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“Simpleton,” Bael scoffed. “Your beast blood is unworthy of my Lord, but I’ll offer it to Khorne all the same.”
The Khorne warrior parried the thrust of a spear, striking low and right, beginning their dance as they exchange blocks and blows. Mazkha had the reach with her spear, but Bael continued to press and attack, as aggressive as an orc himself.
Mazkha was put in a retreat, and Roderick had to roll clear to avoid being tramped, the breadth of the she-orcs feet near as wide as his head. Something was very wrong with the arm he’d landed on, but he willed himself to his feet, watching the two giants clash against one another.
Bael caught the orc with a feint, and he felt a pang of worry as he slashed her bicep, drawing first blood between them. Mazkha growled in pain, a low, rumbling sound that set Roderick’s hairs on his neck standing.
He wanted to move in to help, but he didn’t fancy his chances with one lame arm, he may as well be getting in Mazkha’s way. He considered for a moment, and then let the sword slip from his fingers, reaching for his belt. The relic had left imprint on his mind, that feeling of control he’d exerted through the doors, it was like no other feeling describable. His body might be damaged, but his mind was still sharp, and the relic relied more on the latter.
He brandished the relic in both hands, the smooth grips on the haft moulding to his fingers, like it had been sanded down to the dimensions of his fingers exactly. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his thoughts towards Bael, trying to conjure up a door through which he could pass. Before, the men he’d practiced on were given plain, simple doors, but Bael’s was nothing like that. His mind considered him a gate, layered with portcullis and iron bars to seal any breach, framed by rods of black steel. It was an intimidating sight, but Roderick was not surprised. Bael was a man no longer, turned and twisted into something much more bestial, alien.
He willed it to open, and he found a terrible force push back. It was as though a weight only he could feel had surged forth, sweeping back his attempts to pry. He grit his teeth in effort, feeling his physical body stagger under the pressure. It was not painful yet, more like the burn one feels after a strenuous exercise.
Roderick urged more strength from the relic, and it obeyed without pause, yet the iron gate stood shut against him. His probing had not gone unnoticed. Through slitted eyes he could see Bael falter, though not because of Mazkha. He turned to look back, squaring his horned helm in Roderick’s direction. Bale must sense his intrusion, nothing at all like the others, how was that possible?
His magical attack was doing no good, but it gave Mazkha the room she needed to breathe, collect herself, and take advantage. Bael didn’t turn quickly enough to block, and her spear found itself in his gut. It did not penetrate, but Mazkha’s orcish strength still sent the warrior reeling.
Roderick persisted, consuming all the Winds of Magic the relic breathed into his limbs, knowing he was doing something, even if Bael’s mind remained closed off. Mazkha kept up her assault on him, driving him one step at a time across the field, Bael fighting on both a physical and mental front. She got in a nasty strike against his shoulder, the one still impaled by her tossed javelin, and for a moment he almost fell to a knee.
“Enough of this,” Bael snarled, his voice taking on a eery, deep quality. “It is not my blood that will spill for Khorne this day.”
Like a lumberjack felling a tree, he threw his weight into a side swing, a savage blow that even Mazkha was weary to block. She stepped back, and at the same moment Bale turned heel, rushing a short distance towards the flowing river toward the east.
He brushed between the tall pines and cattails sprouting from the muddy shore, his boots splashing as he trudged into the deeper waters. They chased him down, Mazkha far faster on her longer legs, Bael halfway through the river as she made it to the edge. Instead of pursuing, she came to an abrupt stop, looking down at the fark water with a strange expression on her face.
“Run him down!” Roderick yelled. “Kill him!”
Bale was moving downstream, the thick reeds enveloping his backside as he slipped through waist-high water. Yet still Mazkha did not pursue, and after a hesitant moment, she hook her giant hand into her quiver. She readied a javelin, and hurled it with a grunt of effort, the length of wood vanishing into the brush like a giant arrow. It was hard to tell whether it had found its mark.
By the time Roderick had reached the river, Bael was gone, and the effort of attacking him with magic was gone with it. His ears filled with white noise, btu as they cleared, he could tell the battle was finishing. Behind him, the raiders were fleeing into the trees, horses and orc boar-riders chasing down the stragglers beneath the cover fire of the riflemen on the walls. Cheers of victory could be heard over the crackling of the flames.
“Did you get him?” Roderick rasped, his fight with the relic leaving him out of breath.
“I never miss my mark,” Mazkha replied. “If that don’t kill him, the blood loss will.”
“Thank you,” he added. “If you had come a second later, he’d have run me through.”
She turned to grin down at him. “If you hadn’t done whatever you did to distract him, he’d have done me in just the same. Is that a staff you got there? I didn’t take you for bein’ a wizard too, little knight.”
“I’m not,” he replied, not elaborating further. “Why did you not chase Bael down?” he asked. “You almost had him.”
