The End Times | Marienburg's Stand

Dusk

Marienburg’s south-facing walls were tall and thick, as throughout her brief dalliance with sovereignty she had feared her powerful southern neighbour more than she ever had the reavers of the distant north. How provincial that seemed to Caspar Vosberger now as he saw the banners of Carroburg borne along the Altdorf Road from the south gate and kicked his horse into a wild canter towards the gate. The terrified black stallion clattered down the cobbled road. The scent of death filled the poor beast’s nostrils and it shied at intervals to evade the corpses strewn over the street. Most of the bodies looked years old – they were rotten, some covered in plaster or brick dust while others were coated with mud as if they had dug their way out of the marsh. They showed no signs of moving now.

Men and women still alive ran to and fro, carrying their possessions in great bundles, but scattered at the passage of the nobleman and his panicked mount.

When the dead had risen, Caspar had prayed to Sigmar for his deliverance and the man-god of the Empire had spared him. He had to warn the Empire general what he was marching into. More even than that! He had to warn Altdorf before it too shared Marienburg’s fate.

The horse skidded on the cobbles as Caspar pulled it around in a sharp turn, and then reared at the appearance of a figure in the middle of the road who refused to get out of the way. Caspar cursed and hurriedly shortened his grip on the reins as the horse backed up onto hind legs. The animal was a dispatch horse, not a warhorse, and its instinct remained to avoid an obstacle rather than run it down.

‘Out of my way, peasant!’

The man turned drunkenly around and Caspar gasped. He was soaked from his short-trimmed dark hair to his shiny-buckled leather boots. His black damask shirt clung wetly to his narrow frame, torn and stained dark red over the chest and shoulder as if he had been grabbed by a bear. Milky eyes stared blankly through Caspar’s forehead and his head lolled over a savage-looking wound in the side of his neck as he came about. It was Engel van der Zee. Or it had been.

Caspar cried out as the dead man lurched forward and grabbed his knee. He slapped the side of Engel’s head, then emitted a gargling scream as he was dragged from the saddle.

Moaning over his bruised shoulder, Caspar looked up from the cobbles as a second man slid his foot into the horse’s vacated stirrup and swung up into the saddle. His noble face was pale and drawn, his white hair lank against a battered suit of scarlet plate. He took up the reins in hands as bloodless as bone, hunched sideways to shield what looked to be a fatal wound in his shoulder.

‘My gratitude for the horse,’ spoke the man in a deathbed whisper.

‘My lord, I must get away. I must warn our brothers in Altdorf.’

The rider chuckled. River water gurgled from his throat. His expression soured as the Carroburgers’ bugles sounded a warning tattoo. Contact with the enemy made. A series of horn blasts followed, ordering units formed and battle lines drawn. The rider turned his horse back towards the south gate to leave Caspar on his back with van der Zee staring limply on.

‘Powerful forces gather in Altdorf, infant. These vermin have bested the Master of Shadows once. They will not do so again.’