Interlude. Olger Hoch.
With every passing minute, the battle turned more and more into a rout of the Imperial army by the forces of Tamurkhan's horde. The forward fortifications, upon which the Margrave had placed such high hopes, were swept away far too quickly.
— Curse it! — Hoch cursed himself and bitter fate.
Lietpold the Black had lied his entire wretched life, and he had to go and tell the truth this one time. Olger had not been able to believe him fully. When that youth Jurgen brought the head of the Dawi-Zharr, the Margrave admitted there was a grain of truth in the cursed mercenary's words, but it turned out Lietpold had not exaggerated one jot—and in some ways, had even understated the threat. Tamurkhan's horde was terrifying.
Back in Nuln, Hoch had been put off by Lietpold's proposal to release him and give him command of a unit. The Margrave had perceived all the mercenary's previous horror stories as a warm-up to push his final offer and escape the scaffold.
But now the time had come to pay for his mistakes. To pay in blood.
Beneath the old warrior and his griffon seethed a loathsome gathering of the most nightmareish monsters. Beastmen, Northmen, mutants, giants, trolls, and heretics of every stripe. Hoch saw a monstrous Cygor, emerged from the depths of the dark thickets, lift a cannon barrel—showering debris from the carriage—and hurl it into the ranks of the spearmen still defending the gaps between redoubts. Horror. Neither the courage nor the pride of ordinary men could withstand such crushing power. Only gunpowder could have helped, but the firepower was insufficient.
The cursed Chaos Dwarfs possessed a far more impressive artillery park. From a safe distance, they were picking off the Empire's engines, while the cannons and mortars of men tried unsuccessfully to weaken the onslaught of the main horde.
Lietpold, curse him, had not lied. Tamurkhan's horde surpassed Hoch's army in literally everything. There remained only one ghostly chance to turn the tide of battle—to destroy or at least wound the Chaos leader.
Olger Hoch knew perfectly well that all armies of the Ruinous Powers were bound together by the will and strength of their leader. If this pillar were destroyed, then even in a winning army of heretics, strife would begin. The chieftains would start at each other's throats, recalling old grudges and figuring out who would be the new leader.
Hoch decided to take this last chance.
At the moment when the enemy's dragons, manticores, and other flying beasts set upon the rear, the Margrave took to the air on his griffon, with whom he had weathered dozens of battles. Olger Hoch could also rely on the power of his enchanted sword, which he had acquired eight years ago for a vast sum and through connections with the Gold Order of Imperial wizards. This blade possessed phenomenal sharpness. It cut through metal almost as easily as unprotected flesh and hacked through bone like boiled gristle. This blade, named "Swift Kill," Hoch had hoped to someday pass down through his lineage. It was not meant to be.
Only Baron Otto von Krause on his griffon and five other aristocrats on pegasi could support the Margrave's desperate aerial attack. This was very little compared to the swarm of the enemy's diverse monsters.
A dozen Chaos Furies immediately rushed to intercept the Margrave. The demonic creatures knew no fear, even before the superior power of a griffon. The claws and beak of the war-beast easily dealt with several furies, whose bodies fell downward, disintegrating into dust as they went. However, five of the demons fell upon the Margrave himself. The metal of his armor screeched under the claws of the foul Chaos spawn.
— Begone, filth, in the name of the Hammerbearer! May evil fall before thy face!
Hoch held the reins of strong silk with one hand and swung his enchanted blade with the other. The edge shimmered with a silvery tint. The Margrave had to act quickly but carefully so as not to damage his own armor with the magical sword. The plate protected Hoch from the demons' claws. First-class Tilean steel from the best masters held the line.
Despite the whipping wind, Olger Hoch managed to catch the nauseating stench with which the furies disintegrated. The vile creatures squawked and seemed to laugh even as the enchanted sword hacked them to pieces. The foul smell caused the Margrave's stomach to cramp. A sharp, piercing pain shot through his chronically unhealthy gut, but the old knight paid no heed to such trifles. Below, the bloated bulk of the horde's leader was already looming.
Tamurkhan.
The closer the Margrave flew, the more massive this abomination seemed. A deathly-pale spawn of the twisted Wastes, covered in sores and scabs. The scourge of humanity. Just looking at him, Hoch felt a surge of loathing, but mainly, righteous wrath. This absurd, foul creature, looking like a walking corpse, was the cause of countless miseries heaped upon the heads of Karl-Franz's innocent subjects.
Hoch realized that his mortal hour had come. He dreamed now of only one thing: to cleave the vile head of this spawn in two with his sword. Let the price of the old Margrave's life be the saving of thousands of other lives. Let the Chaosites tear each other's throats out in the name of their wretched gods and leave normal people in peace. That would be right. That would be just.
