2k words
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Roderick moved across the battlements, staying behind the gun line so as not to get caught in the crossing. He wrapped across to the western face, the scattered tents comprising the rest of their meagre army stretching ahead of him. All the gunfire had drawn out the people from their rest, and while most of them had drawn weapons, the shock and surprise were working to Chaos’ advantage.
Yet more of the marauders were dashing across the field, and what Roderick had guessed to be near fifty seemed to have doubled that, an entirely separate force emerging from the trees. It had seemed Bael’s group was a distraction, and the camps were a far softer target than the fortress itself.
He could see men bracing weapons to shoulders, but the raiders were coming in hard and fast, and they met the perimeter with tens of combined cries and shouts. Several melees began amidst the camp, steel axes and silver swords flashing between the canvas tents, Roderick even spying one of the enemy riders galloping into the fray.
Some of the tents were twice as large than the rest, intending to serve as mess halls and barracks. Roderick couldn’t tell which were which, but one of them quickly burst to flame, coughing up a chimney of smoke in an instant. He could see sparks in the sky, fire arrows streaking across from the woods to light more flickering flames. It was hard to tell the fires from the torches, more figures from either side pouring into the fray.
Guns and axes sent sparks across figures of steel, the sound of shot rising up into an air full of cries of anger and pain. Somewhere a warhorn blared, but he did not recognise its note.
The men on the wall levelled their rifles, but there was too much obstacle, and just as great a chance of firing on friend as foe, there was no support to give.
Roderick tore his gaze away from the tents as someone shouted to his right. Von Kessel was dressed in leather tunic and padded briefs – things one could throw on quickly after being woken up of a sudden. He stood out amidst the armed sailors, but his voice was firm and commanding.
“Chaos a hundred strong, right beneath our very noses. How in Sigmar’s name has this happened?”
He approached, giving Roderick a demanding look, as though he had all the answers. “It matters not,” Roderick replied. “Chaos is here, and we must drive them back.”
The Captain turned his head, examining the unfolding carnage. Another tent caught flame, one of the riders on horseback was rushing down the middle of the camp, swinging a burning torch in either hand, burning anything he could reach. The smell of burned gunpowder left an acrid sting in the air, shots giving way to the slash of swords as the raiders closed in, where pistol and shot deferred to sharpened steel.
“Sigmar preserve us,” Von Kessel muttered. “Someone get me a horn, we’ll pull everyone back into the fort, they won’t siege us with horses alone.”
“No,” Roderick said. “All our supply is out there. We must head them off before they destroy more of the camp.”
“Only a madman would go out there,” Von Kessel argued. “Where are you going?” he added as Roderick turned away.
“It is worse than it looks. They don’t have the numbers, so they’re striking as hard as they can. You there, bring me that horse.”
The stable was no more than tiny sheltered hollow, but there was room enough for a handful of horses. As Roderick descended the battlements, he beckoned to one of the sentries, and the man passed him the reigns of his destrier. Its ears were flicking nervously, the clash and screams loud and harsh, but it steadied as it recognised him, allowing him to saddle up.
“Anyone who can ride, follow me,” Roderick ordered. “Open the gate!”
“Delay that!” Von Kessel shouted, following him into the courtyard. The man operating the winch hesitated. “You’ll let all that fire inside if you do. We’ll fight them from the walls.”
“There were perhaps four dozen Imperials clogging the yard, most with swords and pistols, nothing too useful from the wrong side of a wall. Roderick could see they were ready to fight, but they weren’t ready to commit, he could see it in the way they looked to Von Kessel.
“The Brettonians are out there fighting,” he said. “While we sit here in safety. Can you call yourselves true sons of Sigmar?”
His words caused a shadow to fall over Von Kessel’s face, but it riled a few of the others up, and the more confident of them stepped forward. Two came to take the bridles of the other mounts, then two more, and before long eight of them were saddled, and twice as many ready to follow on foot.
There was no time for a helmet, Roderick taking the reins in one hand while drawing his pistol with the other. “Open the gate!” Roderick called, and the man on the winch didn’t hesitate this time. With a creak, the doors parted, Roderick raising an armoured hand into the air.
“Drive them back!” he shouted. “Send these Chaos fiends back to the Warp. For Sigmar!”
“Sigmar! Sigmar!” they shouted back, and Roderick lead the charge. They thundered out of the gate. The flames were making his gauntlets shine orange in the night, the horses whickering as they galloped into the camp. It didn’t take long before Roderick found his first marauder, an axe-wielding fiend in barbarians clothing and a horned helm, fencing with a Brettonian knight and gaining the advantage.
