Emil cursed that such dark times had come when he was well past his physical prime. Even though he was clad in heavy plate, Valten pulled ahead of him as they charged towards the gate. The Herald was almost super human in that armour, moving faster than Emil had seen any knight run afoot. He'd been sceptical at first, but there was something about Valten, something to stir his hardened heart.
And it was the same here. With their eagerness to bring their savagery upon the city, only a few reluctant warriors stood guard by the broken gate. Valten fell upon them like a golden whirlwind, shattering skull and spilling organs on the floor, painting the ground like a master artist. Like he was twirling across an ice field, Valten spun, dodging some blows, absorbing others and lashing out with his own. One enemy backed away from the Herald in fear and Emil ran him through from behind. Has he truly come to save us?
Valten smiled at him, like the fight was no exertion to him at all, against the crumbling grey walls and dust clouds he seemed to shine. "You followed."
Emil grunted. "I can't well leave you now, can I?"
Valten laughed. "If you want, leave, Sigmar knows we've carved a bloody path out of here." Emil simply strode forward. "Then let's go," the turned to the splintered bridge and the fires beyond.
Thankfully Valten didn't simply rush ahead, and proceeded with more care. The smell of smoke and blood filled them, crumbling buildings, crackling flames, the distant clashing of blade on blade and screams of rage and pain pierced their ears. "Where are the enemy?" Valten asked.
"If we're going to find out, we need to be higher," Emil replied. "There," he pointed up towards the walls of the upper levels of the city. "Just below the walls, that bluff of houses, from there, we can see where we need to be." Valten nodded slowly, staring straight down the burning street. He gently rested his fingers on Valten's cold armour. "The barbarians rush ahead, if we follow them, we won't achieve anything, we need to go where we are needed, for that we need to be able to see." Thankfully, Valten seemed to listen, and followed him towards the inner city, away from the seeming path of most of the enemy warriors.
The streets had been the sight of some kind of battle, with soldiers, militia and barbarians littering the floor. It seemed that the barbarians had suffered more, but the lack of defenders seemed to mean that they were pushed back from this quarter of the city.
They made it to the rise he had identified without interruption. Good, but bad too, this whole portion of the city seemed deserted, completely open if more enemy forces were committed to this front. The whole lower city was in chaos, smoke twisted into the sky, fires close to the walls guttered out around ruined buildings, but those in the centre of the lower city were burning hot and wild, the smoke was black and thick, and in the gaps between buildings, he saw that masses of bodies were flowing to and fro. In some places the battle had scaled to the top of the buildings, where dark figures clashed before the flames. "There," he said, pointing to a clash that was occurring close to the inner wall.
"Why there, the enemy seem to be more focussed there?" Valten pointed deeper into the inner city.
"But if they break through near the wall they could surround all forces still in the lower city, that could doom the city, depending on how many there are, but we don't have that knowledge."
Valted nodded. "Well reasoned, what path should we take?"
"Across the rooftops, it's the most direct, and we're less likely to get lost."
Valten cocked an eyebrow. "You do that much?"
Emil grunted. "I've been involved in a few chases across rooftops," perhaps twenty years ago mind.
"Let's go then!"
They clambered down onto the rooftops below them and began their charge.
Despite the fact that he had opposed even coming to the city, Emil could feel the old thrill of the hunt rushing through his veins again, like he had when he'd been a young hunter, chasing hedge wizards and cultists through the Empire's towns. That had been before he'd seen that for every cult and fell witch he brought low, another two pledged themselves to darkness and his eternal war continued.
Valten matched him step for step, his youth making up for Emil's experience hurtling across rooftops. An imperial swordsman was struggling to hold against a barbarian raining blow after blow on his shield and armour. Not wanting to waste a shot, and not having the time to aim a sword strike, Emil tucked in and drove the point of his shoulder into the barbarian's undefended rib cage. With a grunt and flailing limbs, the barbarians twisted to the earth, landing, broken, on the cobbles, where more soldiers and barbarians were clashing. "T-thank you," the soldier grunted, staggering upward, shield arm held loosely. Something on the back of his neck made Emil twist.