No longer paying attention to the furies, their stench, his sick stomach, or the rest of the world, Olger Hoch raised his sword high, letting out a battle cry through the visor of his helmet:
— Sigmar! The Empire! Karl-Franz!
Hoch's griffon began to dive. The Margrave did not see what his allies were doing. All his attention was concentrated on Tamurkhan, seated upon the back of some monster. There were no dangerous marksmen or engines around the horde's leader capable of shooting down a griffon in flight.
"I can do it! If only I can reach him! If only..."
The world flipped and spun. Hoch spent several seconds in freefall, followed by a heavy impact against the ground. His armor clanged with deafening volume. His whole body exploded in pain. Some bones were clearly broken.
Hoch, making a superhuman effort and tasting blood in his mouth, propped himself up on his arms. The Margrave had fallen from the griffon's saddle. His war-beast was roaring nearby, attacked from all sides. Olger himself was given only a brief respite. He was surrounded by Chaos warriors, Plaguebearer demons, and massive beastmen. The enemies hesitated because they were shoving each other, each wanting to be the first to strike the fallen Imperial commander.
— Vile spawn... — Olger Hoch uttered through the bloody foam coming from his mouth.
Despite the fall, the Margrave had not let the sword slip from his hand. He couldn't deliver a full strike, but Hoch sliced the knee of one of the horned beastmen. The Chaosite lost his balance, falling with his shoulder against a neighboring Pestigor. The latter fiercely elbowed the wounded one. Whether their brawl continued, Olger Hoch did not see. A storm of death descended upon him. Axes, clubs, ogre cleavers. The Tilean steel held, but every strength has its limit.
The old warrior felt it was a shame to die knowing his final attack had failed. However, not every act of desperate bravery is rewarded by fate.
"Morr, shroud my soul from the claws of demons and..." — the Margrave managed to think before consciousness, and then life, left him.
---
Complete disaster.
Olger Hoch, at best, died quickly and was not taken prisoner. I doubted he was capable of contending with Tamurkhan, but the Margrave wasn't even given a chance. Just as he was flying toward the horde leader, a massive silhouette of a pendulum-blade emerged from the shadows and mist in the heavens, as if fixed to the dark clouds above us. The spell swung, hitting Hoch's griffon exactly. The noble beast took a wound to the rump and lost part of a wing. The latter proved fatal. Instead of a diving attack, the griffon plummeted downward.
Perhaps that one-eyed Fimir sorcerer was responsible. He seemed to be a master of the Lore of Shadows.
The other winged riders, seeing their commander's fall, tried to save themselves. However, several pegasi were almost immediately surrounded by manticores and rot-flies. It was unlikely the winged horses would manage to break away.
On the ground, the situation was equally catastrophic. My squad and I were finishing off the last of the Plaguebearers summoned into the rear, but the vanguard of Hoch's army had already been ground up and trampled into the dirt. Only scattered Imperial units still clung to the redoubts, losing more soldiers with every passing second.
Directly in front of us was a line of fortifications with two light cannons. Fifty spearmen with shields and a dozen Greatswords attached as reinforcements were defending there. They were aided by local militia armed with crossbows, pistols, bows, and short spears. About thirty men with less-than-stellar training.
For almost the entire battle, this fortification had not been subjected to direct enemy strikes. The flying filth preferred to attack deeper rears like ours. Но вот настал черёд наших соседей вступить в бой. К легким пушкам пробилась тяжёлая пехота нурглитов, а впереди как живой танк шагал боевой мамонт.
In the Total War game series, spear infantry has charge defense against large targets. However, here I didn't notice the wretched Imperial infantry being capable of doing anything at all against the hideous war machine. The mammoth, covered in sores, scars, and traces of mutation, carried a wooden war-tower. Several Norscan warriors and a shaman, draped in numerous amulets, sat within it.
Leaving the last couple of Plaguebearers to Liandra, I dashed to Mugg.
— Again! — I shouted, pointing first at our redoubt's second cannon and then at the mammoth.
— Let's blow it! — the ogre was clearly pleased.
The artillerymen, including their sergeant, were waiting for us at the gun. Mugg immediately grabbed the barrel of the heavy cannon. Gritting his teeth from the strain, he began to lift it.
— No! No! — the artillery sergeant protested. — Don't take it off the carriage!
— Don't you worry, skinny... — Mugg grunted, his wounds reopening from the effort. — I'll put it back... Blast it!
