The Butcher’s Beast Jordan Ellinger Men ran through the trees on the opposite river bank, giant men, swarthy men with tangled beards and blood on their lips. At the forest’s edge a regiment of swordsmen hastily assumed formation as screaming berserkers swept into their ranks, hewing about with blackened axes that glowed with savage runic light. Knights in full armour, caught fording the Schilder, wrestled with their mounts as they tried to emerge from the churning froth and onto the rocky ground beyond. Somewhere close by a horse screamed as it was pulled under, the raging torrent swallowing it and its rider hungrily. On a hill to the east, General Schalbourg’s fist tightened on the reins of his mount as he surveyed the scene in front of him. ‘The last reports we had were that the Skaelings were two days to the north.’ He kept his voice level, betraying none of the rage and helplessness that churned beneath his usually calm exterior. Men were dying in the valley below, and every moment he spared to indulge his anger meant another life lost. Several advisors sat impotently nearby on mountain ponies. Only Knight Templar Keller of the Order of Sigmar dared to answer him. ‘The Skaelings aren’t known for their speed, my lord. We have reports that they are fleeing a much larger, unidentified force to the north. If you had allowed me the use of the brass bull when we captured those heretics two days ago, we would know for certain what drives them.’ Schalbourg masked his distaste for the witch hunter’s savagery. ‘Those “heretics” were women and children fleeing before this very horde,’ he muttered. ‘You saw women and children, my lord. I saw spies whose disguises were so cunningly woven that they might fool even a general.’ Schalbourg finally let some of his repressed anger free in the form of a snarl. ‘You tread dangerously close to insubordination, Keller. Knight Templar or not, this army is under my command.’ ‘A witch hunter is forever treading on ground where other men fear to walk, for it is there that the enemy is most powerful,’ responded Keller piously. Schalbourg glared at the man for a moment, trying to determine whether or not he was being insulted. At length, he gave up. While they bickered the Skaelings were tearing his army apart, and now they had word there was another army out there somewhere. Hopefully it was loyal to the Empire. ‘Tell me about this larger force,’ he said. ‘Requests for reinforcements from the Elector Count of Middenland were rebuffed, but who else could it be so close to the Grey Mountains?’ His line of thought was cut off by a scream as a volley of black arrows scythed out of the trees and fell amongst Empire soldiers, killing men where they stood. ‘Never mind,’ he said, a sweep of his hand cutting Keller off before he could answer. He quickly surveyed the battlefield. Though the bulk of his forces and the entirety of his artillery support were stuck on the wrong side of the river, four units had made it across. Three had broken almost the moment the northmen had hit them, but one had held its ground – a regiment of swordsmen had assumed a tight, square formation that had brought the enemy to a halt and they were now fighting furiously against increasingly desperate odds. ‘Get me Hesberger,’ Schalbourg barked. An underling kicked the flanks of his mountain pony and darted towards a unit of mounted knights. Their leader separated from the group and galloped up to Schalbourg’s side. ‘My lord!’ he said, flipping up his visor. The man behind it displayed a lined, but honourable face punctuated with a silver moustache. ‘The Enderberg Narrows. Do you know them?’ asked Schalbourg. ‘My squire hails from these lands. He’ll be able to guide us to it.’ ‘Go with all haste. We’ll hold until you return. May Sigmar’s grace speed your mounts.’ Schalbourg watched the knights peel away from the rest of the army and gallop downriver. ‘My lord,’ said Keller bitterly, ‘only a single unit of swordsmen still holds the opposite bank. If they fall before Hesberger returns he’ll be charging into the jaws of the Dark Gods.’ Schalbourg felt an icy chill settle into his veins. The witch hunter was right, but what other choice did he have? It was that or lose the battle and three-quarters of his army. All their hopes hinged on those swordsmen. Normally, the general could identify any unit under his command by sight, but the haze of battle had obscured their regimental colours. ‘Keller,’ he said tightly. ‘Which unit is that?’ The witch hunter squinted, and then shielded his eyes against the setting sun. ‘It’s the Carroburgs, my lord.’ Schalbourg felt his shoulders unknot. ‘Thank Sigmar. We have a chance.’ ‘Don’t break formation! Don’t break forma–’ Commander Toft’s order was cut off by a grunt as a terrified rhinox, driven by northmen wielding cruel brands against its flanks, slammed into the unit. Three feet of ivory horn lashed out and impaled a swordsman, then hurled the body into Toft, knocking him into the mud. Anton Erhardt charged the beast’s flanks, dancing on the balls of his feet to avoid its shifting bulk, then brought his sword in an underhand arc that glanced off the brute’s armoured jaw and into the soft flesh of its throat. Warm blood washed across his wrists and hands, making his grip on the weapon slick. As the rhinox fell he spared a second to look for Toft, but the commander was nowhere in sight. Until he reappeared, Erhardt was in charge of the regiment. Battle swirled around him, Greatswords wielding five-foot-long steel zweihanders with mastery that betrayed their elite training. Here, the fierce barbarians from the north were being driven back, their primitive fury no match for the precise manoeuvres and coordinated assault of the Empire’s most dedicated troops. ‘Push them back!’ he bellowed. ‘We need to clear space on the riverbank for reinforcements!’ ‘Lieutenant!’ Erhardt peered through the melee and caught sight of Kord Gottswain, a massive Nordlander whose dwarf-forged breastplate was spattered by the dark, arterial blood of the men he’d killed. ‘Lieutenant, they’re after the commander!’ Suddenly, the ranks of northmen parted violently as several huge beastmen shouldered their way to the front, swatting at their own soldiers with their axes to make way for their leader. Eight feet tall at the shoulder with a mad tangle of horns curled around its goat-like head like a hellish crown, it held a tree-trunk-sized axe in an arm knotted with muscle. The stinking grey fur that carpeted its chest and back was matted with sweat and filth, and flecks of dried snot flew away from its muzzle as it panted. A necklace of human finger bones circled its neck, and upon this hung a mouldering skull. A broken lance jutted up from the creature’s back, flying a standard depicting a horrifying, fang-filled mouth swallowing a bleeding eyeball. The beast reached down and almost casually threw aside the massive rhinox carcass, forcing Erhardt to leap back to avoid being crushed, then plucked Toft’s unconscious body off the ground. Sniffing in disgust, it handed the commander to a smaller beast who bellowed in triumph before disappearing back into the throng. Erhardt swore. Toft was like a father to him, but the only thing keeping the Carroburgs alive was the tight square of their formation. If the beasts broke through the lines, every one of them would die. ‘Hold formation. That’s an order!’ he barked. ‘Chaos take your orders!’ shouted Kord over the sounds of battle. ‘They’ll kill him.’ Ignoring Erhardt, he lunged out of the battle-line, hewing about himself with his blade, carving through ranks of northmen in an effort to engage the beastmen directly. The surrounding Greatswords couldn’t close the gap in the lines fast enough and a dozen beasts thrust their way past swinging blades and clawed into the men beyond. The lines buckled under their assault, and then slowly dissolved. In mere minutes, it was every man for himself as clusters of Greatswords battled furiously in a sea of northmen. Before Erhardt could rally his men, a Skaeling berserker loomed in his vision, his mouth a circle of screaming darkness. Erhardt shattered his bone club with a swipe of his zweihander then used the momentum to bury his blade in the man’s guts. He twisted, ensuring the tribesman’s death would be quick enough that he wouldn’t have to worry about a blade in the back, and then kicked him to the ground. Another northman, dressed in furs and reeking of rancid bear grease, lunged head first at Erhardt, trying to gore him upon a crude helmet of deer antlers, but the Greatsword merely stepped aside and beheaded the fool as he went past. He caught occasional flashes of Gottswain through the melee. The Nordlander had ducked under the swinging axe of the massive beastman and now faced the monster directly. Though Gottswain was nearly a head taller than Erhardt, he looked like a child next to the creature he faced. Somehow, he had cut down the creature that had taken Toft, and now the commander lay prone at his feet. Before Erhardt could join him, he spun and came face-to-face with an enemy champion; one of the northmen lords from the look of him, dressed in black plate inscribed with Chaos runes invoking their Dark Gods. He stood silently before Erhardt. Two red points behind the slit in his visor seemed to bore right into the Greatsword’s chest, and the warrior cursed him in some hissing, bestial language before bringing its sword and shield to bear. The men didn’t talk much about Chaos champions, but many believed that their armour protected them absolutely against ordinary blades. If that was true, Erhardt was a dead man. Still, he raised his blade, unwilling to stand back and let another man take his place. A distant horn sounded from the left flank. Mobs of Skaelings cast away their weapons and fled for their lives. Panic spread amongst the Chaosmen as the ground began to shake under the weight of a hundred charging knights. Hesberger had returned from the second ford and caught the enemy force in its unguarded flank. Soon even the black champion was swept away, hissing as he was swallowed up by the tangle of fleeing soldiers. Erhardt allowed his men a moment’s rest, before smiling grimly. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he bellowed. ‘After them!’ Night crept in slowly over the battlefield. From atop long stakes that had been thrust into the ground, dozens of torches cast ruddy light on a nightmarish scene. The river bank was littered with bodies, and the Order of Sigmar had conscripted teams of donkey handlers – usually used to haul cannon – to pull wagons loaded with enemy dead to massive funeral pyres. The air was heavy with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. But amidst the horrors of the grim twilight, comradely laughter echoed. While the rest of the army chased small bands of Skaelings through the woodland, Erhardt’s men had been treated like heroes. Schalbourg had ordered for kegs of fine Middenland ale to be brought up from the supply wagons and tapped. In the time it took for the regiment to drain them, patriotic songs of celebration had given way to bawdy tavern tunes. Erhardt watched them cavort for a while, and then slowly made his way towards the centre of the camp where drovers from the baggage trains had parked their wagons. While the army celebrated, here squires still sweated as they hauled supplies back to their master’s tents. Erhardt passed by stacks of supplies and hastily constructed corrals where wagon horses grazed on small piles of hay. Even though the army had only made camp that evening, the place already stank of offal and horse dung. Two men bearing a stretcher passed Erhardt, sweating and swearing about the weight of the injured man they carried. He followed them to the edge of the supply area where they set down their charge in a field of many more. The moans of the wounded cut through the night as a fine drizzle washed ooze from suppurated wounds into the muddy soil. Shrouded priests of Morr walked up and down their ranks, tall men with hunched backs who hovered over the dying like ravens at a feast. Erhardt made the sign of the hammer over his chest as he passed them on his way. Not that the priests didn’t serve a valuable purpose in guiding the dying into Morr’s embrace, but he’d just as soon his own journey be delayed as long as possible. He resisted the temptation to peer amongst the litters to see if he could recognise anyone, and instead made his way to the surgeons’ tents beyond. Once, they’d been pristine white cotton, but months of hard travel had stained them muddy brown and grey, the heart-and-teardrop stencilled in iron gall ink barely visible beneath the grime. It was fitting that the tent he sought lay behind them, as if its occupants were beyond even the powers of Shallya to save. He ducked under the flap and entered. The air inside reeked of the sickly sweet scent of rot. Woodchips had been scattered on the floor to absorb some of the blood, but these were now foul and damp and added to the miasma. A few anatomical texts lay on a small wooden writing table at the side of the enclosed area, one of them sporting a bloody thumbprint on a page displaying a woodcut of a human cadaver. Commander Toft lay on a wooden table in the centre of the room. Doktor Prolmann, a small man, almost the size of a child, but with wrinkled skin and a balding pate, carefully cut away Toft’s padded under-armour with a pair of large shears. Erhardt let the tent flap close behind him and stood nervously to one side. After a moment, Prolmann spoke without looking up. ‘When the time comes, I’m going to need you to hold him down.’ Commander Toft groaned and shifted, trying feebly to fend off the doktor with his one good hand. ‘Erhardt...? Is that you? What... what’s he saying?’ Erhardt approached until he was standing across from the doktor. It was difficult to see Toft in such a state. The man was a hero of countless battles – he’d served as one of the elector count’s household guard before asking to be reassigned to a unit more likely to see combat. Now it appeared he’d gotten more than he bargained for, as commander of the prestigious Carroburg Greatswords. His face was battered and his eyes were stained with blood, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his brow. A trail of crusted blood ran up his forehead, past his hairline to where a patch of scalp hung loose. Prolmann had smeared a greasy substance on it that smelled of mint, but left it otherwise untreated, preferring to focus on the commander’s right arm. It was broken in at least four places and the skin was striped with purpling bruises. Erhardt knew, even without seeing the wicked, crescent-moon-shaped blade on a nearby table, what Prolmann meant. ‘You’re going to lose that arm, old friend.’ Toft grimaced. ‘It’s that bad?’ ‘You’re alive.’ ‘There’s that, I suppose...’ Prolmann slipped a leather belt over Toft’s bicep and tightened it, bracing a foot on the side of the operating table as leverage. Toft’s eyes widened in pain, and then closed. Erhardt imagined he could hear the commander’s teeth grinding. ‘By Sigmar, man,’ he said angrily. ‘Are you trying to make it drop off on its own?’ ‘We need to restrict his humours or he’ll bleed to death,’ said Prolmann with a shrug. Erhardt scowled. He disliked the mechanical way Prolmann went about his job, as if Toft were a ham that needed to be carved and not a living, breathing human whose career was about to end. There was no way Toft would ever wield a zweihander again and without it, how could he be a Greatsword? ‘Can we have a moment?’ he asked abruptly, not caring if he was being rude. Prolmann scowled, his fingers tapping against the side of the operating table as he weighed Erhardt’s request. ‘One moment only. The longer we wait, the worse his chances are.’ Erhardt watched him retreat to his books, and then looked back at the commander. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Toft groaned, then scratched at the belt that Prolmann had tied around his arm so violently that Erhardt was worried he might dislodge it. Gently, he caught the commander’s hand and put it over his chest, then filled a tin cup with water and brought it to Toft’s lips. The cold draught seemed to refocus the commander a little. ‘One of your men broke formation, Anton.’ Erhardt nodded. ‘Gottswain. He’s a good man. I served with him in Ubersreik.’ ‘I had him arrested.’ ‘That could be a problem. He’s a hero to the men. You would surely be dead if he hadn’t come after you.’ ‘Every Greatsword is a hero before he joins us.’ Toft tried to shift to a more dignified position, but after a moment the pain became too great and he collapsed back onto the table. Though his words were pained he spoke clearly. ‘As their commander you must suppress the very qualities that brought them to greatness and instead wield them as a cohesive unit. Gottswain has shown that he cannot be suppressed, and so he must be excised.’ Erhardt hesitated. ‘You sound like the good doktor. Gottswain is hard to control, to be sure, but his skill with a blade, backed up by his enormous frame, is too great an asset to the Empire to simply cast aside. There is no man I’d rather have fighting by my side than Kord Gottswain.’ Toft’s eyes were closed, and for a moment Erhardt worried he had slipped into unconsciousness. When the commander finally spoke, it was so softly that Erhardt had to lean in to make out the words. ‘One man does not a regiment make.’ Prolmann returned with the knife. He offered Toft a folded leather strap to bite down on, which the commander refused. ‘If we wait any longer,’ said the doctor urgently, ‘the stink of Chaos will get into your wounds and they will suppurate.’ ‘Erhardt,’ said Toft as Prolmann lined up his blade, ‘you’re in command until we return to Altdorf and someone more suitable can be found.’ Someone more suitable? Erhardt knew the men, knew the regiment – he was Toft’s natural successor. Had Gottswain just cost him his commission? Prolmann indicated that he should hold down the commander’s legs. Reluctantly, Erhardt set his doubts aside and did his best. After the procedure was done, he gathered his helmet and left Toft unconscious on Prolmann’s table. Gottswain sat in a rusting cage in a hastily-built shack of untrimmed logs. Erhardt nodded to the guards who stood at attention on either side of the low entrance then, helmet tucked loosely under one arm, ducked his head and entered. The big Nordlander still wore his under-armour, but his hands had been bound together with thick strips of rawhide. His face was a mask of dirt and blood that extended all the way to his shaven head. He looked up when Erhardt entered, his features only partially lit by the torchlight that seeped through holes in the cut birch. He sneered, then kicked his legs out before him and crossed his arms as well as he could with his wrists bound, miming a relaxed position. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Try that act on someone else, Kord,’ said Erhardt. ‘I don’t have the patience for it.’ He thrust a small unstoppered leather canteen through the bars. Gottswain eyed the vessel suspiciously, then shrugged and dropped the bravado. He took the canteen, sniffed it, and then took a swig. ‘Good grog. What is it?’ ‘The general’s own.’ Erhardt stepped away from the bars and crossed his arms. ‘The old wolf tapped his personal vintage to celebrate. This victory is as much yours as his, so I thought you deserved your share.’ Gottswain nodded and took another pull, swigging it against his teeth and gums before swallowing with an appreciative smack of his lips. ‘What about the boss?’ Erhardt studied Gottswain in the dim light. One man does not a regiment make. This one man had done what the regiment couldn’t – rescued the commander from a fate worse than death. ‘Commander Toft survived, thanks to you. That beastman broke his arm in four places, but he’s under the care of Doktor Prolmann.’ Gottswain balanced the canteen on the bench beside him, then leaned back uncomfortably and whistled through his teeth, glancing up at the corners of his cage. ‘So I’m a hero then?’ ‘Toft ordered your incarceration from his sick bed. You broke formation. If Hesberger and his men hadn’t arrived at precisely the right moment, the Dark Gods would be sipping our blood right now.’ Gottswain headbutted the iron bars in frustration and began to speak, but Erhardt cut him off. ‘We’re not mercenaries, Kord. We each guard the man on our left. If you break formation, he dies.’ Gottswain stared hard at Erhardt through the bars. For a moment, it looked like the words were penetrating that thick skull. At last he swore. ‘Prolmann’s a butcher. He’ll lose that arm then, won’t he?’ ‘Already has,’ Erhardt sighed. He tossed a set of keys through the bars. Gottswain stared at them before picking them up. ‘You’re in command then?’ Erhardt considered the question for a moment. He fingered the straps of his vambrace, feeling the hard leather under his fingers. It always gave him a comforting feeling, that sensation. Dwarf-forged plate armour might protect a Greatsword in combat, but it was nothing without the web of leather that held it together. ‘For now. Let’s get back to our camp. This place makes me nervous.’ Gottswain closed the door behind him and tossed Erhardt the keys. ‘The hero of Ubersreik? Scared of a few iron bars?’ Erhardt shuddered. ‘They remind me of the Sigmar-be-damned witch hunters.’ Gottswain blinked at the curse, and then shrugged it off. ‘Don’t let them hear you say that, or you’ll be seeing more than the inside of the stockade.’ The company boy met them on the outskirts of the neatly ordered square of tents that was the Carroburg camp. His arms and hands were stained red, and for a moment Erhardt thought young Bert had been wounded. ‘It’s just dye, sir,’ the boy grinned. ‘New uniforms from the capital haven’t bled out yet.’ Bert ran a hand through his hair, absently painting red streaks through it. A double line of laundry hung near a boiling cauldron that had been set in the remains of the cook fire. As far as Erhardt knew, Toft’s Carroburgs were one of the few units who washed their uniforms regularly. At first, the policy had drawn the attentions of the witch hunters, but the unit lost far fewer men to disease than any other. That had gotten General Schalbourg’s attention, and Erhardt believed the practice would soon spread to other units. ‘Need help with your armour, sir?’ asked Bert. ‘Yours is with the quartermaster, Herr Gottswain.’ ‘Have it sent to my tent please, Bert,’ said Gottswain. The boy nodded then dashed away down a nearby row of tents. Gottswain turned to Erhardt. ‘A good lad, him.’ ‘I think he’s just pleased to work for the Carroburgs. His father is a blacksmith from my village and heard that I’d made the regiment. He paid a scribe what must have been a fortune to write me a letter begging to get Bert assigned to the unit. I was impressed by his sacrifice and I’ve been looking out for the boy ever since.’ A distant horn-call cut through the air. Gottswain looked up, ears pricked. The sound was coming from the direction they’d just come. ‘They’re sounding the attack? There’s no enemy left to fight.’ ‘They seem to think there is,’ said Erhardt grimly. He set off in a run, shouting back over his shoulder. ‘Get the men!’ Erhardt got to the scene of the commotion just in time to see a giant creature slam into Doktor Prolmann’s tent, tearing it from its moorings. For one almost comical moment the canvas seemed to move of its own volition as the beast within was blinded. Then, with a horrendous tearing sound, it burst free, knocking aside two terrified swordsmen. Erhardt could barely see the beast as it moved past the flickering torches. An eerie purple glow emanated from two points within its hulking form, points that seemed to move at random so that its gaze fell first one way, than another. A trio of halberdiers charged the beast, sinking their weapons deep into its side. A hideous roar bellowed out of some hidden mouth, then the creature shrugged off the blows and was upon them, tearing the men to pieces. ‘Where did that monster come from?’ asked a voice beside him. It was Gottswain. He wore only his under-armour padding, but held a zweihander easily across his shoulder. Erhardt wondered the same thing. Had the creature torn its way through half the army to get to the surgeons’ tents? It made no sense. Surely the alarm would have been raised long before now. ‘Where are the men?’ ‘Mostly drunk,’ Gottswain confessed with a shrug. ‘We’ll have to do this on our own.’ The beast bellowed again and lumbered towards the line of stretchers. Those wounded who could rise under their own strength had already fled the area, leaving those who couldn’t to fend for themselves. ‘Where’s your armour?’ Erhardt demanded. Gottswain spat. ‘I didn’t have time to put it on. You needed my help.’ ‘How long do you think you can last against that beast without armour? I can at least slow it down long enough for you to return with reinforcements.’ Erhardt drew his blade. ‘Go. That’s an order.’ Gottswain’s eyes glittered darkly, but he disappeared into the darkness. Erhardt breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been worried that Gottswain was going to disobey yet another order, except this time his disobedience would probably have proven fatal. The creature moved towards the stretchers in a kind of tumbling roll. Screams cut through the night as it moved amongst the wounded. Hoping he wasn’t too late, Erhardt charged the beast. Purplish eyes reoriented to track this new threat, but it was too late. Erhardt leaped on top of an overturned crate, then at the beast itself, swinging his zweihander in an overhead arc. Flesh parted before his blade and dark blood squirted across his breastplate. The creature roared and its bulk shifted. Instead of turning to face him, it simply reoriented those two glowing points of purplish light until the orbs glared at the small man who’d hurt it. Morrslieb, the Chaos Moon, emerged from behind the rainclouds and the camp was illuminated by its sickly green light. For a brief second, Erhardt saw the beast as a twisted mass of flesh and bone. The foetid smell of offal and viscera was almost overwhelming but, taking advantage of the light, he shifted his grip on his zweihander and put his weight behind a thrust. His blade struck something solid, and dark blood poured down the length of the steel. Overcoming his disgust, Erhardt twisted his sword, then put his shoulder behind the blow to try and stab even deeper. Heedless of the pain, the beast impaled itself further on Erhardt’s weapon. Its bulk slammed into him with enormous force and he fought to maintain his grip on his sword. Something tore at his helmet and he could hear metal scream as the visor bent and distorted under the beast’s weight. His boots dug furrows in the muddy earth as he was borne back. Terror welled up in him at the realisation that he would soon be crushed beneath its weight. From somewhere behind him a score of thundercracks echoed in the night and Erhardt felt the passage of hot lead close by. A voice that might have belonged to Gottswain bellowed, ‘Hold your fire, by Sigmar! You’ll kill the commander!’ He felt the beast shudder, once twice. Light shifted and danced around Erhardt as dozens of sword blows drove the creature back. Its grip on his blade weakened and then broke, but Erhardt was unrelenting. He thrust deeper, trying to hit something vital. Screams sounded out all around him, some from the creature, and some from the swordsmen who fought it. Suddenly, its bulk shifted again and Erhardt felt it pull away. He could see now that a score of pistoliers had formed up in double ranks and were pouring lead shot into it as fast as they could reload. Greatswords, Gottswain at their head, had begun streaming out of gaps between the tents, and though the beast was enormous, it couldn’t fight so many. With a moan, it reared backwards, those glowing purple eyes playing across its surface, looking from the pistoliers to the Greatswords, and back again. Finally, it twisted away and fled through the tents with frightening speed. ‘After it, men!’ cried Erhardt. Though the camp was on high alert, there was still the possibility, however remote, that it could break free and disappear into hills. Erhardt could not let that happen. Ignoring the possibility of an ambush, he ran after the creature, catching sight of it moving between the tents and terrified camp followers. While Erhardt was forced to avoid the laundry lines and cook fires, somehow it passed right over them without slowing, without any loss of momentum. It wasn’t long before Erhardt lost sight of it and had to rely on the cries of alarm its passage provoked to track it. Soon even these disappeared. He came upon a group of soldiers who were just pulling themselves out of their bedrolls and grabbing up their weapons. ‘Which way did it go?’ he shouted at them, breathlessly. ‘Which way did what go?’ asked a dumbstruck pikeman. He’d seen Erhardt’s gore-covered armour and clearly recognised him as one of the legendary Carroburgs. Erhardt stared into the darkness in frustration. How could a beast of that size have eluded him? He turned back to the pikeman. ‘Gather your men and search the periphery of the camp.’ ‘Aye, sir,’ he replied as Erhardt turned and jogged back the way he’d come. ‘But pray, what are we searching for?’ Erhardt cursed and then listened for more shouts of alarm, but though the camp was filled with bellowing sergeants and the rattle of weapons, he could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that sounded like men repelling an attack at any rate. Gottswain emerged from the darkness ahead of him, sword drawn. ‘Where did it go?’ Erhardt grimaced in frustration. ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t that far ahead of me, but it just disappeared.’ Gottswain’s jawline hardened. ‘We’re still close to the centre of camp. It can’t have escaped.’ Erhardt craned his neck, trying to see between the tents. It was as if the Ruinous Powers had reached down from the heavens and swept the beast into some hidden realm of Chaos. ‘We do a full sweep of the camp,’ he said. ‘It can’t have gone far.’ ‘Erhardt. Commander Erhardt.’ The voice that called through the crowd of soldiers sounded gravelly and strained, as if its owner were in some pain. Erhardt was in the middle of a swarm of men, issuing orders to search the camp in groups of half a dozen soldiers – no tent was to be left undisturbed, no stone unturned. Even through the throng, Erhardt could guess at the identity of the man who called for him, simply by the way the others grew quiet. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his face, but he was well armed: the hilt of an enamelled longsword jutted out from his belt, and two pistols hung from a leather cord around his neck. The twin-tailed comet on his breastplate only confirmed Erhardt’s suspicions. ‘Knight Templar Keller,’ he said, struggling to mask his distaste. ‘You’ve run out of little old ladies to burn at the stake in Kemperbad, then?’ ‘Is that an impious tone I hear in your voice?’ asked Keller sharply. He had no need to push his way through the crowd of soldiers – they simply melted away before him, finding other, more important things to do, or remembering urgent appointments elsewhere. ‘I hear that you had contact with a creature of Chaos today. Extended contact.’ The threat was ill-disguised, but they both knew it was relatively toothless. The Carroburgs had turned the tide of the battle earlier in the day, and Erhardt himself had charged the beast that had attacked the camp by night while others were running for their lives. ‘You are aware that the creature escaped, are you not?’ he said scornfully. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your customary position at the rear of the army?’ ‘Yes, I am aware that you failed to capture it,’ Keller snapped. Dawn was beginning to break over the hills to the east, and his breath misted the air. He removed his gloves, tucking them under one arm, and looked around at the clutter of broken stretchers and collapsed tents. ‘Eisenschalz,’ he called over his shoulder to a blond-haired lieutenant. ‘Seal off this area. Gather all the witnesses and put them to the question.’ Erhardt felt himself redden. ‘Seal off the area? How can my men conduct an effective search if they can’t leave the area without your permission?’ ‘I’ve been told that the beast disappeared without a trace in the centre of the camp.’ One of Keller’s aides brought him a steaming cup of tea, which the witch hunter cupped in his hands for warmth before blowing upon its surface. When he spoke again, it was almost absently, as if he addressed the mug and Erhardt simply overheard. ‘How can such a thing occur without the aid of seditious and traitorous Chaos worshippers within our ranks?’ ‘It was dark,’ said Erhardt defensively, ‘and it had already killed most of the soldiers in the area.’ To tell the truth, he wondered the same thing himself. A creature that large could only have found a limited number of places to hide. A search of the wagons was ongoing, but had been so far fruitless – limited by the fact that he was reluctant to commit to smaller search parties for fear that the beast would pick them off one by one. ‘Nevertheless, rooting out Chaos worshippers is within my jurisdiction,’ said Keller. He took a sip of tea, grimaced in disgust, and then poured it onto the ground. He handed the cup back to Eisenschalz with a look that threatened untold misery if he were ever again given such an inferior offering, and then turned back to Erhardt. ‘You are relieved of command.’ Erhardt bristled. He had fought the northmen to a standstill and, in the same night, risked his life against a beast of Chaos. Now this witch hunter thought he could simply swoop in and take over? ‘What does General Schalbourg have to say about this?’ he demanded. ‘General Schalbourg left camp hours ago to investigate reports of more troops to the north,’ said Keller. ‘You are welcome to send a messenger after him, but until he returns you are required to obey me. Anything less than full obedience will be regarded as heretical behaviour, warranting summary punishment.’ To signal that the conversation was over, Keller turned his back on Erhardt, ordering his men to spread out through the surgeons’ tents. Erhardt resented the casual dismissal, but before he could say anything the witch hunter might later use against him, he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. ‘It’s not worth it,’ said Gottswain. It was a tribute to his swordsmanship that the big Nordlander had sustained only minor wounds pulling Erhardt out of the clutches of the beast. He had only four red scratches down his cheek, as if he’d been clawed by a scorned wench and not a two-ton beast of Chaos. ‘Let them have their fun. We’ll get some rest, then seek the beast out with fresh eyes on the morrow.’ Erhardt glared at the retreating witch hunter with something close to hatred, and then nodded. ‘That we will, Herr Gottswain. That we will.’ Despite his anger, there didn’t seem to be too much Erhardt could do. The witch hunters argued that the Chaos beast wouldn’t reappear until nightfall, and then only when Morrslieb reared its greenish outline over the horizon. Both he and Gottswain had been up for more than twenty-four hours and participated in two battles. He had to admit that it would be prudent to face the beast again only after snatching a few hours’ sleep. Bert met him at the entrance to the camp. The boy’s hair looked dishevelled and his muddy cheeks were streaked with pink. Though he’d done his best to hide it, he’d obviously been crying. ‘What’s wrong, Bert?’ asked Erhardt. ‘It’s Commander Toft, sir. Sergeant Pieter found his body after the attack. He’s dead.’ Erhardt felt a deep sadness at the news. In spite of the night’s events, Toft had been something of a father to him. To all of the men, in fact – it would be a sad day indeed in the Carroburg camp. ‘Don’t worry, lad. He’s dining in Sigmar’s longhouse now.’ Though the platitude felt empty, the boy seemed to take some comfort from it as he guided Erhardt to his tent. It took Bert some minutes to help him out of his armour, then he disappeared with a promise to try and buff out some of the dents and to wake up Erhardt at sundown. Almost as soon as he left, Erhardt collapsed into his bedroll. Years of soldiering had given him the ability to sleep anywhere at any time, and though a military camp during the day was a cacophony of sound and the canvas of his tent did little to keep out the light, he knew enough to stuff his ears with cloth and make do. Soon, he was snoozing fitfully. When he awoke again, it was dark outside. He swore, and then headed out in only his armour padding to find another runner to help with his plate, which he donned as quickly as possible. As soon as the last leather strap was tightened, he went off in search of Gottswain. He found the huge Nordlander in the mess tent, eating salted meat from a trencher with his fingers. ‘Have you seen Bert? He was supposed to wake me.’ Gottswain swallowed, and then wiped grease from his chin. ‘I just woke up, myself. He’s somewhere around camp I suspect. I can never keep track of the runners.’ Erhardt sat, and signalled the cooks. One of the advantages of being an officer was that one could have one’s food delivered, often straight to the command tent. Toft, however, had enjoyed eating with the men and it was a tradition that Erhardt intended to continue. A plate of ham and cheese with a few wilted string beans on the side landed in front of him within moments. ‘Any word on the creature?’ he asked Gottswain. ‘Keller has rounded up every wounded man in the army, anyone who might have been in the vicinity of Prolmann’s tent, and begun interrogating them.’ Gottswain tore off another chunk of meat then stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Not to any measure of success, so I hear.’ Erhardt shook his head. Keller’s methods were famously brutal. ‘We need to find that monster before the witch hunters do any more damage. A beast that large cannot hide forever.’ It was difficult to recognise the area that had once been reserved for the surgeons’ tents. The Order of Sigmar had cleared out a wide area and brought in lumber from other parts of the camp in order to construct a crude gallows, from which the bodies of Empire soldiers already swung. Men displaying the twin-tailed comet on their breastplates balanced bowls of salt on their hips, spreading thick handfuls onto the ground to make sure that nothing could grow on soil they deemed tainted. Elsewhere, torturers seized red-hot brands from iron baskets that dotted the area and pressed them into wounds that good fighting men had suffered battling the forces of Chaos, men whose only crime was to have been present when a Chaos beast had attacked. The smell of blood and burning flesh hung thickly in the air. The sight of so much suffering sickened Erhardt. They’d already lost too many men to the forces of Chaos, and now Keller’s brutality was destroying the army from the inside. If Erhardt had his way, the Knight Templar would be hanging from his own gallows. He had half reached for the hilt of his zweihander before Gottswain interjected. ‘Remember, commander, that I am the impulsive one,’ he said calmly. The warning was effective, and Erhardt forced himself to relax. The only thing he could gain by storming into a gathering of witch hunters was a charge of heresy and a quick trip to the gaol. ‘Agreed. Let us find this beast before that butcher takes any more lives.’ Together, they circled around the area the witch hunters had already searched. Normally a unit was considered lucky to secure a spot to pitch their tents near the supply train, but most had quickly relocated once the Order of Sigmar had arrived, leaving behind a wide swath of crushed grass and a few soot-stained fire pits. Gottswain and Erhardt bypassed these and headed towards the area where they’d first seen the beast. Nothing was left of Prolmann’s tent but a few broken surgical devices. Everything else was gone; not so much as a crushed vial had been left behind. That in itself was strange – surely the witch hunters would have left much of Prolmann’s paraphernalia where it lay? Where were his personal belongings? Erhardt called over Gottswain. ‘Do you remember if the good doktor was listed among the dead?’ Gottswain shrugged. ‘I’ve got no head for lists, but I don’t remember his name coming up. You think he had something to do with this?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Erhardt squinted into the darkness. Maybe Prolmann had met his end when the monster attacked – or maybe not. He pursed his lips and nudged the churned earth with the toe of his boot. ‘Why did it attack here first?’ A few feet away, Gottswain cursed, then bent and scraped dirt away from something that reflected torchlight. He pulled Prolmann’s long amputation knife out of the dirt. ‘Obviously, the good doktor was not as thorough as he thought,’ he said, handing the blade to Erhardt. Erhardt tucked it into his belt. It wasn’t a lead, but it did tell them that Prolmann had left in some haste. ‘If you were a doktor on the run, where would you go?’ ‘To the nearest inn,’ said Gottswain with a smirk. ‘What? Doktor or no, that’s where I’d be.’ ‘You’re a great help,’ said Erhardt wryly. Lacking a better idea, he chose the opposite direction to the attack and strode towards a few tents where priestesses of Shallya administered what aid they could to victims of the beast. One priestess sat on a log outside a nearby tent spooning gruel from a wooden bowl. Her hand shook and her face was drawn and haggard-looking. Her brown hair was clasped behind her head, but it had the look of straw to it that spoke of severe undernourishment. Erhardt guessed that she carried the weight of many souls upon her back. She set aside her gruel and rose when the two Greatswords approached. ‘Evening, sirs. Have you need of the goddess’s aid?’ Erhardt nodded into the night. ‘It’s cold out here tonight. You should be making the most of the warmth inside.’ She blushed guiltily. ‘Sometimes the cries of dying men...’ She paused, realising that what she was saying was not quite right. ‘I find the night air gives me the courage I need to help them once more.’ ‘We all need whatever courage we can muster on a night like this,’ said Erhardt. She nodded, grateful that he’d caught her meaning. ‘I should be getting back.’ Erhardt was about to let her go when the tent flap was pushed aside and two rough-looking men emerged, carrying a stretcher bearing a third. The man in the stretcher was missing an arm, and judging from the pallor of his skin, he’d lost so much blood that even the goddess couldn’t restore him. The two men set the stretcher down just outside the tent and, casting a few suspicious looks at Erhardt and Gottswain, disappeared back inside. ‘Do the priests of Morr collect the dead from you when they pass?’ he asked the priestess, staring at the body on the stretcher. ‘Yes. We ask that they limit their visits to avoid scaring the wounded, but they do come.’ He found himself staring at the dead man’s arm stump. ‘What about the limbs?’ The priestess looked back into the tent, as if she felt she’d spent too much time away from the wounded already. ‘We don’t perform amputations, but I understand there is a limb pit not too far from here where the doktors dispose of them.’ ‘A limb pit?’ ‘Yes. When a soldier dies from his wounds, the limb is interred with him. When the soldier lives, something must be done with it.’ With that, the priestess begged his pardon and ducked back into the tent, leaving her gruel behind. Gottswain watched her disappear, and then nudged her wooden bowl with his toe. ‘You never did have much of a way with the wenches, did you?’ Erhardt shrugged. ‘I suppose the idea of a limb pit disturbs her. Sigmar knows it disturbs me. Still, it might be our best chance to find this beast.’ ‘By all means then,’ Gottswain said, testing his zweihander in its scabbard. ‘Let’s go find it.’ They were able to locate the limb pit by the stench, and the swarm of biting flies that ringed it. The night air was thick with them, swirling clouds that buzzed frantically in the air above the amputated limbs. The pit itself was ringed by torches set, Erhardt guessed, to provide enough illumination that no one would accidentally mistake its purpose. There was no telling how deep it was, but it was at least twenty feet across and filled with dozens of rotting limbs: legs and arms of every description – some naked, some partially clothed or tied off with scraps of blood-soaked bandage. The smell was awful enough that they had to cover their mouths and noses. A lone figure worked at one side, next to a heaped pile of dirt. He had a shovel in his hands and was doing his best to fill in the pit. A small man, his actions were frantic and panicked, and his shirt was sodden with mud and sweat. ‘Now there’s an undertaker who earns his pay,’ Gottswain mumbled through the sleeve of his tunic. ‘That’s no undertaker,’ replied Erhardt. He raised his voice. ‘Doktor Prolmann, I presume?’ The figure looked up sharply and his hood fell back, revealing the small, balding man with the wrinkled face who’d treated Toft. His eyes widened when he saw their dwarf-forged plate, then he hurled the shovel at them and ran into the darkness. ‘I’ll get him!’ shouted Gottswain as he raced after the doktor. Erhardt was about to pursue when he noticed something that brought him to a halt. The limb pit was moving. The movement was slight at best, but as he circled the lip of the pit, the limbs rose and fell like a living tide. Erhardt peered deeper, and gasped – the bulk of the thrashing, lumbering Chaos beast that had ravaged the camp was unmistakable in the rotting, stinking depths. He looked to the horizon, remembering the witch hunters’ prediction about the rising of Morrslieb. They knew a thing or two about Chaos, he had to give them that. Hesitantly, he drew Prolmann’s amputation knife. In the pit, dozens of clawing, dead hands lifted towards it, but the beast did not arise. ‘Oh yes,’ he said to himself. ‘You remember this, don’t you...’ There was a shout, and then Gottswain emerged from the darkness with the doktor in tow. The tiny man struggled furiously, but could not break free from Gottswain’s powerful grip. The sight of the doktor sickened Erhardt. The little weasel had fled the beast, and then tried to cover up his crimes. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me that digging in the dead of night is good for your health,’ he spat. Prolmann ceased trying to escape, instead shrinking in on himself until he looked about half his normal size. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’ Gottswain twisted Prolmann’s wrist, eliciting a squeal. ‘I say we toss him in the pit. What do you reckon, boss?’ Prolmann looked as if he were about to protest again, but in the face of two angry Greatswords, he deflated. ‘Look, you have to understand, during the course of a large battle, I see hundreds of wounded men. Some of them are so horribly maimed that the scouts are unable to determine whose side they were on. Inevitably, I end up treating some small number of enemy soldiers.’ ‘And you were worried you’d draw the ire of the witch hunters?’ asked Erhardt. Prolmann shook his head. ‘No. Most of them make allowances, provided you follow procedure. Once treated, Chaosmen are to be separated out from our own soldiers for purgation.’ ‘And you failed to do this?’ asked Gottswain with a shake. ‘No,’ replied Erhardt as he gazed out over the limb pit. ‘I believe he did. But there was one thing he forgot to separate.’ ‘They were just arms, legs. Not whole men. How could I know...?’ ‘Just arms and legs?’ asked Gottswain, grimly. ‘Those arms and legs killed our commander and dozens of men besides.’ Prolmann went white and began shaking uncontrollably. Erhardt felt some pity for him. Though his laziness had brought about an unimaginable horror, his crime was not deliberate. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll take him to Keller. Let the witch hunters figure out an appropriate punishment.’ ‘What about the pit?’ ‘We have perhaps an hour before the rising of Morrslieb. We’ll come back and burn it.’ Gottswain and Erhardt found Keller in the midst of his devices of misery, standing before a giant brass bull. The statue was larger than a man, and a fire had been lit beneath it, heating the metal to a cherry-red glow. When they arrived, Erhardt thought the bull was actually lowing, but he soon realised to his horror that there was someone within slowly being cooked to death. Cleverly shaped tubes in the snout of the statue had been designed specifically to make the victim’s screams sound like bellowing cattle. ‘I thought I had you banned from the area, Herr Erhardt,’ said Keller, staring intently at the brass bull. Erhardt couldn’t decide which enraged him more, the bastard’s self-satisfied smirk, or his failure to address him by his title. ‘It’s Commander Erhardt, until Schalbourg says differently.’ He appeared to have attracted Keller’s attention. The witch hunter turned, his eyes falling on Prolmann. ‘What have you brought me, commander?’ ‘We’ve only done your bloody job for you, you damned peacock,’ growled Gottswain as he cast the doktor at Keller’s feet. After they relayed Prolmann’s story, Keller expressed mock regret with a shrug. ‘All this appears to have been unnecessary then.’ He turned to the man feeding the fire beneath the bull. ‘Free the prisoner.’ The fire was quickly scattered and Keller’s servant hauled upon a lever at the statue’s base with a thick leather glove, opening a trap door in its belly. A blackened body with singed blond hair tumbled out, landing hard on the ground. Its skin was seared on its palms and knees, and its eyeballs had melted out of their sockets, painting two shining streaks down its cheeks. ‘Apologies, Commander Erhardt,’ said Keller with a shrug. ‘I had to be sure you weren’t a part of this.’ The comment caught Erhardt off guard. What was Keller apologising for? He stared down at the small body in confusion for some seconds before he realised who it was. It was young Bert. Beside him Gottswain made a terrifying sound that was a mixture of sob and roar. He lunged at Keller, throwing him with bone-jarring force into the side of the bull. Perhaps the witch hunter had been expecting some kind of attack, but Gottswain’s speed and strength were surprising. As hard as he’d been hit, Keller was on his feet in an eyeblink, pistol drawn. Erhardt was only a heartbeat behind, putting his shoulder into Gottswain’s chest to restrain him. The Nordlander was incensed, his strength driving Erhardt back. ‘It’s not worth it, Kord,’ he growled, repeating Gottswain’s advice from the first time the witch hunter had defied them. ‘He’s not worth it.’ Somehow, that got through to the big Greatsword and he gradually began to come to his senses. Nonetheless, Keller was furious. ‘I’ll see you swing for that,’ he yelled. Erhardt held out his hand to keep them apart. ‘Surely, he deserves punishment, but we have only minutes until Morrslieb rises and the creature is upon us once more. Let us discuss this when the beast is dead.’ Keller considered this and then stared hard at the horizon, where the first greenish glow was making itself apparent. ‘Fine. We go,’ he spat. Then his eyes found Gottswain’s. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ Keller quickly gathered a score of witch hunters and as much timber and oil as they could carry. Once they were assembled, Erhardt and Gottswain led them back through the camp to the limb pit. Gottswain was still enraged, but managed to restrain himself at Erhardt’s urging until they were far enough ahead to be out of earshot. ‘He killed Bert,’ he said urgently once they were clear. ‘Bert, who never said a rough word to anyone. You can’t let him walk away from that!’ Though Erhardt had been responsible for the death of many men under his command, Bert’s death weighed most heavily upon his heart. He’d failed in his promise to the boy’s father to look after his son. That Keller had done it for no other reason than to spite him made the pain even worse. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he said angrily. And it was true. Keller was a Knight Templar of the Order of Sigmar. Merely to discuss causing him harm was heretical, and heresy was a crime punishable by death. When they finally reached the pit, the witch hunters spread around its edge and began laying out their materials – torches, coal, and barrels of flammable oil. Erhardt remained where he was, petulantly refusing to help. He knew they had mere minutes until the Chaos Moon broke the horizon, but still he did nothing. Maybe he wanted a fight. Maybe he wanted to take out all the rage and pain he felt on something, and if that something was a Chaos beast, so much the better. Gottswain, too, remained silent, lost in thought. Erhardt was grateful the big man hadn’t tried anything rash. The Knight Templar stood apart from the others, outside the ring of torches, preferring – Erhardt knew – to lead from behind. Not wanting to let the man out of his sight, Erhardt joined him in the shadows. They remained silent for a while, observing the preparations. Finally, the witch hunter spoke. ‘Thank you for the assistance with your man, earlier.’ Erhardt had trouble containing his surprise. Was Keller actually thanking him? ‘It wasn’t for your sake, I can assure you. Gottswain is a capable fighter, and I didn’t want him to go to the gallows over someone like you.’ Keller remained quiet, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. When he spoke again, it was with a note of regret. ‘Still, I admire your courage. I’m no coward, but I could never throw myself in the face of danger like you do.’ Erhardt studied Keller. What was this about? Was Keller looking for some kind of sympathy or was he playing a more subtle game? Either was possible. The man was a monster. He could not shake the image of poor Bert, just a few summers shy of his first beard, frying inside that bull. The screams hadn’t ceased until well after they’d arrived, meaning Keller must have continued to let the boy cook while they spoke. It enraged him that the monster who’d tortured an innocent boy to death was now asking for sympathy. He had to look away, simply to avoid throttling him on the spot. His gaze settled once more on the pit, and an idea came to him. ‘I have a confession to make,’ he told Keller, struggling to keep the hatred out of his voice. ‘We have discovered the beast’s weakness.’ Keller’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh?’ ‘Prolmann’s amputation knife. The beast fears it.’ ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ Erhardt shrugged. ‘Like you, I too am sometimes afraid, and I believed the knife would protect me against the beast.’ He turned to Keller and looked him in the eye. ‘Gottswain’s actions have forced me to reconsider. I would like to make you a deal: the knife for the life of my man.’ He drew the blade out of his belt pouch and handed it to Keller. The witch hunter studied it critically. ‘A crude weapon at best.’ Erhardt made to take the knife back, but Keller closed his fist around the handle. ‘If this is an implement of Chaos, then it is my duty to see that it is destroyed.’ ‘And Gottswain?’ ‘Your man will get what’s coming to him,’ snarled Keller before striding towards the pit, ‘and you’re lucky I don’t report you for possessing it!’ Erhardt watched him go, then as quietly as he could, he stole around the edge of the circle of torches until he stood next to Gottswain. ‘I think you’d better step back,’ he said. Gottswain shook his head. ‘What?’ A cry came, and one of the witch hunters pointed into the sky. ‘We’re too late! The Chaos Moon rises!’ As the man tossed a burning brand into the pit, a sickly purplish glow erupted from its depths. Scores of limbs began to churn like a whirlpool as the force that had awakened knit them together. Despite himself, Keller stumbled backwards, his hand clutching Prolmann’s knife. The Chaos beast rose slowly before him: huge and dark and terrible. Up and up it heaved, expanding until it seemed to blot out the night sky. For perhaps the first time in his career, Keller confronted Chaos directly. But only for a moment. Then he screamed and ran. Before he could take more than a single step, the beast enfolded him in its embrace, completely covering him in thrashing limbs. Death was not instant. The Chaos beast was incredibly powerful, but each limb bore only the strength of the soldier to whom it had originally belonged. Human hands tipped with sharp nails tore at the witch hunter, leaving deep gouges in his skin, but it was a death by inches. As Keller’s screams grew louder and more frantic, they reminded Erhardt of the cries that had emanated from the brass bull. It was a satisfying thought. With the other witch hunters too stunned by their commander’s death to intervene, it wasn’t until there was nothing left of Keller but a bunch of torn meat that Gottswain finally drew his zweihander. ‘Why do I get the impression you knew that would happen?’ Erhardt shrugged and drew his own blade. ‘Call it a gift from Doktor Prolmann.’ Moving like a centipede, the Chaos beast turned to face them, a hundred hands opening and closing as it awaited their charge. On the other side of the creature, several witch hunters hacked at it with their swords, but it seemed able to fight any number of them at the same time and they made little progress. It was the Greatswords’ mighty zweihanders it feared. Gottswain charged in with the force of a thunderbolt, a sweep of his blade showering the ground around him with severed limbs and sour gore. Instantly, he was enfolded, just as Keller had been, by dozens of tearing limbs. But instead of lurching away, Gottswain expertly twisted his body, letting the creature’s hands slide against his plate, then used his momentum to slash again. Erhardt hit the beast a moment later. His attack was more nuanced then the Nordlander’s – he struck hard then danced backwards out of reach. It was hard to tell whose style was more effective. On other side of the Chaos beast, he heard a hideous scream as one of the witch hunters was torn apart. The creature lurched backwards, then stopped as more soldiers poured into the clearing. Perhaps, thought Erhardt as he dodged another attack and returned one of his own, the beast was trying to escape? Impossible. Though it had fled once already, that had been because of the setting of the Chaos Moon. Morrslieb had only just broken the horizon. Curious, he disengaged, then leapt atop the pile of earth. From this vantage point, it was easy to spot what had drawn the beast’s attention – the tents of the priestesses of Shallya. With every man the Chaos beast killed, its own bulk increased. Dozens of wounded would make for easy prey, and make the monster unstoppable. The process was happening even now. As it killed the witch hunters, it consumed their bodies and absorbed their flesh into its own. Sending more soldiers into the battle would be a mistake. But what else could they do? ‘Fire the pit!’ he yelled to a nearby sergeant. ‘Gottswain! We’ve got to drive it back!’ ‘Then get down here and give me a hand!’ yelled the Nordlander from the ground. Erhardt laughed and took his advice, charging into the creature’s flank. He thrust deeply with his zweihander, trying to attack that fleshy centre he’d felt during the first attack. Hands clawed at his helmet visor, blotting out his vision and deafening him with the sound of ragged nails scraping against steel. He thrust again, following five feet of steel deep into the creature’s body. Finally, his blade jarred to a halt and that dark flood poured over his hands once more. An inhuman scream sounded from all around him and the creature reared backwards. The two Greatswords had managed to push it back to the very brink of the pit. Now Gottswain’s expert swordsmanship came into play. Instead of slashing wildly, his zweihander snickered out, cutting precisely into the limbs that the creature was using to hang onto the edge. Behind them, several frightened witch hunters had hurled torches into the pit, but the coal was slow to catch without sufficient kindling. Thinking quickly, Erhardt cast around and spotted one of the barrels of oil the witch hunters had stacked on the pit’s edge. He ran over and hacked into it with his zweihander, spilling the contents. A swift kick knocked it into the pit, just as the beast caught hold of Gottswain’s sword by the blade – though the edge cut deep, more limbs tore it from the Nordlander’s grasp. The monster snatched up the now disarmed Greatsword just as it began to topple, and the oil-fuelled flames burst up from the depths. Yanked to his knees, Gottswain scrabbled backwards, but another of the beast’s grasping hands grabbed onto the edge of his breastplate and dragged him in. Too far away to help his fellow soldier, Erhardt spotted something in the dirt next to Gottswain that glinted in the light of the fire. It was Prolmann’s blade, half-buried where Keller had dropped it. ‘Gottswain! The knife!’ he called, pointing frantically into the dirt. Gottswain quickly glanced down and the distraction was almost lethal. Oil had covered the beast’s flank and it was aflame. The Greatsword slid perilously close to the edge, scrabbling in the dirt. Letting out a desperate cry as he lunged, he caught hold of Prolmann’s blade and brought it down hard on the fingers holding onto his breastplate, severing them. As Gottswain scrambled clear, with a final scream of frustration the Chaos beast collapsed, whatever foul magic that had animated it finally giving out as the flames bit deep into its corrupted flesh. Hours later, when the smoke and the reek of charred flesh finally cleared, there was nothing but ash at the bottom of the pit. Still the witch hunters stood by, watchful as their acolytes scattered salt over the embers. After the last spark had gone out, Gottswain pushed aside the flap of the command tent and cleared his throat. Erhardt sat behind Toft’s desk, a quill in his hand. Though he had yet to wash off the grime of combat, he had taken the time to fill out a detailed report, leaving out only the mention of Prolmann’s knife. However much Keller was hated, a Knight Templar of the Order of Sigmar had died tonight and difficult questions would be asked. ‘Some of the boys smuggled a priest of Morr past the guards,’ said Gottswain. ‘They didn’t feel right about Bert not having his prayers.’ ‘Good.’ Erhardt said nothing more. Gottswain hesitated, not knowing if he was being dismissed. ‘So... commander of the Carroburg Greatswords, eh? The men will be pleased. They like you.’ Then, straightening, he corrected himself. ‘They respect you, sir.’ Erhardt dipped his quill into the inkwell, then signed his name and tossed a pinch of sand onto the document to help it set. ‘I’m only commander until Altdorf. Toft wanted someone else in command after we reach the capital.’ Gottswain frowned and scratched his head. ‘Toft died without relaying that order to Schalbourg. As far as the general knows, you’re it.’ ‘Nevertheless,’ muttered Erhardt. The big Greatsword shook his head in confusion. If he lived to see a hundred summers, he’d likely never understand. As far as he was concerned, a promise to a dead man was no promise at all. He clearly knew enough to keep that thought silent, though, and turned to leave. ‘Sergeant,’ said Erhardt. Gottswain was no sergeant, but there was no one else within earshot, so he stopped and faced Erhardt once more. The new commander smiled. ‘We’re not going to Altdorf quite yet, sergeant. Tell the men we break camp at dawn. The messengers say General Schalbourg has discovered a grand army of ogres heading for the capital. Tomorrow, we march to battle!’