A great skin wolf, eight feet of sinew, muscle and slobber was bounding towards them. It made the final leap, fangs outstretched to rip them apart. Emil shoved the soldier down, tucked under the wolf and used his shoulders to guide the wolf away, feeling tearing pain lance along his back as he shoved the skin wolf away. He stared down the wolf as Valten came to his side. He grabbed the Herald's arm as he made to step forward. "Save the soldiers herald, this is my fight."
Valten looked at him for a second, then nodded and vaulted down over the side of the building to help the soldiers, the soldier they had saved followed more cautiously, leaving Emil alone with the skin wolf. Blood dripped from the beast's claws, blood from his back no doubt, the stinging pain was still there, but he had long learned to endure pain while fighting the horrors of the world. He drew his silvered sword and dropped into stance.
The beast charged forward, gauging the momentum, he was able to sidestep it and cut across the side of the beast. His sword didn't cut deep enough to hobble the beast, but he drew blood, and that was enough to bring a grin to his face. He had one more shot ready, he'd have to time it right or he'd waste it, and he couldn't afford to waste it.
After shaking off the pain of Emil's strike, the beast leapt forward again. This time though, it landed before Emil and met his sword strike with a wide swing of a muscular arm. Emil's sword cut deep and got stuck, the power of the arm ripping it from his fingers. Emil dropped to the ground before rolling away and scrambling to his feet, drawing his knife from his boot as he did so. And skittering back towards the edge of the building.
Silver sword still dug in its arm, the skin wolf stalked towards him, perhaps the pain was enough to put it off any more reckless attacks. But that would also be the beast's downfall. Drawing his pistol he took aim and fired, the gun kicking back in his head and the silver ball slamming into the chest of the beast, matting the fur with blood and making it roar in pain. Caution forgotten, it charged. Emil ducked under the swing of it's claws, seized the handle of his sword and, with all his might, levered the beast over the edge. He yanked his sword free as the skinwolf howled and toppled over the edge. It fell onto the cobbles, stunned. Flipping his sword into a reverse grip, he dropped down, driving the point through the beast's skull. The mass of muscle and fur twitched once, twice, then fell still. He drew his sword and ran around the building to where the soldiers were fighting, arriving just in time to see the last enemy fall under Ghal Maraz.
The soldiers observed Valten with awe and Emil could see why. Golden hair shining in the dust, hammer gleaming, enemies strewn around him, he was the hero of dreams and sagas, come to them in their darkest hour.
"Who are you?" A woman with cropped brown hair clad in a captain's uniform stalked over, arms and armour caked in blood. She held her sword tightly, with a confidence built from experience.
"Valten," Valten replied unhelpfully.
"He is the Herald of Sigmar," Emil added, "he has come to aid the city."
Some of the swordsmen whispered to themselves, but the woman-captain only turned her gaze upon him. "And you?"
Emil nodded at Valten. "I'm here to aid him."
The captain looked at them fiercely. "You could've come sooner," she growled. "As it is, the enemy are all over the lower city, we came out of cover the retreat of any wounded we could find."
"How many have you saved?" Valten asked.
"The barbarians of the north don't leave wounded," the captain replied. "The lower city is lost, we have to return to the middle city, now!"
"A retreat?" Valten sounded surprised.
"I can't order you to do anything, if you want to stay out here, do so, but if the order hasn't been given for all remaining units to retreat it soon will be." She bent down and helped a swordsman, whose sword arm was a gone, a bloody stump all that remained of it, to his feet. "Come, Hergig Guard, the middle city still needs us."
"Wait!" Valten called, and they all turned to him, except the captain who kept moving. "What's your name?"
That made her pause. She turned to him, glancing over the arm draped over her shoulder. "Ottilia."
Valten nodded. "We're coming with you Ottilia." Emil nodded, gritting his teeth through the pain in his shoulder.
The swordsmen of Hochland formed up, the wounded in the middle of a loose square as they advanced through the streets towards the gate to the middle city.