— Left! — the sergeant guided him. — A bit higher and... Fire!
And again, the gunpowder thunder shook me from head to toe. My ears rang. Nausea rose in my throat. Smoke stung my eyes. However, all that was nonsense. The main thing was that we hit the mark.
The cannonball struck the mammoth in the flank above the front right leg. The titanic beast lurched and tilted. I'm sure such a hit would have killed many monsters, but this mutated woolly elephant was too massive to die instantly. The mammoth stumbled. The site where the cannonball hit gaped as a huge ragged wound. Likely, the leg bone was shattered. The monster collapsed onto its side, letting out a deafening trumpet roar from its trunk, the tip of which was rimmed with numerous teeth.
The mammoth survived but halted its advance. The spearmen and militia got a chance to recover from the enemy's first onslaught, only the second one didn't keep them waiting long.
While Chaos heavy infantry advanced on their fortifications, the faster Pestigors and Ungors reached us. Not engaging in direct combat but bypassing the remaining pockets of Imperial resistance, the beastmen were eager to raid the rears. Fifty of the goat-legged creatures fell upon our redoubt, practicing a damn loose formation.
— Spears! — Max commanded, stepping forward.
I needed to find a shield as quickly as possible or change weapons. Going into battle against a crowd with only a one-handed sword was a bad idea. However, I didn't have time to change gear. The fight caught me on the left flank of our unit. Before me were five Ungors and a Pestigor with a two-handed greataxe. Behind me were the squad's spearmen, marksmen, and wizards.
The effect of the flaming weapon spell had already ended. I had to rely only on the steel of my sword. An Ungor with a distorted face covered in scabs lunged at me. The goat-man tried to ram me on the run with a primitive spear, its head made from a kitchen knife. I easily shifted to the side, slashing the freak across the face. The Ungor immediately dropped his weapon and bolted. Then I struck him in the back. Swinging from the shoulder, I slashed diagonally to hit the unprotected flank. The blade easily cut through the hide covered in sparse, curly wool. I pressed the blade into the wound and pulled back. The Ungor continued to run, but blood sprayed from the hole in his side and intestines spilled out. I don't think he's a long-liver.
There was no opportunity to watch the further fate of this goat-creature. I had other problems. A Pestigor pounced, swinging a two-handed greataxe on a long haft.
This time I didn't have to dodge, but take the blow on my cuirass. The axe pierced it, but didn't go far beyond the armor, causing only a superficial wound. Possibly, the ribs on the right side where the blow landed were cracked.
In response, I immediately spun, delivering a thrust to the creature's stomach area, where a gap between the plates of its primitive armor could be seen. The blade went in almost halfway, but the Pestigor didn't seem to notice. Bloody Nurglite!
He wound up to split my head open. Even with a helmet, I really didn't want to take such a hit.
Dive down? Drop to my knees? It might have helped, but it would have put me at a disadvantage.
Without releasing the blade stuck in its belly, I took a diagonal step to the side, as if circling the freak in a semi-circle. In doing so, I dragged the sword's edge slightly, lengthening the wound. Foul blood sprayed from it. Black, thick, with white spots of pus and wriggling maggots.
I immediately had to dodge again, ripping the sword from the wound. Another Ungor was attacking me from the other side. Simultaneously, a stone thrown by one of the beastmen rang out against the dome of my helmet. The situation could have become threatening, but Max came to my aid. The sergeant rammed the Ungor attacking me with his shield. Now I could focus on the wounded Pestigor. He pressed the attack despite his ripped open belly. However, now I had room to maneuver. Letting a wide strike pass by, I brought my sword down on the rotting beast's left arm. The blade met bone. Мой удар почти отрубил конечность врага. Спасибо бонусам от кровавой ярости. The Pestigor could still be dangerous. I had to finish the freak.
His next strike, delivered practically with one hand, I took on my armor without trouble. Now the beast could no longer pierce my cuirass. I hacked at his right arm now. The Pestigor roared, coughing up green gunk. I guessed what would happen next. I immediately moved to the side. I already know what kind of tricks beastmen like to pull.
The Pestigor tried to butt me with his horned head. Letting him pass by like a bullfighter, I hacked the enemy from behind across the spine. The Pestigor had almost no armor there. Of course, one strike was not enough. Nurglite rot is distinguished by its resilience. I struck again and again until I hacked through the Pestigor's spine.
The squad's spearmen were already actively joining in. They were striking the poorly protected Ungors. The vicious roar of the goat-men quickly turned into a pitiful bleating. Only individual Pestigors, of whom there were no more than a dozen, continued to resist. They fell under the thrusts of spears, the strikes of Mugg's axe, Liandra's blade, and my sword.
