by Spider_wells
It was noon on the walls of Fort Denkh. Not that you’d know, because sun doesn’t shine through rain clouds as black as a Daemon’s heart. Utrecht Krieghaus knew this, and it bothered him, for two reasons. Firstly, full plate armour rusted in too much rain, and rusty armour was no good thing. But secondly it was because he knew what clouds like that heralded.
Utrecht looked out over the battlements of the ancient, walled town, and scanned the endless forest beneath him. It stretched like an endless sea, leaves gently undulating in a wind that was deceptively calm, and shadows beneath gnarled boughs that were deeper than they should have been. The forest seemed almost one great entity, a creature of savage instinct, that saw the town as an interloper in it’s midst, and wished it destroyed. So it was that it sent the denizens of the deepwoods to destroy the world of men, and so it was that Utrecht stood, waiting for them, because he was a Greatsword, and Greatswords were put on the Earth by Sigmar to kill the foes of man. Or at least that’s what the Count’s Champion, Gunther, had told Utrecht when he had been chosen to join the heavily armoured ranks of the most skilled warriors in the state army.
As it happened, Utrecht would soon have a chance to test that statement. Hordes of Beastmen were gathering in the forest, reported the scouts, and they were readying themselves to hurl themselves once more at the grey-stone walls of Fort Denkh. The garrison had been readied, the food and weapon stocks checked, and the people brought into the safety of the fort itself. That had been two days ago, and now Utrecht was waiting for the attacks to happen.
Waiting was the bane of any Soldiers life, which generally consisted of long periods of nothingness interspersed with moments of unimaginable horror and bloody conflict. The waiting got to a man, it was said, let him think of all the agonising ways that death could claim him, let him have nightmares of the pain and loss yet to come. Soldiers hated waiting because waiting sapped your courage, left you tired, and lethargic, and sloppy. And in war, sloppiness means death.
Utrecht could be considered unusual because the waiting didn’t bother him. No daemons filled his mind with terrible visions when he slept, no time was spent in morose contemplation of the end for this young warrior. Utrecht was young, and tall, and strong, and he feared neither man nor beast, in the way that only the young and the reckless can achieve. With long, blond hair, a solid peasant’s face, and a powerful, rangy build, Utrecht was the epitome of the mighty Soldier of the Empire. Dressed in Full plate, with his massive sword sheathed across his back, Utrecht cut a fearsome sight, and one that men could follow. Which was why he had been given command of the North Wall, and why Utrecht now spent his days watching the forest as closely as a hawk watches a rabbit gambolling in the fields below.
Then, the horns began.
The first was a long deep bass note, rough in sound, and savage, as though it had been twisted in the making by an inhuman throat. It was answered by the second, a higher note, if such a anger-filled sound could have pitch, before the third cut, in, then the fourth, and then it was as if a thousand horns were all wailing and roaring, echoing through the trees and making, o so it seemed, the very air quiver and the Earth shake.
Utrecht turned on the spot, and looked down into the courtyard below. Perhaps fifty or sixty feet square, it was filled with the forms of Soldiers, the Halberdiers and Handgunners of the Hochland State army. They were hard, tough men, veterans of the many battles between the Empire and it’s multitude of enemies, and at the first sound of the horns they were up and sprinting towards the battlements, shouts and orders filling the air, warriors stumbling over weapons and discarded kit.
Utrecht added his voice to the uproar.
“Get to the battlement! Handgunners at the fore, watching for enemies, Halberdiers behind! Sergeant Halschoff!”
“Yes Sir?”
“Tell a man to inform the Captain that the attack begins, do it fast!”
“Yes Sir!”