Roderick put a bullet in the back of his helmet, then swapped hands with the bridle, drawing his other pistol. The rest of his riders formed an arrowhead behind him, some shooting into the camp around them, others slashing out with sword and cudgel. The rider on his left ran down a raider who couldn’t get out of the way in time, Roderick able to hear his bones crunch beneath the stampede that followed.
The paths between the tents and Cassel’s houses were just wide enough for three mounted men to ride abreast, and their bellows made sure any friendlies quickly got out of the way. Roderick forced his arm to steady, as he always did when shooting from saddle, and hit the shoulder of another raider trying to retreat into a tent. Reloading with one hand free was a difficult task while riding, so he holstered his gun to draw his short sword. He still had the relic clipped to his belt, but now was the time for steel, not magic.
They cleaved out a path all the way to the edge of camp. When they reached the clearing, he raised an arm and made a circle in the air. Loop back. The men followed his example, yanking their horses in a hard turn for another pass. The men who’d followed on foot joined the fray, the raiders now forced to deal with two of three times their number, and those who hadn’t the room to duel were working to dose the flames.
Roderick spotted one of the mounted Chaos warriors, the one holding two torches, rushing between the houses on the south side. Roderick spurred his horse in pursuit. The raider met his charge with his own, Roderick swearing he could hear him cackling beneath that twisted helmet. Like two lances meeting at a tourney, they lined up their mounts in a near-collision, the warrior bearing his torches, meaning to burn him. As their paths crossed, Roderick timed his swing, and his blade met the flesh on the raider’s bare ribs, near cutting him in half. Miraculously, the raider was still alive as their charge ended, but Roderick’s following riders sliced the head from his shoulders, and the raider dropped his torches to the grass.
He turned them about for another spear through the camp, but the tide had turned now, the men from the fort clearing out the nooks of the camp, the sounds of battle dwindling. The raiders were in retreat, fleeing towards the tree line, a rare sight to behold for Chaos, and one Roderick was eager to take advantage.
“With me! Leave none alive!” he called out, kicking his boots into the horse’s flanks. His riders chased down the foe into the clearing, and without obstacle of flames, they made easy pickings. His cavalry split into several pairs at his command, where they could take out as many as they could, given their number.
Archers had positioned in and around the trees to cover the retreat, Roderick feeling the air part as arrows shot over his head. The risk to the horses was too great, so Roderick rallied the men, signalling for them to break pursuit.
As he turned his destrier about, he spotted a bright, crimson figure to his left. Bael’s black cloak whipped behind him as he charged across the open ground, more like that of a raging animal than anything resembling a human, his mask making him appear a good foot or two taller than Roderick.
His pistols were not reloaded, so Roderick readied his sword, spurring his mount and matching the charge. Chaos was a fickle thing, if he could take out their leadership, he would be doing both the Empire and Brettonia a favour.
Even despite his immensity, Roderick did not expect the warrior to hold. Bael brandished a two-headed waraxe, and even with the mass and speed off his horse, he met Roderick’s clash with furious strength. Roderick’s weapon arm recoiled, and Bael used the opportunity to swipe him with the haft of his axe, turning Roderick out of his saddle in one quick move.
Roderick compressed against the ground on his shoulder, hard enough to send a pang of pain up his limb. His horse continued without him with a flurry of movement, its hooves fading, while Bael’s giant boots rumbled closer.
“You should have stayed in that ruin, pup,” Bael growled as he approached, Roderick’s heart pumping as his shadows drew over him. “Stay there, so I can bathe this dirt in your dogs-blood.”
His axe glinted in the moonlight as he raised it over a shoulder. Before the death-blow, the brown stake of a tossed javelin found itself biting through Bael’s crimson pauldron, the length of wood quivering. Bael turned towards its source, still able to raise his axe in defence as Mazkha came rushing in from the south, pulling a spear from the sling over her back.
“Warrrrgh!” She swiped from right to left in a giant cleave, catching Bael in the side of his helmet. The tip of her spear created sparks, the hulking warrior taking a step back in alarm. He parried the next attack, the javeline still imbedded in his shoulder as he spun her weapon away, forcing her to block a swipe from below.
“So, the greenskins have leashed themselves to the Imperial dogs,” Bael mused, his voice eerily cool even as he exchanged blows with the orc. “Your kind would do well to consider which side it’s on, orc.”
“Why? I ain’t never killed me a Chaos boy before,” Mazkha chimed, spinning the axe away when it jagged towards her chest.
“Simpleton,” Bael scoffed. “Your beast blood is unworthy of my Lord, but I’ll offer it to Khorne all the same.”