Chapter 2 Hergig

"Quickly, ride!" They broke through the treeline, racing towards the eastern bridge out of his home city of Hergig. A glance over his shoulder told him that they were still being followed a dozen marauder horsemen, throwing axes in hand, following them closely behind. He cursed under his breath and slipped his long rifle out of its case. Spinning in the saddle, he took aim and fired, the blast catching the lead marauder as he raised an axe to hurl at them, carrying him bloodily off his horse. He slipped his rifle back into the holster and kicked his horse into a faster gallop, his outriders following suit. "Archers!" he roared at the approaching outpost guarding the eastern end of the long bridge. Already two detachments of crossbowmen were lined up, while spearmen pulled aside the portable barriers, leaving an opening for his men to speed through. As they did so, his men fired their bolts, downing four more of the marauders and causing the rest to come to a screeching halt before wheeling around and galloping away.

"Good work men," he said, pulling up his horse, the steed panting from the hard ride. "How goes the work here?"

The captain in charge of the two hundred men he'd put to guard the bridge end stepped forward. "Count Ludenhoff, the explosives are almost in place, we will be ready to destroy the bridge shortly."

Aldebrand nodded. "Keep up the work captain. How many scouts and hunter parties have returned?"

"Three parties, all the scouts." He nodded, he'd expected so. Every day this past week the scouts had been reporting the enemy moving closer, barbarian warriors clambering through the forest towards the river on which Hochland sat, so that they were all already back was no surprise to him.

"Any messengers?"

The captain shook his head. "None from this direction sir, it looks like we'll hold alone."

Aldebrand's lips thinned. "If it is to be," he muttered, "keep up the good work captain, I must return to the city for now."

He spurred his horse onwards, over the bridge that stood tall over the lazy river that curved around Hochland like an arm. On the bridge soldiers were moving, overseeing the setting of explosives and gunpowder trails down the supports. Would they have enough time? It seemed the enemy would soon be upon them. Hergig, the first place the hammer of chaos would fall after the Bastion.

The gate itself, one of four into the city, was being reinforced with wooden supports, and above, a permanent watch of crossbowmen and riflemen keep guard, saluting him as he passed beneath them. He may not have the numbers that Middenland, Talabecland or Stirland could muster, but these were his men, and he knew they would do him proud. But will they make you proud in victory or death?

Inside a very familiar voice was shouting commands. "There are more than enough bolts here, we need more sent to the southern gate, move!" Porters drafted from the citizenry of Hergig rushed to obey Ottilia's commands and hefted sheafs of crossbow bolts onto carts before moving them to another gate. "And what's the word on the refugees?"

"Most of the children and their mothers have left, though we have five hundred teenage boys who wish to stay and fight my lady," said General Frederick Leiber, his helm under one arm as he followed Ottilia. "We're outfitting the fit ones with spears and bows as we speak, the rest are helping the porters." The general froze as Aldebrand approached and dismounted. "Count Aldebrand." He saluted smartly.

Aldebrand nodded to him. "See that those men we are arming are placed alongside the regulars, they stand no chance on their own."

"Already being done my lord," he nodded to Aldebrand's gun. "What count today sir?"

"Fifty six, two men lost, another three wounded," Aldebrand said, patting his gun gently. "A few more at the end of the bridge, all in all, not a poor tally, but we'll need it to be bloodier here at the walls."

"We'll make it so," General Frederick said.

"The artillery will be key to that, I'll go check it's got all the powder it needs." Ottilia turned to rush off, but he called out to stop her.

"No, Ottilia, I need a word with you, General, please go inspect the artillery."

"At once sir." He saluted again and strode off in the way only a noble born military officer could do.

Ottilia turned to face him, her brown hair cut to her neck, with bangs covering her cheeks. She'd taken a knife to it years ago, when she'd donned her soldier's uniform. Now a captain of the Hergig Guard, an elite regiment of swordsmen sword to the defence of the city, she'd kept the same hairstyle all along. "Ottilia," he sighed approaching her and putting a hand on her shoulder. "You need to calm down, running hither and thither is not going to make the city safer."

"Well you wouldn't let me come out and hunt the enemy with you," she reminded him. "What else am I to do when the barbarians of the north threaten our walls?"

"Rest a little, a worn out soldier is no use to anyone."

"Mother never rested when she defended the walls," Ottilia set her jaw tightly.