The small flight of steps leading up to the gate to the middle city were the site of a bitter fight, as the blue armoured soldiers of Hochland fought to hold the gate to allow the various regiments scattered across the lower city to retreat. "Hochland Guard, front ranks forward, backward ranks watch the wounded!" Ottilia cried. With a speed that only a disciplined infantry regiment could achieve, the square folded into two battlelines. Valten moved into the front but Emil, the pain in his back getting worse and worse, held back with the rear lines. In a savage assault, Ottilia's regiment carved a bloody path through the disorganised marauders, enabling the halberdiers holding the steps to drive their enemies out, and artillery crews to regain the two hellblaster volley guns at the top of the steps.
With no difficulty, the medley of regiments folded into a strong hardpoint, with stragglers joining them from other streets. Emil, feeling the gashes on his back starting to burn like a hot iron, joined the wounded in moving into the city.
Just inside the wall, the Elector had set up a large medical area, houses and newly erected tents swarming with healers, doctors and priestesses of Shallya tending to the wounded and sending the healed deeper into the city to make way for others. Seeing Emil carrying the one armed soldier, two others ran over and took him, while a Priestess of Shallya took one look at his back and dragged him over to a tent. "These were caused by-" he began.
"I know, a skin wolf," a matronly priestess nodded grimly. "I've seen enough of that. We'll douse them with holy water to begin with, we need to prevent any rot from setting in. He nodded, stripped off his torn coat and bloody shirt and set his jaw. He'd received this treatment enough to know that it would cause him sufficient pain. He cried out as the steaming holy water ran over his back, soaking into his wounds. Leaving his back stinging, but after the initial pain he felt a sense of relief in his bones.
He sighed and sat back as fresh bandages were wrapped around his body to cover the wound. "Now, up with you, more require our attention." Emil nodded, snatching up his shirt and coat and walking towards the inner city, but something caught his eye – soldiers arguing beside the gate. He changed direction and stalked over, pulling his coat on.
"I've tried three times, it won't work captain!"
"Find a way, or we're all dead, you hear me!"
"What's going on here?" He demanded. Both looked to him and snapped to attention. The garb of a witch hunter could inspire useful obedience in the common man.
"It's the portcullis," the captain growled, jerking his thumb up at the iron fangs hanging in the gate. "It's jammed, we can't get it to work."
Emil cursed. If the gate couldn't shut, they were all lost.
"Then go and find the engineers," he told them, get them up there now!" He belted his coat shut, drew his sword and made for the open gate.
"Where are you going?" The captain demanded.
"To buy you what time you can." Damn his injuries, he could still swing a sword and shoot his pistols, he could help hold the enemy back until the gate worked.
He saw Valten standing in line with what remained of Captain Ottilia's swordsmen, awaiting the next assault. The next wave of barbarians were massing down the street, readying their charge.
"Herald," he shouldered his way through to Valten, who glanced at him, a wry smile on his face.
"Still on your feet old man."
He grunted. "For now, but we have a problem, the-" His words were drowned out by a thundering crack as the Hellblaster volley guns let rip, heavy iron balls tearing bloody holes in the barbarians as they charged.
"Tell me after the next wave," he said. "Come on men of Hergig, time to throw the bastards back again!" The men roared their approval and readied themselves. Another crack sounded as more blasts from the artillery tore shreds from the charging warriors. Emil got into stance and readied.
The enemy fell on them with ferocious abandon, wild fury meeting cold judgement, and was found wanting. The barbarians were cut to ribbons by the disciplined state troops and sent reeling. A final blast from the handgunners on the walls sent them fleeing. More wounded and dead were carried back into the city and the rest reformed again. Valten clapped some of the men on the back before turning to Emil, who was busy wiping his sword clean.
"What was it you wanted?"
"The gate," he muttered, keeping his voice low to prevent the soldiers from overhearing. "The engineers are struggling to close it. And these men are close to breaking, look at them." Soon there wouldn't be enough of them to hold this strongpoint, and the enemy would break through. And precious few stragglers were reaching the gate now."
"How long do they need?" Valten asked, concern etched on his face.
