Chapter XXI
Altdorf
Kaldezeit, 1114
An avalanche of fur and fangs, swords and spears, the skaven crashed into the Altdorfer battle line. Men died upon the points of rusted spears, were dragged down by verminous claws, or slashed and stabbed with blades of every description. In that frenzied charge, the speed and ferocity of the ratmen, the bestial bloodlust pounding through their brains, took a butcher’s toll of the untrained peasants. The few clusters of seasoned warriors, the templars and the groups of soldiers, were spread too thinly to blunt the murderous impact of that initial charge.
The skaven revelled in the slaughter, trampling dead and wounded beneath their paws. Many of these had been the same fiends who had marauded through the towns and villages of the south, depopulating entire swathes of country in Averland and Solland. They had seen first-hand the breaking point of humans such as these. Any moment, they expected the confused rabble opposing them to break and flee, to turn tail and try to escape. In that moment, there would be a real reckoning. Even the lowest skavenslave looked forward to a full belly after this day’s work.
The ratkin soon found they didn’t know their enemy at all. The humans held their line. Peasant after peasant was dragged down, mutilated by the ferocity of the skaven, yet for each that fell, another grimly stepped forwards to take his place. After that initial frenzied charge, the monsters found themselves locked in close combat with an adversary who refused to falter. Caught between the human battle line and the press of their own reinforcements rushing up from behind, the skaven lost the room to manoeuvre, their advantage of speed and agility negated. The fight became a test of muscle and endurance, qualities where men had the advantage.
The tide of battle began to turn. First around the knots of templars and soldiers, then across the whole of the perimeter, the ratmen began to die. Vengeful swords smashed verminous skulls, vicious bludgeons dashed rodent brains, cruel knives opened ratty bellies. Squeaks of fright sounded above the snarls of fighting men, at first only a few but then growing into a terrified din. The pungent stink of spurting glands washed across the battlefield.
Across the line, the imposing black-robed hulks of Sigmar’s warrior priests shouted encouragement to the faithful. Swinging their warhammers, the priests splashed bestial blood across the paving stones, their voices raised in echo to the battle-cry of the Grand Theogonist. ‘For Sigmar!’
The skaven host, only moments before an almost elemental force of unstoppable destruction, broke before the stalwart valour of the defenders. Initially, only a few ratmen turned, but their panic spread like wildfire through the packed vermin. The craven nature of their slinking breed subdued the feral bloodlust of moments before. Wailing and whining, the skaven began to flee.
‘Run them down!’ a bold warrior priest shouted, swinging his hammer overhead to draw the eyes of his compatriots to him. ‘Run them down!’ he repeated, rallying those close to him to the pursuit.
Before the priest could chase after the fleeing skaven, a sharp crack sounded from the window of a building overlooking the square. A few keen-eyed men saw a flash of flame and a puff of smoke, a glimpse of the lurking jezzail hidden inside the house. None, however, could fail to see the gory effect of the ratman’s shot. The priest’s bald head exploded like a melon, leaving his headless corpse to flop to the ground.
More shots cracked from the buildings as other jezzails fired into the defenders, seeking to blunt the impetus of their pursuit. The snipers targeted mounted knights and shouting priests, the plumed helms of Imperial officers and the ruffled collars of nobles. It was a concentrated effort to eliminate the commanders, to slaughter the leaders behind the human opposition. The skaven were only too familiar with the kind of rout that would result should their own teeming swarms be deprived of the malefic threat of their chiefs.
Again, the vermin failed to understand their foe. Instead of blunting the attack, the cowardly sniping only evoked a dull roar from the charging humans, a savage cry of rage and indignation.
Then an opportunistic jezzail-wielding sniper, perhaps more calculating than others of his kin, fired at the glowing priest standing upon the steps of the Great Cathedral. The report of the shot seemed to somehow ring out above the din and clamour of battle, reverberating through the ears of all in the square. On the steps, the Grand Theogonist’s body was thrown back by the impact, blood flying from the wound. Knocked against the huge doors, his body slumped against the twin-tailed comet carved there, Gazulgrund’s arms drooped, the bulk of Thorgrim hanging limp in his hands.
All eyes turned to the doorway, man and skaven alike appreciating the enormity of that single shot. A hush fell upon the battle, both sides watching with bated breath, one with eagerness, the other with dread. After the hideous havoc wrought by the other jezzails, there were none who doubted that the Grand Theogonist would fall.
Gazulgrund defied their expectations. Pushing himself away from the door, his body surrounded by a nimbus of light, he strode out to the edge of the topmost step and raised Thorgrim on high once more, hefting the immense mattock as though it weighed nothing. ‘For Sigmar!’ he roared, his voice like the bellow of a titan.
A mighty cheer sounded from the defenders, drowning out the shrieks of terror that rose from the ratmen. The skaven were now thrown into complete disarray, fleeing in a crazed crush of furred heads and scaly tails. Awed by the divine aura of the Grand Theogonist, the jezzails didn’t dare fire again, but quit their sniper nests with obscene haste.
As the skaven scurried back into the streets, abandoning the square and their siege of the temple, it seemed the battle belonged to Altdorf. Then, from those skaven trying to flee southwards, there sounded a new note of terror. The beasts began to scatter, many of them turning and trying to dash through the very ranks of their pursuers. A moment later, the reason for such abject desperation made itself known.
Great sheets of green flame shot out from down the street, incinerating those skaven who had not yet fled the avenue. Dozens of men were caught in the vicious blast, their bodies bursting into flame as the fiery green vapours engulfed them. Behind the fires, two wagon-like machines were dragged into the square, burly ratmen working the nozzles of hoses to spray the caustic demi-fluid across any who tried to approach the street they guarded.
The fire-throwers made no effort to advance, nor did the armoured warpguard who assumed positions on their flanks. Their orders didn’t include capturing the temple or killing the humans. Those tasks were being left to the warpcaster.
Shortly after establishing their perimeter, the vanguard of Clan Skryre heard the crackle of Sythar Doom’s voice barking orders to his warp-engineers. A moment later, the ground shuddered as the siege engine arm was sent crashing against the crossbeam.
The crystalline sphere hit high upon the face of the cathedral, flashing with ghoulish luminescence as its malignant energies vented themselves against the facade. Sculptures withered in that burst of corrosive power; gargoyles were sheared from their moorings and sent plummeting to the plaza far below. Glass melted, dripping down in grisly streams that marred the once unblemished marble. It was a terrifying display, but far less than Sythar Doom had hoped for. The Grey Lord’s whiskers twitched as he wondered if, just perhaps, some divine power did defend this man-thing temple.
Irritably, the Warpmaster snapped fresh orders to the crew of the warpcaster. He hadn’t failed to notice the shining aura emanating from the Grand Theogonist. They would put the power of this man-thing god to a real test — by unleashing the might of the warpcaster against something far less resilient than marble and stone.