Soon the beasts broke and ran.
Almost half of their attacking small unit lay dead at our redoubt.
— Save yourselves! Save yourselves, people!
This hoarse, desperate cry came from one of the surviving militiamen, running from his positions. The fortifications before us had fallen. If resistance still continued in the center of the Imperial army, our entire flank was practically routed. Only we remained. The Garbage Reiksguard. Mercenaries, refugees, demi-humans. Plus the wizards and artillerymen we were supposed to protect.
— Here! — Max shouted. — To us!
A few panicking militiamen ran past. However, two spearmen and a warrior with a greatsword joined us. All were dirty, breathing heavily, but combat-capable. At least some reinforcement in the face of the impending threat. Should I declare a retreat?
Surprisingly, we even had some time to think. Having crushed the fortifications before us, the Chaosites did not attack head-on, but struck the flank of the center of the Imperial army. A real slaughter unfolded there. Every second, dozens, if not hundreds of soldiers lost their lives. Many fled in panic, no longer able to endure this nightmare.
Our squad was also wavering. Confusion was reflected on the men's faces.
— We have to leave! — the artillery sergeant was the first to voice the thought lingering in the air.
— No! — the powerful voice of the alchemist thundered beside him. — We can still hold. Do not interfere! Carry out your orders!
The Magister of the Gold Order immediately began reciting some spell to support the soldiers in the army's center who were suffering now. He was actively aided by the Magister of the Bright Wind, on whose mutilated face a mad smile was frozen. The young shaman Hel seemed to be on the verge of losing consciousness. Her face was pale, blood was coming from her nose. The Magister of the Jade Order felt the best. He continued to heal our wounds with his spells.
We received a few more minutes of conditional respite. A few beastmen and one Bile Troll tried to approach our position, but crossbow bolts and arquebus shots made them change their minds. And then...
— Sacrifices! Sacrifices!
A discordant but formidable chorus of voices, slightly muffled by ugly horned helmets. A wall of foul-smelling metal was coming at us, bristling with axes, greataxes, and grotesque halberds. A tight formation, shoulder to shoulder. Each of them was taller than an ordinary man. Many were taller even than Liandra and certainly broader in the shoulders. Chaos Chosen. Hundreds of armored, heavily armed madmen, wishing to hasten the world's doom.
At the head of the Chosen unit stepped a Chaos Sorcerer, also encased in heavy armor. With one hand, he raised a sword saturated with Nurgle's magic to the dark skies, and with the other, he leaned on a metal staff topped with a Chaos Star.
— It's nothing! — the artillery sergeant exclaimed, nervous but trying to feign bravery. — Now we'll show them! For Sigmar! Point-blank range! Fire!
The organ gun thundered with all its barrels at once. A dozen small cannonballs struck the iron wall of the Chosen.
— Akshy!
The Magister of the Bright Wind folded his hands as if depicting a toothy maw. They were immediately engulfed in flames. It tore from the wizard's fingers and flew forward, turning into a massive flaming skull with a gaping mouth. The spell burst into the order of the Chosen, passing through their formation like a wave of fire.
I didn't harbor great hopes, yet I very much counted on being able to thin out or delay the enemy. Not a damn bit of it.
The Chosen emerged from the flames without slowing their step. They were enveloped in a greenish shimmer, though it bore little resemblance to the Wind of Ghyran. The filthy-poisonous power of the Plague God. Slime oozed from the joints and gaps of the Chosen's armor. It seemed to protect the Chaosites from the fire. Those hit by the cannonballs also marched as if nothing had happened. New flesh protruded from the holes in their armor. It closed the wounds and pushed the cannonballs out. Moreover, the armor itself repaired the damage! Madness! Rusted metal, saturated with corruption, pulled together like damaged skin.
This sight caused all of us to freeze. The Chosen were only forty meters away.
I realized to the depths of my soul what a monstrous threat was bearing down on us. Not just men, but living engines of destruction. Well, living in a sense. There are no Space Marines in this world. No Angels of the Emperor's Wrath. The soldiers of the Empire are ordinary men for the most part, but the Chaos elite...
Every Chosen had gone beyond human capabilities. They had crossed that line, paving their way with the corpses of Southerners and fellow Chaosites.
In my squad, there are very strong fighters—Liandra, Mugg. I myself can do a lot under rage, but there are only three of us special ones. The rest of the squad are ordinary people.
The iron wall of the Chosen will pass through us without almost slowing down.
— Fall back! — I finally shouted. — We can't stop them! To the city!