Aldebrand closed his eyes. His wife had had to take command of the city when a greenskin horde attacked fifteen years ago and he'd been away. She'd repelled the attack, but she'd died at the time. It had left a deep impression on their daughter, and he'd been unable to dissuade her of the notion of joining the army ever since. "You're mother died," he reminded her. "I want to ensure that you don't."

"She also fought."

"I'm not saying don't fight. I'm saying fight right, otherwise you'll die."

"I- yes, father," she bowed her head gently.

He reached out and cupped her cheek. "I half wish I'd sent you to Nuln, your brother would keep you safe there, but since you're here, go to the inner city, if the outer wall is breached we'll have to try and hold there."

She nodded. "Yes sir." She marched off, several men of her regiment, who loved her like a sister, falling in step behind her.

Aldebrand watched his daughter depart. Half of him hated that she was wearing that uniform, the other half admired how well she fit it. Her brother would be pleased, Konrad and Ottilia had always played soldier together when they were young, racing through the grounds of his estates just beyond the city walls. He'd emptied it of all treasures and valuables, bringing everything of worth into the city. He would restore it when they won. He made his way to the top of the wall, looking out over the defensive lines. The bridge was nearly prepared, the north east gate was reinforced harder. It stood at the top of a steep hillside that stretched down to a ford crossing the river fifty feet below the bridge. Getting up it would be hard enough, he trusted that that gate could hold. He was far more worried about the south gate. Rapid logging had cleared the nearby woods to allow sight for his archers. It was a logging gate, the road stretched south towards Talabecland and was flat and open. A heavy ditch was being dug in front of it, but still. He'd have to make that the next point of his inspection.

()()()

Wulfrik drove his blade through the back of the last surviving knight, relishing the feel of flesh and steel giving way before his blade. His army had been harassed by the soldiers of Hochland ever since they entered the Drakwald, it felt so good to finally get his hands on the miserable maggots. Some of them at least.

His men roared.

"Where to now oh great Wulfrik?" Cried one of his warriors, a cry quickly taken up by the others. "Where! Where! Where! Where to skulls, where to guts, where to glory, where to battle, where!"

Wulfrik raised his hand for silence, then pointed it deeper into the forest, to the west. "These milk sop southerners have their stone-built home to the west. These insects will pay the price for stinging us as we slaughter their entire hive."

His men roared and he continued his tirade. "We will tear down their homes, we will rip up their foundations, we will butcher the men in the battlefield, gut their wailing whelps in their cribs as they cry out for their mothers, and their mothers, their mothers we will take, we will take them and take them again, over and over until they learn that their place is on the ground with the dogs, no, lesser than dogs, they will pour us the wines and ales of victory into cups made from their husbands and sons and brothers! When we are done, we will sacrifice them on altars to our gods. To the Blood God, we will offer their skulls for his throne; to the Serpent God we will bear their still beating hearts, torn from their chests, to the Raven God we will give their last, dying gasps and to the Crow god we will deliver their guts!"

The unholy cries of anticipation tore through his army and Wulfrik smiled. But something gnawed at him. Something resembling a hunger, like he was going to a feast of bread and water, this battle would fill him, but it wouldn't be something he could enjoy. How could he, after all, he had the favour of the four gods of Chaos, in their name he had bested every contender from Naggaroth to Cathay. What could one stone city offer him to sate his bloodlust? He had hoped that, by racing ahead, he could reach the army of the Emperor, but these flies had stung him too much for him to not answer. He would be done with this city quickly, then set off again after their Emperor. He'd been denied a great target against the undead at the wall, but in the name of the Chaos gods he would offer them the finest champions this old world had to offer before it died like a guttered candle before the will of the Everchosen.

()()()

"So there is still no sign of the returned messengers?" He asked General Frederick. From atop the citadel of the inner city he could see the fortification works throughout the city. Side streets were locked down with palisades manned by spearmen, the grand avenues that stretched to and from the gates were guarded by heavy regiments and hellblaster volley guns which would turn them into paths of death for the invaders should they breach the walls. Three locations within the lower city walls were marshalling points for his troops: The Hochland College of Sorcery, where Jade Wizard Josef Baden would watch over the defences in the south of the city. To the northern end was where General Frederick was to be stationed in the battle, there he had placed half his knights to be ready to strike out and slaughter the enemy in the longer straighter streets. At the gates of the inner city itself, a large force of spearmen and flagellants, led by Warrior Priest Ethrak Mros would hold a rearguard action, allowing retreat to back behind the inner city walls, where he himself had deployed a full third of his army as a reserve.

