came on, ripping out a great hank of the witch hunter’s hair and nearly scalping him in the process. Through a haze of confusion and pain he could just make out the glinting armour of Blaze’s knights wheeling around through the damp grass. The mist thickened for a moment, and the toll of Ghorst’s bell faded away to be replaced by the thunder of hooves.
As the horses passed by von Korden stumbled back to his feet. Badly winded, bleeding profusely and spitting out a mouthful of grave-dirt, he still grasped a mud-covered pistol tightly in his good hand. Nearby, the Knights of the Blazing Sun had broken formation. Their warhorses were stamping down hard on the disembodied skeletal arms that had burst from the ground to claw ineffectually at their legs. Over by the watchtower, Sigmar’s Sons were chasing down the last of the ghoul-things, hacking at unarmoured backs and cutting heads from necks.
Ghorst’s macabre carriage was nowhere to be seen.
Von Korden swore a blue streak as he marched up towards the watchtower, smearing the worst of the grave-mud from his face and checking that his holstered pistol was still sound. His head rang with pain and one of his eyes was swelling shut, but the rage boiling inside him kept his mind sharp. Once his message was sent from the watch he could allow himself to tend his wounds, but not before.
‘Get the hell out of my way,’ he spat at the Sigmarite swordsmen still hacking the heads from the ghoul corpses outside the watchtower. They moved aside immediately, sensing that they were in more danger from von Korden than from any of the walking dead. ‘Swaft, Weissman, you’re with me.’
The two Sons exchanged a meaningful glance as the witch hunter strode between them. ‘Well, Volkmar did say,’ murmured Weissman, handing the regiment’s banner to a nearby comrade before following von Korden to the heavy wooden door of the watchtower. Swaft came reluctantly after him, wiping gobbets of thick brown blood from his blade.
The hunter pushed the door with an open palm, and it swung open on its hinges. There was no sound, no motion inside. The entire lower floor of the building was in total disarray. The writing desk was upturned, its inks spilled like black blood across the flagstones to pool around the shattered skull of the Templehof vargheist.
Suddenly Unholdt’s corpse lurched out from behind the door, bowling into von Korden with such force it knocked them both flailing onto the floor. Weissman pushed inside the doorway just as the thing that had once been Steig clambered out of the disused well, blood-covered tongue flapping. The Sigmarite soldier edged around the well, blade ready for a killing thrust, only to find another undead guard barrelling out from behind the tower’s grandfather clock to grab him in a biting, tearing bear hug. Swaft moved in, blade readied as he looked for his moment to strike.
Wrestling Unholdt to one side, von Korden discharged his pistol into his old comrade’s dead bulk. The corpse jerked upward for a second before falling back down again, teeth gnashing a few millimetres from the witch hunter’s eye. The grotesque thing’s rotten breath invaded von Korden’s nostrils, and strings of blood-laced drool draped across his cheek.
Setting his teeth and bracing his knee on the wall, the witch hunter jerked sideways. He rolled the corpse of his former lieutenant off him and pushed against it with one hand as he fumbled to draw his cutting sabre with the other. The scabbard was empty. The corpse pushed back, its weight tremendous. Von Korden’s muscles began to shake, then to give. Unholdt’s chomping, stinking mouth came closer, inch by tortuous inch.
A high-pitched squeal rang out, ear-piercing in the confines of the watchtower. A moment later a hairy mass of hogflesh burst out from behind the stairwell curtain and barged into Unholdt, knocking him bodily from von Korden. The corpse rolled with the impact, some vestige of its brawler past
As the horses passed by von Korden stumbled back to his feet. Badly winded, bleeding profusely and spitting out a mouthful of grave-dirt, he still grasped a mud-covered pistol tightly in his good hand. Nearby, the Knights of the Blazing Sun had broken formation. Their warhorses were stamping down hard on the disembodied skeletal arms that had burst from the ground to claw ineffectually at their legs. Over by the watchtower, Sigmar’s Sons were chasing down the last of the ghoul-things, hacking at unarmoured backs and cutting heads from necks.
Ghorst’s macabre carriage was nowhere to be seen.
Von Korden swore a blue streak as he marched up towards the watchtower, smearing the worst of the grave-mud from his face and checking that his holstered pistol was still sound. His head rang with pain and one of his eyes was swelling shut, but the rage boiling inside him kept his mind sharp. Once his message was sent from the watch he could allow himself to tend his wounds, but not before.
‘Get the hell out of my way,’ he spat at the Sigmarite swordsmen still hacking the heads from the ghoul corpses outside the watchtower. They moved aside immediately, sensing that they were in more danger from von Korden than from any of the walking dead. ‘Swaft, Weissman, you’re with me.’
The two Sons exchanged a meaningful glance as the witch hunter strode between them. ‘Well, Volkmar did say,’ murmured Weissman, handing the regiment’s banner to a nearby comrade before following von Korden to the heavy wooden door of the watchtower. Swaft came reluctantly after him, wiping gobbets of thick brown blood from his blade.
The hunter pushed the door with an open palm, and it swung open on its hinges. There was no sound, no motion inside. The entire lower floor of the building was in total disarray. The writing desk was upturned, its inks spilled like black blood across the flagstones to pool around the shattered skull of the Templehof vargheist.
Suddenly Unholdt’s corpse lurched out from behind the door, bowling into von Korden with such force it knocked them both flailing onto the floor. Weissman pushed inside the doorway just as the thing that had once been Steig clambered out of the disused well, blood-covered tongue flapping. The Sigmarite soldier edged around the well, blade ready for a killing thrust, only to find another undead guard barrelling out from behind the tower’s grandfather clock to grab him in a biting, tearing bear hug. Swaft moved in, blade readied as he looked for his moment to strike.
Wrestling Unholdt to one side, von Korden discharged his pistol into his old comrade’s dead bulk. The corpse jerked upward for a second before falling back down again, teeth gnashing a few millimetres from the witch hunter’s eye. The grotesque thing’s rotten breath invaded von Korden’s nostrils, and strings of blood-laced drool draped across his cheek.
Setting his teeth and bracing his knee on the wall, the witch hunter jerked sideways. He rolled the corpse of his former lieutenant off him and pushed against it with one hand as he fumbled to draw his cutting sabre with the other. The scabbard was empty. The corpse pushed back, its weight tremendous. Von Korden’s muscles began to shake, then to give. Unholdt’s chomping, stinking mouth came closer, inch by tortuous inch.
A high-pitched squeal rang out, ear-piercing in the confines of the watchtower. A moment later a hairy mass of hogflesh burst out from behind the stairwell curtain and barged into Unholdt, knocking him bodily from von Korden. The corpse rolled with the impact, some vestige of its brawler past
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