"As long as possible."
He nodded.
"More enemies approaching!" Captain Ottilia called. "Form up!"
The weary soldiers stepped back into line, raising their shields again.
"They won't hold," Emil noted, this approaching wave was larger than the one before it."
"They won't have to." Valten declared, striding forwards, as he parted the line he turned back to the soldiers. "Sit this one out men," he grinned at them. "I need to stretch a little." With that he turned and charged the approaching horde."
"Hold your ground!" Ottilia ordered as a few of her men made to follow him. "What the bloody hell is he doing?"
"Being a bloody hero," Emil growled. "Damn it all Herald, keep your men here!" He broke through the ranks and charged after Valten.
As Valten and the wave of warriors approaches, time seemed to slow. But then, with a great crash, Valten tore into them, scattering and slaying with abandon. Many barbarians turned to follow and kill the savage hero, more continued. Emil drew to a halt, raised his sword and prepared to meet them.
As one warrior brought his axe down, Emil stepped to one side and sliced his head off with a neat stroke, he followed through the movement with a thrust into the next warrior. He drew his sword out and sidestepped, hooking his sword under the blade of another axe and ripping it from the next warrior's hands, with a swift reverse cut he cut one leg off at the shin and impaling the next one through the chest. He continued with the rhythm of the fight, cutting, slicing and thrusting through the enemy that came to him, moving between them deftly, making sure he only ever had one in a position to attack him. When one warrior was able to disarm him with a heavy blow of a crude, ugly greatsword, Emil stepped in, drew his pistol and rammed it into the warrior's snarling mouth. The warrior barely had time to raise his eyebrows in alarm before he pulled the trigger, blasting brain, bone and red mist into the air behind him. He dropped low as another warrior tried to attack him, the axe instead burying in the dead warrior's chest, giving Emil a chance to snatch up his blade and drive it up between the warrior's legs. With an unbecoming squeal the warrior fell to the ground. Emil stowed the pistol away and charged into the fight anew. He caught up to Valten who was laying about him with abandon. He fell into step with the herald and turned his back to him. They covered each other and created a whirling circle of death in the middle of the street until they stood alone among the dead and fleeing.
When the immediacy of the combat fell from him, Emil could feel the exhaustion in his muscles, and his back injuries were stinging again. He'd need to get them checked out again back at the gate. Valten turned to him, grinning widely. "Not bad old man, not bad at all."
He panted heavily, grunting in reply. Then his eyes went wide. A survivor had clambered to his feet and was approaching Valten, curved, cruel dagger raised in one hand.
A flash of steel, the arm clutching the dagger was on the floor in a shower of blood. Another flash, the head fell to the floor and the rest of the body followed. Captain Ottilia stood to one side. She looked at Valten, wide eyed in wonder. "How?" She asked simply. "... how?"
A twitch of movement caught Emil's gaze. In a single motion he drew his second pistol and put a hole through the chest of another barbarians sneaking out from between a tavern and a fishmongers. "Questions for another time," Emil said, sheathing his sword and drawing out powder and shot to reload his weapons. "How is the gate?"
Ottilia shook herself. "Operational," she said simply, "we've fixed the problem and are ready to shut them. I came to... inform you."
Valten nodded. "Then we go."
As they approached the gate Emil saw the hellblasters had been brought inside and only a thin rearguard remained. "We're ready to close captain, come on!" One soldier cried.
"Behind you!"
Emil twisted. More barbarians were charging. Valten made to charge again but he pressed his hand to the Herald's breastplate. "No, Herald, we need to get inside so they can shut the gate." Valten nodded, disappointed, and followed them.
The portcullis rattled down but the barbarians kept charging. As it slammed into the ground, one barbarian was unable to stop his charge and fell into it, roaring in a blood rage. Moving fast enough to catch a fly, Valten snatched hold of the barbarian's neck through the grate and crushed it.
They turned and stepped into the city only to find that everyone, priest, doctor, engineer and soldier had formed a semi circle, looking at them, and particularly Valten, with awe. Ottilia quietly moved off to join her men.
