Empire (The Legend of Sigmar Book 1) by Graham McNeill

Author:Graham McNeill [McNeill, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2010-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

The Battle of Brass Keep

The dead were silent, no battle cries or bellows to a watching god for strength of arm or divine protection. Somehow that was worse. When man fought man there was hatred and anger, emotions that both clouded the mind and granted strength, but these abominations fought with none of that. They came towards the army of men with singular determination, their rotten meat faces and skeletal grins terrible, giving each warrior a glimpse of the fate that awaited them should they fall.

Sigmar knew of no other way to lead his warriors save by example, and he lifted Ghal-maraz high as he charged towards the living dead.

‘For Ulric and the wolves of the north!’ he proclaimed.

The White Wolves followed him, howling like their namesakes, their hammers swinging. Pendrag’s Count’s Guard charged the enemy with their greatswords held high, shouting oaths that would make a Jutonsryk docker blush. The Middenland warriors on the left each shouted their own battle cry and then slammed into the decaying creatures spilling from the tumbled ruins of the towers.

A skeletal warrior stabbed a spear at Sigmar, but the thrust was slow, and he smashed his hammer down on the fleshless skull. The creature dropped, its bones falling apart as the power holding it together was undone. Another came at him, but he spun away from its attack and smashed its ribcage to splinters with an overhand sweep. The White Wolves fought all around him, their hammers breaking bones and skulls with every blow.

The dead were no match for these brave warriors, but there seemed no end to them. As each creature fell, two or more pushed forward to take its place. Shambling creatures with pallid skin sloughing from their bones crawled from the wreckage of the city, and Sigmar saw hundreds more climbing the ruins beneath the ice towards the surface.

A rusted lance hooked around his pauldron and hauled him off balance. He swung Ghal-maraz and crushed the pelvis of the lance wielder, but his feet slipped on the ice. Sigmar landed heavily, and no sooner was he down than the dead were upon him. Axes and swords chopped downwards with mechanical precision, and he rolled and blocked to keep them from him.

He kicked out, breaking legs and kneecaps, but still they came on. A spear jabbed downwards and skidded from his breastplate as a bony foot stamped down on his face. He twisted aside and swung his hammer in a wide arc, splintering thighs and creating some space around himself.

‘Here!’ shouted Redwane, holding his hand out. The White Wolf had slung his hammer, but still held Sigmar’s banner aloft. Sigmar gripped Redwane’s wrist and hauled himself upright, careful not to spill them both to the ice.

‘My thanks,’ said Sigmar. ‘Lost my balance.’

‘So I saw. Lots of them, eh?’

‘Too many for you?’ asked Sigmar.

‘Never,’ grinned Redwane, unhooking his hammer and plunging back into the fray.

Pale light, evil and suffused with emerald, bathed the fighting in a lambent glow. A flickering radiance seemed to dance around the blades of each warrior, both living and dead.

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