Elves turned as the thunder of hooves filled the glade. They had knights of their own, but their steeds moved with the grace and silence of a morning mist. The warhorses of Bretonnia on the other hand shook the earth and sky with their passing. They were not graceful or silent. They were a force of destruction, a mailed fist thudding home into the belly of the enemy. They were the pride of Bretonnia, and the sound of their hooves was the roar of a doomed people, proclaiming that they would not go meekly into the dark.
Jerrod hunched forwards in his saddle as the elven lines parted smoothly before them, as he’d hoped they would. And then the knights of Bretonnia smashed home in a rumble of hooves and a splintering of lances, driving into the ill-disciplined ranks of the beastherds with a sound like an avalanche. Those creatures unlucky enough to be in the front seemed to simply evaporate, torn apart or ground under hooves at the moment of impact. Those behind were dragged down seconds later, or else speared on the ends of lances. Those beasts closest to Jerrod were knocked aside, sent sprawling or trampled by his stallion as he hacked at the enemy. The knights pressed on, their formation spreading like a fist opening up. Behind them, the elves reformed their lines.
Jerrod laid about him until his arm ached and his heart shuddered in his chest. The beasts began to fall back, but not all at once, and not as he’d hoped. They were too disorganised for that, he realised. One herd cared little for what befell the next, and whatever fury drove them had yet to relinquish its hold on their stunted brains. Cursing, he made to signal for withdrawal. They could fall back, and charge again.
His horse reared as a number of ungors thrust spears at him. One glanced off his thigh, and another slashed through the strap of his saddle. Before he could stop himself, he was sliding ignominiously off his mount. He crashed hard to the ground, and was forced to roll aside to avoid being trampled by his own horse. Spears dug for his vitals and he flailed desperately, chopping them aside. Hairy hands grabbed for him, and cruel skinning knives or cut-down sword blades crashed against his armour as the creatures swarmed through the forest of stamping hooves and falling bodies.
A strong grip fixed itself on the back of his tabard, and he found himself dragged upright. An arm clad in black armour extended past him, clutching a long blade. An ungor spitted itself on that sword, and its malformed body withered and shrank within moments. The blade pulsed red for a moment and then returned to its original hue as its wielder ripped it free of the husk. Jerrod looked up into the smiling features of Vlad von Carstein.
‘I thought you might require assistance,’ the vampire said, as Jerrod parried an axe and opened its wielder’s belly. ‘I was nearby, and saw no reason not to lend it. You are from Quenelles, are you not? I thought I recognised your heraldry.’
‘I am,’ Jerrod said stiffly. He took a two-handed grip on his sword. He’d lost his shield in the fall, and his hip and shoulder ached. But the pain could wait; as long as he could move, however stiffly, he could fight. Vlad took up a position beside him.
‘Ah, Quenelles… such a lovely land. I whiled away many a night there in the company of fine ladies. And the dumplings, ah…’ Vlad kissed his fingertips in a gesture of appreciation. He beheaded a beastman with a casual swing of his blade. ‘I taught young Tancred the proper way to hold a sword; this was the first Tancred, of course. Long dead now, poor fellow. Ran afoul of some detestable necromancer, I’m given to understand.’
Jerrod fought in silence. The vampire moved too quickly for his eye to follow. Vlad chopped through the neck of a beast and whirled to face Jerrod. ‘You’re the latest to bear the dukedom, I’m told. I too know the pain of being the last ruler of a fallen province.’
‘Quenelles still stands,’ Jerrod said.
‘Of course it does, of course,’ Vlad said. ‘How could it not? But its people face much difficulty in the days to come, my dear duke. Have you considered the possibility of an alliance, for the days ahead?’ He ducked beneath the wild swing of a club, and sent a beastman sprawling with an almost playful slap.
‘With you?’
‘Who better? We are both men of royal blood, are we not? And in the years to come, both the Empire and Bretonnia will need each other – humanity must stand together, Jerrod.’
‘Humanity?’ Jerrod blurted, as a beastman lunged for him. He stepped aside and brought his blade down on the creature’s back. He heard the tramp of feet, and saw that the elves were moving forwards, spears levelled. They were taking advantage of the momentary lull the Bretonnian charge had caused, and were now moving to take back the ground they had lost. Jerrod raised his sword, signalling for his knights to withdraw.
‘I was as human as you, once, and unlike some, I have never forgotten it,’ Vlad said smoothly. He stepped back as the elves marched past them. ‘Too, I am an elector of the Empire, and as such view it as my duty to put forth the idea of alliance, come our eventual victory.’
‘You are so confident in our survival, then?’ Jerrod said. His stallion trotted towards him, its flanks heaving, its limbs striped with blood. He stooped to check the animal, relieved that it had survived. Vlad watched him for a moment. He reached out, as if to stroke the animal’s nose, but the horse shied away. Vlad let his hand drop, a tiny frown creasing his features.
‘Of course,’ the vampire said. ‘As the Emperor said, we fight for the future. To countenance defeat is as good as accepting it. And I have come too far, and accomplished too much, to accept the ruin of it all.’ He looked at Jerrod. ‘The world stands, Duke of Quenelles.’ He put his hand on Jerrod’s shoulder.
‘And I would see that it do so for many years yet to come.’
Gotri Hammerson clashed his hammer and axe together, summoning fire and heat. Beastmen fell, consumed and turning to ash even as they charged towards the Zhufbarak line. The runes of fire dimmed as he lowered his weapons. The dwarfs had taken up the flank, without asking permission. The elves had, in a rare display of sense, left them to it without protest. Now guns and good Black Water steel threw back the Children of Chaos again and again.
The beasts poured out of the trees in a disorganised mass. The giant, gangly shapes of ghorgons and cygors roared and smashed aside ancient oaks as they lumbered after their smaller cousins, and knots of bellowing minotaurs carved a path through their own kind to get to the dwarf lines. All of them were thrown back, again and again.
‘Ha! We’re hammering them just like the Ironfist did at Hunger Wood, Master Hammerson,’ one of his Anvil Guard barked, his broad face streaked with powder burns and blood. ‘They’ll remember the Zhufbarak, sure as sure.’ He swung his axe and beheaded an ungor as it scrabbled ineffectually at his shield.
‘Aye, and if you don’t pay attention, Ulgo, they’ll be the only ones to do so,’ Hammerson snarled. He smashed his hammer down, shattering a crude blade as it sought his gut, and gave its wielder an axe in the skull by way of reply. As he wrenched his weapon free, he raised his voice. ‘I want a steady rate of fire. I want them pummelled into a greasy patch on the topsoil, lads, and an extra tankard of Bugman’s best to whoever brings down that Grimnir-be-damned ghorgon over there.’ The rhythmic snarl of gunfire answered him as the lines revolved, fresh Thunderers stepping forwards to take the places of those who had just fired. The Zhufbarak were a millstone, grinding over the enemy. They had plenty of powder and shot, and a sea of targets. Some beastmen inevitably made it through the fusillade, however, and when that happened, it was time for the rest of the throng to earn their ale.