"Make way!" A voice called and the circle parted. A man, tall, thin, with brown hair falling to his neck and a hunting hawk on one shoulder approached. Across the other shoulder rested a Hochland Long Rifle and in a jewelled scabbard was a magnificent blade of dwarfen make. A runefang.
"Elector Count Aldebrand." Valten bowed his head in respect.
Count Aldebrand nodded back in respect. "Herald of Sigmar," he replied. "What are you doing here?"
Valten looked from the Count to the people, looking at the awe, the hope and the desperation in the eyes of every person there. Say something inspirational.
"I'm here to save you."
Luregar Raven-Caller stalked through the broken remains of the lower city, his cloak of woven feathers ruffling about his shoulders as he made his way to the main thoroughfare of the lower city. The smell of blood hung deliciously in the air and he hoped that Wulfrik wasn't too enamoured with the blood god at the moment, or else there would be no getting through to him.
Waiting in a small circle were his elite, armoured warriors, gleaming in purple plate. As other warriors partook in the ale, wine, gold and girls of this city that were their prizes, his warriors stood calm, they were no blood-drunk warriors of Khorne, or depraved scion of Slaanesh, his warriors of Tzeentch were capable of more self control. These warriors had been with him since traversing the wastes of the north, they had found him a witness that would tell him whether he'd made the right choice coming here, if his visions had been true, or if he'd wasted his time, coming here in the aftermath of Wulfrik's invasion rather than contributing to the wider war.
"Master," one of his warriors bowed his head, his voice distorted by the twisted helmet clasped over his head. "One of those men claims to have seen what you're looking for."
Luregar shook his head. "I won't be stopped by this, my master waits, bring him to me.
One of his warriors nodded and strode forward. Seizing the warrior in question from between the legs of a captured greeenlander wife – another warrior quickly took his place – and dragged him over and dropped him to the grimy cobbles of the street.
"What are you-" He began to roar but paled when he saw Luregar hanging over him.
"This is the one?" He asked.
"Yes master," his warrior replied, all but ignoring the warrior between them. "He claimed to have seen the warrior."
"Let's see." He fished a small raven skull from his cloak. He'd cracked the creature out of its egg early, it was still alive, twitching in its premature birth before he'd twisted it's head off its newborn body. Now it served a greater purpose than it ever would have in life. He pressed the raven skull to the warrior's forehead. In a flash he saw what he wanted: A mass of warriors charging towards the enemy around the gate; a single warrior had charged out to meet them, a warrior clad in gleaming dwarf-steel charged out to meet them; a golden hammer in his hand, unstoppable, unkillable, but definitely here.
He took the skull back and the warrior fell to the ground, eyes drained of life and soul. "It seems we've come to the right place." Leaving the corpse behind, he turned and swept out of the city.
Outside the ruckuss of the city, where the warriors were celebrating as though they had taken the whole city rather than simply the bottom third, Luregar made his way towards a burned out mill that he had taken for his own and was guarded by more of his armoured warriors. For they had no interest in loot and spoils, they had come to this city, nay, had guided this army to this city for a higher purpose.
"Wait here," he told his guards and stepped inside. Alone in the smoky wooden hut, he drew out his raven skull again. Focussing on it intently, closed his eyes and reached out to hear his master's call. "Master," he whispered, not daring to speak too loud when in communication with a being, no – a force, so far above him. "You were right, the warrior, the boy the men of the south call "herald" has come to this city as you predicted. But now I need your guidance once again. I cannot face him, I lack enough of your blessings to hold my own. What must I do? How do I bring this one low so that he may never threaten the plans of you or your fellow gods?"
Like a thousand murders of ravens tearing through a thousand forests while a thousand snakes hissed from a thousand wells and a thousand owls hooted in a thousand haunted nights, his master sent forth his reply. "I have already sent it to you, my little plaything," the command of Tzeentch filled his skull. "The Wanderer was cursed to challenge the greatest foes in the world. Prod the beast towards my prey, and have him destroy this false child." Like a great wave, now that he was done, his will returned to wherever he so chose.
