The standard, over two hundred yards away and separated by howling gusts of plague-rain, burst into green flames. It flared brightly, dropping fragments of its disintegrating fabric over the defenders at its base. Every scrap seemed to kindle where it landed, and the battlements were soon in confusion as men ran from the fires or tried to stamp them out.
Otto grinned. Few had died, but the mortals attached great importance to their little flags. One by one, they would all be turned into crisped piles of ash, and each loss would be like a dagger-strike to their weak hearts.
‘Very good, o my brother,’ Otto murmured, running a finger along the edge of his scythe. The gate was now close, and Ghurk was pushing his way towards it with ever greater zeal. ‘Now for the doors.’
Ethrac was already preparing. Battering rams were being brought up, dragged by blind and diseased river-trolls. The portal itself, twenty feet high and barred with crossed iron over age-seasoned oak, waited for them. It might resist force for a while, or even magic, but not both, and not in such strength.
It had stood for so long, that gate. Otto could sniff out the age in the timbers, in the granite foundations, in the ancient ironwork that clad and bound it. He could sense the waning power of faith stained deep in its fabric, and could feel the spells of binding laid across it by Empire magisters. The mortals still manned every battlement and pinnacle above it, furiously determined to hold on to it.
The very idea made him smirk.
‘Break it,’ he ordered.
The North Gate had been hit as hard as the rest. The army raging against it was a mix of Chaos warriors and beastmen dragged out of the Drakwald’s deepest pits, and the infernal alliance poured out of the storm-lashed gloom in an endless torrent.
Helborg paced the battlements, his fist clenched tight on his undrawn sword-hilt, his cheek almost unbearably painful, his mood black. The foul slime-rain continued to lance down from the churning skies, swilling across every stone surface and making footing treacherous. Archers slipped when they loosed their darts, gunners lost their footing with every recoil. The deluge got into eyes, wormed its way under collars and beneath breastplates. When it touched bare skin, it burned like acid, and several troopers had fallen to their deaths while frantically trying to rip the armour from their bodies.
‘Tell the master gunner to angle his great cannons by two points,’ ordered Helborg, furious at the delays.
The cannon crews were struggling just like everyone else. Aside from the plague-rain and the almost unbearable howl of the vortex above them, they could all hear the agonised screams of men being torn apart by daemons within the city. Helborg had dispatched every wizard and warrior priest he could to try to buy some time against them, but it was a desperate gambit, and it weakened the wall defences further.
Out in the dark, the enemy started to chant a single word, over and over again.
Shyish! Shyish! Shyish!
He knew what it meant, and needed no Amethyst magister to tell him.
Huge creatures were now stalking to the forefront of the host, barging aside or treading down any that barred their path – hulking, misshapen beasts with lone eyes and twisted horn-crowns, bellowing in cattle-harsh voices. They were followed by grotesque amalgams of dragon and ogre, which were so horrific that even the Chaos warriors around them gave them a wide berth. The stench of rotting meat washed over the whole army, sending those defenders still able to fire a pistol gagging and retching.
Helborg screwed his eyes up, leaning against the battlements, and peered into the tempest. Out in the murk, past the first detachments of infantry, colossal engines were being pulled into position. He recognised a gate-breaking ram in the centre of the cluster, hauled by centaurs.
He turned to Zintler. ‘If that gets close...’
Zintler had seen the same thing, and nodded, wiping a patch of plague-mucus from his helm’s visor. ‘We’re losing the battlements around the gate,’ he noted grimly.
On either side of the vast gatehouse, men were struggling under the relentless onslaught of the slime-rain and thick clouds of projectiles from the trebuchets and war engines. Some sections already looked close to being abandoned. If the enemy managed to get siege towers closer, then the remaining defence would be hard-pressed to hold out.
Helborg drew in a deep breath. They were assailed on all sides, and any hope he had of maintaining a tight grip on the outer walls was fast dissolving. ‘It had to come,’ he said grimly. ‘Just sooner than I’d have liked. The Reiksguard are ready?’
Even amid the carnage, Zintler could still smile at that. Of course they were.
‘General, you will oversee the defence of the gatehouse,’ shouted Helborg to Graf Lukas von Mettengrin, the grizzled Altdorfer assigned to the wall defence once, as they had always planned, Helborg was called to take the fight directly to the enemy. ‘May Sigmar be with you.’
The general saluted, as did his staff and the other members of the field command still on the parapet. De Champney was one of the few magisters still present on the outer walls, though he was far too busy summoning up pyrotechnics to respond.
Helborg and Zintler hurried down from the parapet, jogging down winding stairways into the heart of the gatehouse. Once away from the edge, the sounds of battle became muffled by the thick stone, but there was no dousing the lingering screams and cries from within Altdorf itself.
‘This must be swift, and it must count for all,’ said Helborg, testing the straps under his helm and pulling the leather tight.
‘The Knights Panther and of Morr are assembled,’ reported Zintler, rolling his lance-shoulder in readiness for the sortie.
‘Good,’ said Helborg, noting, almost for the first time, how quietly efficient Zintler had been throughout. He was unassuming in the flesh, but once in his Reikscaptain’s armour and given an order, he was the model of quiet resolve. ‘Well done.’
Zintler looked at him, startled. He did not seem to know how to reply.
He did not need to. The two men broke out at ground level on the inside of the gatehouse, into a wide marshalling yard. The full strength of the North Gate’s inner defence waited for them: nine full companies of Imperial knights, all saddled up and bearing lances. The white of the Reiksguard mingled with the black of the Knights of Morr and the blue and gold of the Knights Panther. Their warhorses were arrayed in full barding, each one adorned with the gilt emblems of their order. Every rider saluted as the Reiksmarshal and his captain emerged, and two chargers were led towards them.
Beyond the Knightly companies stood the reserve regiments of state troopers – some of the best men still at Helborg’s command, several thousand of them, drilled mercilessly in repulsion manoeuvres, almost all armed with halberds and pikes.
Helborg mounted, adjusted his battle-plate, flicked down his visor, and took his lance. His heart was hammering hard, driving blood around his battered body. For the first time ever, he felt a spasm of guilt at leaving the command station to take the charge. In the past, there had never been any conflict – he had been there to fight, to break the enemy’s will, to drive them from the field. Now his duties were many. The city needed him. They all looked to him, and he could not be in all places at once.
He remembered his last words with Karl Franz, back in the cold morn at Heffengen.
We may fall in battle, you may not. You are the Empire.
Would he be as indispensable? Surely not. Once again, Helborg felt the burden of measuring up to the real Emperor.
‘Open the gates,’ he growled, turning his horse around to face the coming tempest.