‘He is here,’ said Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the Emperor’s Champion. At his side the Rechtstahl, the famed Sword of Justice, glinted. The blade was naked and rainwater ran down the steel. ‘Give Verstohlen a horse. Then we ride.’

Click here to buy Heroes of the Empire.

A Black Library Publication

Sword of Justice first published in 2010.
‘Feast of Horrors’ first published in Black Library Live! Chapbook in 2010.
Sword of Vengeance first published in 2011.
‘Duty and Honour’ first published in Swords of the Emperor in 2012.
Luthor Huss first published in 2012.
‘The March of Doom’ first published in Black Library Games Day Anthology in 2011.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.
Map by Nuala Kinrade.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-333-2

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