"None," Frederick replied. "If they have alerted anyone of our plight, I know nothing of it."

Aldebrand nodded, fingers tightening on the stone balustrade. "We have to proceed as though they haven't heard, we can't rely on someone coming to save us, we must find a way to slaughter the enemy ourselves."

"Don't worry father," Ottilia said, stepping up beside him and taking his arm gently. "Hergig has held off assault before, and we will again."

"Never anything like what is coming," he whispered. "Take in the view, child, we may never see Hergig looking so proud again."

Ottilia was about to respond when a hammering rang on the door. "Enter."

A messenger from the outer gate entered and bowed. "My lord, captain Oswald reports that the bridge is ready to be detonated on your order."

"Excellent, inform him that I will be there shortly."

As they rode through the city, Aldebrand took in a final gaze of it at peace. White stone manors decorated the inner city, the homes of the wealthy of Hochland. Many now stood empty, their occupants having fled the city for the south with whatever wealth they could bring with them, now the luxury dwellings quartered many of his officers and elite soldiers, between the houses stood fine jewellers, florists and artists, with courtesan houses secluded in peaceful corners, catering to all the whims of the elite of the province.

As they descended into the lower city, he saw the proud streets give way to crookback alleys and side streets cast in shadow and mud, here the houses, still stone were simple designs, aimed to have as many crammed in the walls as possible, they were squashed together like beans in a tin, with butchers, fletchers, taverns and seedy brothels scattered among them. This wasn't the proudest city of the Empire, nor the best defended, nor occupied by the best and brightest. Compared to the great cities, Altdorf, Averheim, Nuln and Middenheim, Hergig was little more than a town, before the war perhaps fifteen thousand people had called it home, one tenth of the number that crowded into Altdorf. And unlike nearly all other cities, no Emperor had ever called it home. But it was his home, and he had given his blood, sweat and sword for it. Was it really going to end now?"

At the far end of the bridge, he dismounted, approaching Captain Oswald as his men sat around, relieved at the job well done. "Captain, I hear you have good news for me?"

Oswald saluted sharply. "Yes sir!" He said. "The bridge is wired with enough explosives to bring it down on your order."

He clapped the captain on the shoulder. "Good man, Oswald, good man. Now prepare a rearguard, then start moving the worn men back into the city. They need to be rested for the battle to come and-" He paused. What was that? The wind passing through the trees, branches falling to the ground. "Captain, prepare the rearguard, quietly, Ottilia, fetch me my rifle, now." They both nodded curtly. Quietly, disguised by the movements of others, the captain got most of his men armed and alert, while those too tired to be effective were moved back along the bridge.

"Father," Ottilia handed him his rifle, and a pouch of powder and shot. "What's happening?"

He turned to her. His hand twitched toward her shoulder. No, he couldn't treat her as his daughter now, daughters were stubborn by nature, subordinates weren't. "Captain Ottilia, return to your regiment and prepare it for battle, now."

Ottilia clenched her jaw tightly and nodded, turning and hurrying back along the bridge. He trained his eyes on the forest edge. Was he just being paranoid? No, something was there, just there... just there...

"Count Aldebrand," Captain Oswald muttered at his side. "The men are ready, what's wrong?"

There! A dark shape in the branches of a tree. In a single fluid motion, he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. There was a loud crack and a figure fell from the tree, a tall figure, broad and dressed in fur. "Northmen!" He yelled!

At once his men were ready, but even as he was opening the slot in his rifle for a bullet, they broke from the tree, mad barbarians with crude and bloody axes. He blasted a hole right through the forehead of another one, loading up as crossbow bolts slammed into bodies and earth while swordsmen readied themselves. Again, he raised his rifle, took aim, and fired, the shot tearing through one warrior and ripping the axe arm of the one who'd been following too closely behind. One more shot, but as he slid the bullet in, a warrior vaulted over the barricades, leaping at him. Flipping his rifle around, he slammed it into the warrior's face, his nose exploding in a shower of blood. As the warrior clutched at his face in pain, Aldebrand raised a foot and brought it down on his neck, hearing the spin crack. At the same time he aimed and fired one handed, the shot at such close range that it ripped the head off the next warrior. The next one was upon him so fast he didn't have time to draw his Runefang, instead stepping back to avoid the axe swing, flipping his rifle in his hand and swinging it so hard at the warrior's back that a crack shot across the weapon. He cursed as he brought it down again, the warrior grunted and his gun snapped in two. He dropped the gun, stepping back calmly, in one motion he drew his sword and cut it across the warrior's stomach. Guts wriggled out of the easy opening like snakes while his torso fell backwards gracefully before the body crumpled. Already the warriors were overwhelming the rearguard, he saw Captain Oswarld fall, sword stuck in the chest of one enemy, spitting bloody curses as he was hacked to pieces.