The men seemed to be in one unorganised mass, but underneath was the hidden discipline that made Empire troops so famous. Within what seemed like moment’s warriors were in there ordered positions, sharp eyes handgunners watching the forest below for movement. It came quickly, dark shapes moving swiftly between the trees, carrying brutal and primitive weapons coated in rust and gore. The marksmen began to fire, loud cracks of the long barrelled weapons coupled with clouds of noxious white smoke assaulting the senses, before the whole wall was spitting bullets and roaring in defiance of the creature below. Peering over the edge, Utrecht saw the Gor’s and Ungor’s of the foe, some speeding towards the keep, others thrashing their life away in the dirt. Many carried crude ladders, and whilst they were not the most advanced pieces of siege equipment, enough of the creatures were getting through to count. Shouts to his left told the Greatsword that a ladder had been raised, and he hurried forward to help, hauling his blade from his back into a guard position.
The creatures that leapt over the wall truly stank, piss and shit and some sort of sickly sweet stench that made a man want to vomit. It had the head of a goat, but the body and arms of a man, and in its left fist it gripped a spiked club, while in it’s right was a vicious looking cleaver. With a braying war cry it hurled itself savagely at the defenders.
It never got there. In midleap it was caught by a terrific swing from Utrecht’s weapon that bisected the creature and sent a spray of reeking blood across the battlements. At that moment more beastmen cleared the wall, and were met by the heavy lunges and chops of Halberds, their axe blades hammering on shield and carving through even the toughest hide to drag down the creature it belonged to.
“For Sigmar!” roared Utrecht, and his cry was echoed by the other soldiers, and answered by the calls and brays of the beasts. In the close quarters of the battlements fighting was brutal. Bodies were cast from both sides of the wall, and broken corpses were crushed underfoot. Another beastman lashed out at Utrecht, who parried and countered, lunged his weapon into the Gor’s belly, before tearing it out and bringing guts with it. A spear clanged of his breastplate, and the Greatsword snarled angrily, chopping madly at the head of a stunted beast that had just attacked him. Blood and brains spattered everywhere, and Utrecht spat the foul stuff off his lips. Spinning he decapitated one foe, before hammering on the shield of another with heavy blows. The Shield splintered, and Utrecht sever the arm that carried it, before shouldering the creature from the wall itself, it’s stump of a limb flailing madly.
Almost all at once, there were no more enemies left to fight. The trees were just as empty as before the assault, and the beasts were gone, leaving just ruined bodies and moaning injured behind. Utrecht beckoned to Sergeant Halschoff, who came over, looking strained but resolute. The sergeant was as old as any of them, and tougher than most, his leathery skin and white hair showing him as a veteran of years of battle and hardship. He was respected by all, and feared by most.
“Sergeant, get me a headcount, and get the wounded into the castle proper. I want doubled lookouts posted, and the ready men to be rested before another attack comes.” The sergeant nodded slowly.
“You reckon that was just a tester then?” he asked, his voice roughened by years of shouting orders and drinking ale.
“Aye,” Utrecht replied, “they’ll be back, with more warriors, and a different plan.” He hated those beastmen, the bastards seemed stupid but had the cunning of a fox. Many a time warriors had been caught by their simple but effective battle plans.
“I’ll get the men rested then. We’ll have some time to rest, then the attacks will come.” The sergeant cocked his head and looked at the Greatsword that towered above him. He had always liked the lad, but sometimes he put in too much, without taking time to rest, eat and recover. The worst enemies, Halschoff had learnt, were not those with blades, but rather exhaustion and hunger, and soldiers needed to make sure they were fresh and ready for battle.
“Get some rest lad,” he said quietly, so the other men could not hear. “You’ve been up here for hours, and the attack’s left you worn out. Stow some food in you, and make sure you have some sleep. It’ll do you good. I’ll keep on up here.” Utrecht was about to argue, but caught the look in Halschoff’s eye, and realised that he was right.
“Keep me informed sergeant. I’ll be in the keep.” With that Utrecht walked off, surprised by the way that his limbs dragged, and that his full plate, which usually was almost like a second skin, encumbered him. The sergeant watched him go, and waited until he had disappeared into the keep before he began to bawl orders to the men. The lad was a good soldier, he reflected, and would go far, if he lived. Then Halschoff remembered the horns in the forest, and shuddered. Yes, it would definitely be if he lived.