Of course he was foolish. Why else would Wulfrik have come here, to this tiny spec of a city, rather than have gone after the Emperor's army for a greater share of the glory? Because the gods had directed him to a greater prize, likely without a brute like Wulfrik even knowing it in his own tiny mind. Well now he would just have to go and alert him to it. No doubt he would welcome the challenge.
He opened to door to the little wooden cabin. "Take me to the wanderer."
He found the wanderer surrounded by his champion berserkers, celebrating the bloodshed and basking in the flickering shine of a burning church of Sigmar. He knew better than to try and interrupt Wulfrik while he was celebrating, so he waited until the warriors dispersed, singing their great war chants, leaving the wanderer alone among the flames and flickering shadows. Great footfalls and the sun suddenly being blocked made him twist around. A great war mammoth was being driven down the streets, a huge shrine to Chaos carried on its back.
A bellowing laughter rumbled from Wulfrik, who approached, his great sword rested softly on one shoulder. "Still don't like my beasts, do you, bird-man," he stated.
"Oh mighty wanderer," he bowed at the waist. Wulfrik may not be his master, but the great warrior could slice him in half easier than he could brain a bird. "Do you relish in this slaughter?"
"Slaughter?" Wulfrik asked, spinning his sword deftly before slamming it into the ground, driving right through the stones in the road, parting them like softly fallen snowflakes. "This wasn't slaughter, this was simple butchery, there wasn't even any sport in it." Luregar thought it best not to point out the stubborn defence that the enemy had put up. Things like that meant little to Wulfrik, for he cared for the individual kill, the single fight that was the eye of the storm, and so far he had been denied. "This great Count will not even come out to face me!"
"Why would he, oh mighty Wanderer, for he knows he would fall like wheat before the scythe, in truth, that man is no worthy challenger for one such as yourself."
Wulfrik growled, his great whiskers rustling in discontentment. "But there may be yet another way to satiate your lust for battle."
Wulfrik seized him by the front and dragged Luregar so that his face was inches from the warlord's.
"Tell me," he said. "Now!"
"Yes Lord," Luregar replied, not reacting to the violent seizure. "Many men report seeing a warrior in great steel plate alongside the defenders, with glimmering golden hair, he drove back entire waves alone, slaying champions and warriors like they meant nothing to him. I believe that it is thanks to this man alone that your forces did not sweep over the enemy like a wave and destroy them before your presence even bloodied the field."
Wulfrik seemed at least passably interested in what he had to say. "My warriors will invent any kind of story to incur my interest. They seem to think that leading me to a worthy challenge will make them a berserker, rather than claiming skulls of their own. Why should I believe you any better, sorcerer?"
"Because I have seen through the eyes of one of your men, he speaks the truth. A greater truth than he knew. You remember the tales from the survivors of the Nordland Coast, and Alderfen?"
Survivors had straggled back to the Everchosen's army from those raiders ever since Lord Archaon led his army into the south. Those that had survived the Everchosen's wrath had spread the tales, the tales of the great warrior who had emerged to save them. Those from the villages and towns that they had already put to the torch spoke of the Warrior with the Emperor's Hammer. His master had put them all together and spun the web of fate, to lead that warrior here.
"I have heard. This so called 'Herald of Sigmar', what of him?"
"It is he, my lord. The Herald of Sigmar is in this city, the pinnacle of champions for you to hunt. Can you imagine a greater prize to offer the gods than the herald of their greatest enemy?"
Wulrik lowered Luregar to the ground. Slowly a wide grin split his features.
It was as his master had intended. This herald was a great warrior, with much power on his side, his master had foreseen that, given time, he would become an even greater threat, one that had the potential to halt the Dark Gods in their ambitions, who could thwart their aims and bring an end to this greatest invasion of all. So, in his master's name, he had lead Wulfrik the Wanderer here, luring the herald to come join them, so that the Wanderer, a warrior with skill almost unmatched among the mortal followers of chaos, could destroy him before he had a chance to become a threat. To become the one thing that the Chaos gods feared.