"Retreat!" He ordered and the remaining soldiers, down a third of their number began falling back towards the bridge. His attendents were standing ready with his horse. "Take the horse back, now!" He wasn't going to mount and leave his men to die. At once they obeyed and one mounted the horse to ride it from the battle. There was no time for orderly retreat, his men tore down the bridge towards the centre, where a line of spearmen held, with handgunners and swordsmen just behind them. He glanced behind him and saw the enemy closing in fast, his men barely staying ahead. "Gun!" He roared. A gun was tossed through the air to him, he spun, kneeling, allowed two seconds for his men to pass, then rammed the gun forward, slamming the barrel into the stomach of a warrior and pulling the trigger. At such close range the warrior was picked up and carried several feet before landing, his stomach a bloody ruin. He passed the gun to a fleeing soldier who would take it to the new battle line. They only need seconds.

He drew his sword again and stepped forward. He checked the first blow with his blade before whipping it around and cleaving his head in two, iron helm splitting like corn before his Runefang. With two great wide swings he killed three enemies and took the leg of another. A great hulking warrior, two heads taller than him and carrying a great axe in two meaty hand tried next. He ducked under the blow, taking the arm at the elbow. He spun under the next, one, putting two hands on his sword for an almighty cut that cleaved the warrior clean in two in a shower of blood and gore. Seconds bought, he retreated, fending off blows as he backpedalled, at every chance his sword slipped out of his defensive stance to kill a fore, but they were closing on three sides.

Then a wave of blue and red washed passed him, a small force of swordsmen drove the enemy back several feet before retreating again under the cover of shot and arrow and bolt. This was there best shot, if they just ran they'd all be butchered. He organised another sortie that pushed the enemy back a little further, allowing his men to recover wounded and weapons before they fell back like a retreating tide closer to the gate. When the enemy started gathering too much momentum, he led another assault, again driving the enemy back up the bridge several metres before they retreated once more.

Each sortie lost more men to wounds and death, despite those they'd so far recovered. But they allowed Aldebrand and his men to retreat to within range of the men on the gate. Under a withering storm of quarrel and shot, even the bloodthirsty barbarians of the north scurried out of range as the gate opened and Aldebrand and his men brought the remaining wounded back inside.

Of the two hundred men in the rearguard and on the bridge, eighty four were dead, and another sixty two wounded, half that number severely. He couldn't tell how many enemies had fallen, but it had to be more, surely.

Porters ran buckets of water over to them and he took several deep gulps from a ladle before passing it to one of his men. Then he took the steps up to the gatehouse two at a time, and looking out at the army emerging from the trees.

Thousands and thousands of barbarian warriors skulked from the trees like spectres of the wood, baying for blood and battle. From between them came dozens of trolls, some scaly and gray from their deep warrens, and others white as ice and blue as the sky, trolls of ice and snow. Great skinwolves and their werekin masters lumbered, slobber dripping in thick gloops from their fangs before they howled at the sky. One eyed fimir slunk out as well, eager for the anticipated slaughter. And finally, lumbering from behind, four great mammoths splintered the trees, marauders cradled in great howdahs on their backs.

He turned his attention back to the bridge, where the enemy were forming up again, a ram had been brought up, the warriors crowding around it, shield's raised against the anticipated storm of metal that would greet them. His men were ready, only waiting for the order to be given. "Hold," he said. "Give me your rifle soldier," he said to one handgunner. The soldier looked surprised, but handed it over without complaint. Time to prove your status as the best marksman among the Empire's nobility.

He fired.

One explosion became two, then four, then eight, and in a second the bridge was wreathed in fire and black smoke. In a rain of debris, the middle third of the bridge collapsed, bringing hundreds of barbarian warriors to their deaths.

His men cheered at the sight, and the enemy roared in frustration.

This was just the beginning, already enemy forces were moving to attack the other gates, an others seemed to swarm around the ruined end of the bridge, perhaps planning something else.

"Stay ready," he ordered his men. "This is just the beginning."

Sigmar, give me the strength to see my men through this.