She quirked a brow, it seemed his change in subject had not been unnoticed.
“Orc’s don’t do so well in water,” she replied, and she too did not explain further. “You know, usually when I think of wizards and magic, I think of fireballs and lightning bolts, but I didn’t see none of that from you. What did you do to that maniac?”
“Something unnatural,” Roderick replied. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“I’ll have to take you up on that. Later. For now we should check up on your boys, take a headcount. How’s yer arm?”
”Nothing to worry about,” Roderick said, but the sheer pain he could feel throbbing down his back and arm said otherwise. He motioned for them to get, and the two turned for Cassel, returning through a field of dead.
Casualties were at a minimum. No more than ten had been killed, an even split between Imperial and Brettonian, while over twice as many had been wounded. One of the few horses left in Imperial care had been killed during the raid, but beyond that the casualties stopped there.
Each lost man was a serious loss of their number, but the real damage came in the form of the lost infrastructure. Roderick sent off a few of the soldiers for a report on the damages, and the results were troubling. Five tents had been burned, one of them being the kitchens, and a surplus of rations had been lost with it. Another tent was one of the barracks, and while no precious possessions had been lost, there would be more cramped living quarters on the morrow. The remaining three tents were living spaces for some of the Brettonian knights, but Roderick had not the time to listen to their complaints, that was Edouart’s problem.
Speaking of which, he should probably seek out the Duke’s successor. The last he’d seen of him was at the funeral, and he did not know if the raiders had plunged that far into the camp.
The sounds of battle had been thick and loud in the camp, but now that the fight had closed, all that was left was smoke and blood. Men hurried between the canvas’, hauling water buckets onto pits of wood turned to charcoal, drowning out the few lingering flames.
Some of the sailors and knights he passed were gloomy, some having lost friends, some taking the destruction of the camp to heart. Roderick gave a few encouraging words where he could, reminding them that tents and stables can be rebuilt, and it needs the good men of the Empire and it’s allies to stay alive to do it.
He found Edouart sitting on a fallen log that had been rolled up beside a firepit, a hand resting beneath his chin. There was a blood splatter on his usually immaculate breastplate, and his helmet was unusually discarded to the dirt nearby. He did not appear wounded at a glance.
“Edouart?” Roderic called, making his way over. He had to repeat the man’s name before he looked him in the eye. “Edouart, are you well, ser?”
“No. Yes. I am not sure.” The Brettonian picked the flask on his belt and drew on it deeply. “I have not faced the forces of Chaos before tonight.”
“It’s no easy thing,” Roderick replied, taking a seat on the log nearby. “The evil that drives them is like no other.”
“I’ve done battle against wights, harpy’s, other vampiric abominations, but none fought with such savagery as those barbarians,” Edouart muttered. “When they came through here, they had no concern for their safety, they simply rushed into our ranks, slashing as they went without a hint of fear. I’ve never seen a man do such things.”
“They are men no longer,” Roderick said. “The will of Chaos as seduced them, turned them into parpets for the Dark Lords. What you saw tonight were just echoes of someone who once was.”
“How did you know they were coming?”
“That marking on that corpse, remember? I’ve seen its like before. Cultists find a sick pleasure in digging scars in their Lord’s likeness, Wilfred told me it helps them deepen their connection to their dark masters.”
“Then, it was my own brothers and sisters who burned Cassel to the ground,” Edouart said, looking about the town and shaking his head. “Our peasants, turned to cultists.… I can hardly believe it.”
“Chaos can be subtle as well as brazen. If a border is too well defended, they will target the outlying settlements, weaken the supply lines. Raiding parties like Bael’s can slip through and cause much carnage before an army can be mustered. In a way, it’s a fortune we came across him and he chose to reveal himself. His band will be much weaker now, he won’t be burning any more towns for a while.”
“You seem optimistic,” Edouart noted. “Our army was caught off guard by raiders, and yet you seem remarkably unperturbed.”
“It’s as you said before, Edouart. The Empire’s borders have failed more than once, and we’ve a lot of experience with Chaos, for better or not. This may be your first time crossing swords with them, but for us, Von Kessel’s and his men included, we’ve met them on the field of battle many times.”
“Then perhaps I have something to learn from you and Kessel’s men,” Edouart said. “My knights as well. I don’t know how your lot could face such foes, without horse or lance.”
It seemed Edouart was not only troubled by fighting Chaos directly, btu he hadn’t the chance to get in his saddle to help, he must not be experience in fighting without a mount. The same could likely be said for his knights, he’d have to keep that in mind.
“Don’t loose heart just yet,” Roderick reminded. “The Dark Gods are strong, but our hearts must stay stronger. Sigmar, the Lady, whoever your faith goes to, keep your prayers strong, and they’ll see us to Marienburg.”
“I will do my best, Roderick.”
“Good man.”