At least until the band of ungors he was now rampaging through had trampled out of the undergrowth, and doubt had at last given way to the rough joy of vindication. After days of searching, days of threading through the tangled trails of the Drakwald, he had been overjoyed to find the enemy at last. When he’d spotted the semi-human beastmen, he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to slake the bloodlust that had steadily built up in him over the weeks of his fruitless hunt. Deaf to the alarmed yells of his entourage, he’d spurred his horse into a gallop and charged right into the midst of the enemy.
Now ungors surrounded him on all sides, shrieking and snarling, and his horse reared, lashing out with its hooves even as Todbringer smashed his runefang down on hideous faces and primitive shields. He roared and cursed as he fought. From behind him, he heard the howl of the Knights of the White Wolf who made up his bodyguard as they laid about them with their brutal hammers, and the rising curses and war cries of the threescore huntsmen who had accompanied him into the baleful recesses of the Drakwald. The battle swirled about the muddy trail, in the shadows of sour-rooted trees, and twisted bodies fell in heaps. At last, the ungors broke and began to stream away. Some dived back into the undergrowth they had emerged from, while others broke into lurching flight along the trail. Todbringer was tempted to pursue the latter at once, but he jerked on his steed’s reins, turning about to face the slaughter that was occurring behind him. ‘Leave one alive,’ he roared, as he watched his men butcher those creatures too slow or frenzied to flee. ‘Damn your hides, I need one of the beasts breathing, so it can tell me where its one-eyed master is lurking.’ If any of his warriors had heard him, however, they gave no sign.
He cursed himself, as he finally recognised the ruin he had inadvertently wrought. The orderly column of soldiers he had led into the Drakwald had devolved into a disorganised mass of men, milling about in a wild battle beneath the trees. The Drakwald ate men as surely as did the beasts it sheltered beneath its dark boughs, and staying within sight of one another was the only way of not losing men to the shadows and false trails that blighted it. Even then it was no sure thing. How many men had he lost to the Drakwald over the course of his time as elector count? A thousand? More? How many good men had he fed unwittingly to the hungry dark?
The forest seemed to press close to either side of the rutted track. The path was a narrow, muddy thing, barely wide enough for three men to march abreast. There was no space to form lines, no room for a proper charge. He was suddenly aware of how stifling the silence was, beneath the crash of arms, and how thick the dark beneath the trees was. It was as if the Drakwald were holding its breath. Unease strangled his eagerness and he kicked his horse into motion. He needed to restore order, and swiftly.
I hope you’re satisfied, old man, he thought bitterly. You know better! He began to bellow orders as he rode, trying to shout over the din of battle. In his youth, he’d had one of the best parade-ground voices in the Empire, but age had dimmed his volume somewhat. The flush of combat was fading from him, and he felt tired and old. Every joint ached and the runefang felt heavy in his grip, but he didn’t dare sheathe it. Not now.
The enemy was close. He saw that now, and he cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. How often had his men been led into just such an ambush? How often had they done the leading themselves? He’d allowed his need for vengeance to blind him, and he could feel the jaws of the trap grinding shut about him.
A long, winding note suddenly rose from the trees. The sound of it speared through his recriminations and struck his gut like a fist. He jerked on the reins and turned his horse about, scanning the forest. More terrible groaning notes slithered between the trees and rose above the canopy, piercing the stillness. Brayhorns, he knew. The hunting horns of the warherds. Then, with a suddenness which defied reality, the forest, so still before, was suddenly alive with the sounds of tramping hooves, rattling weapons and snorting beasts.
Arrows hissed out from between the trees, punching men from their feet. Todbringer yanked his horse about. He had to reach his men – if they could form a shield-wall, they might manage an organised defence, long enough perhaps to escape the trap he’d led them into. But even as he galloped back towards his warriors, the beastmen burst through the trees on all sides at a run, slamming into the scattered column like a thunderbolt. There were hundreds of them, more than any shield-wall or line of hastily interposed spears could hold back, and men and horses screamed as they died.
Todbringer howled in rage as he spurred his horse to greater speed. He crashed into the mass of snarling beasts and the force of the impact sent the foe rolling and squealing as his horse trod on those too slow to get out of the way. His runefang quivered in his grasp as he swept it out and chopped down on upraised maws and clutching hands. For a moment he was adrift on a sea of snarling faces, jagged tusks and rusted blades. He cursed and prayed and screamed, matching them howl for howl, as he hewed about himself. Blood hung thick on the damp air, and it dripped into his armour and from his beard. Still they swirled about him, a never-ending tide of bestial fury. He glimpsed his men falling beneath filth-splotched blades one by one, dragged down and reduced to bloody ruin.
The trees nearby exploded outwards in a spray of splinters as a minotaur charged into battle, its bull-like head lowered and its great hooves trampling man and beast alike. The monster roared and swung an axe in a wide arc, cutting a Knight of the White Wolf and his braying opponent in half in a spray of gore. Todbringer kicked his horse into motion and charged towards the beast even as it turned to meet him. The minotaur lurched towards him through the press of combat, its eyes bulging with blood-greed. It swung its axe and the notched blade caught Todbringer’s stallion in the neck, killing the poor beast instantly. The animal sagged and the count toppled from the saddle.
He rolled away, avoiding the horse’s death-throes. The minotaur lumbered towards him, froth dripping from its champing jaws. Todbringer forced himself to his feet, even as the monster dropped its axe towards him. The runefang shuddered in his grip as he caught the blow, and the crude axe blade shivered to fragments. The minotaur reeled back, shocked from its fury by the loss of its weapon. Todbringer lunged, and his sword opened the brute’s belly. The minotaur shrieked and clutched at its guts as it grabbed for him awkwardly. Todbringer avoided its clumsy attack and brought his blade down on its forearm. The runefang bit through flesh and bone with ease, and the severed arm flopped into the mud at his feet.
The minotaur collapsed like a felled tree, its blood steaming as it pumped across the ground. Beastmen pressed in around Todbringer, and he found himself beset on all sides. His breath rasped harshly in his agonised lungs as he moved and fought harder than ever before, seeking to wrestle just a few more seconds of life from the talons of what seemed to be his preordained fate.
Some part of him had always known that it would end this way, with him surrounded by braying herds, his standard trampled in the mud. Martak had been right; this was the End Times. The time of the Children of Chaos, when the cities of man would burn and be torn apart stone by stone. The world would belong to the mewling, goat-faced freaks which gibbered and snarled around him. He set his feet and heaved back against them, using his shield to batter the closest to the ground, where they were easy prey for his runefang.
For a moment, he stood alone. His heart ached with sorrow as he heard the sounds of the last of his men being put to the sword by the milling beast-kin. Your fault, old man, he thought. He stared at the snarling faces that closed in around him. These, then, were the inheritors of the world. He snorted and couldn’t restrain the laugh that forced its way out of his throat. It rang out hard and wild over the track, and silence fell in its wake.