Sigmar's Blood by Phil Kelly

Author:Phil Kelly
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2013-12-24T16:00:00+00:00

DEIHSTEIN RIDGE

The Vale of Darkness, 2522

The wind rustled through the dying oaks of Deihstein Ridge, casting another handful of leaves onto the canopy of the canvas-covered wagon below.

‘Well? What do you wait for?’ asked Exei von Deihst, his thick Strigany urgent and low as he pointed at the witch hunter in the distance. ‘That him, Voytek. I tell you. Take shot.’

The sharpshooter scratched the underside of his stubbly jaw before bellying forward for a better angle. Below their hidden caravan at the side of the road, brightly-uniformed Talabheimers were fighting hard against the von Vassel clan. Eager as ever to prove themselves, the von Vassels had sprung the ambush too early. Still, the outlanders were too preoccupied fending off the ambush to pursue the corpse-laden cart escaping into the distance, let alone pay attention to the von Deihsts.

‘Hush, Exei. I like part where life and death hang in balance,’ grinned Voytek, his hunting rifle’s barrel poking out of the painted canvas of the wagon. ‘Savour it. Second best part of having long gun.’

‘Take shot, Voytek,’ said Alexei, a warning tone in his voice. ‘Pale count will not be happy if Ghorst caught. Feed you to wing-devil.’

‘Be still, little grandmother,’ mocked Voytek. ‘You shake so much you spoil aim.’

‘Voytek. Take shot.’

‘Just…give…second…’ said Voytek as a distinctive witch hunter hat bobbed in his sights. ‘There. Got him.’

The Strigany sharpshooter pulled the trigger.

There was a tremendous crash as the war altar thundered over the crest of the Deihstein Ridge and ploughed into the Strigany caravans hidden by the side of the road. Its colossal weight bundled over two of the hooded wagons just as the crack of a hunting rifle rang out. Two gangly men spilled out of the rear of the larger of the two wagons, screaming in shock as the iron wheels of the war altar ground through one’s midsection and crushed the other’s legs.

Volkmar sounded the Horn of Sigismund as his surprise attack hit home, the brazen roar of the war horn ringing out across the fields. It struck fear into the faithless – like the scum scattering below – and let the Talabheimers know help was on its way.

Heartened by the sound and the sight of the war altar, the Talabheimer state troops attacked with renewed purpose, slashing and stabbing at the dusky horsemen in their midst. Several of the nomads’ horses had bolted at the sound of Volkmar’s war horn, but many more of the Strigany had danced out of reach and taken a position by the side of the wooded ridge, puffs of smoke coming from their rifles.

A great maniacal shriek came from the wooded rise above the road and the Tattersouls spilled into view, hurling themselves from the lip of the ridge like cultists united in a mass suicide pact. Several of the crusaders smacked bodily into the horse nomads, bearing them to the ground before strangling them with their flails, ropes, even dirt-encrusted hands. Many more of the zealots missed their targets and thumped down hard into the muck, writhing as they cried out in an ecstasy of pain.

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