03 - Call to Arms (10 page)

The mists were starting to clear. In the east, the sun had become visible
above the treetops, a baleful eye staring down at the carnage. Looking up at it,
Dieter realised it felt good to be alive.

He did not have the chance to savour the emotion for long. As he stood
talking with Gerhardt and the others, a warning cry attracted their attention.
Spotting a soldier standing a little distance away, waving frantically to beckon
them towards him, they went over to see the source of his unease.

The soldier was standing at a place where the ground unexpectedly dipped. The
early morning mist having lifted, burned off by the rising sun, it was possible
to see their surroundings properly for the first time.

As Dieter walked forward, he took advantage of the improved visibility to
scan the area. With the clearing of the mists, it had become obvious they were
standing on the lip of a river valley. Looking downward, he saw a gentle slope
falling down to a snaking river which had carved its way over thousands of years
through the surrounding woodlands. Dieter did not know what the river was
called, but based on their location he judged it to be one of the tributaries of
the Talabec, carrying cold melt waters from the Middle Mountains down to join
the Talabec south of the Howling Hills.

Whatever the soldier had seen had caused no little consternation. At first,
as Dieter joined the small group of men standing at the lip of the valley, he
could see no sign of anything untoward. Then, glancing in the direction of the
soldier’s pointing finger, he saw something that turned his blood to ice.

There were greenskins in the valley. There were tens of thousands, more of
them than he could count. Comparing their numbers to the relatively limited
force of orcs they had fought in the mists would have been like comparing a
raindrop to the wide expanse of the ocean.

The orcs were crossing the river, coming in their direction. Fortunately,
they had not yet spotted the group of men standing on the vantage above them.

Looking down through the cover of the trees, Dieter saw massed ranks of
goblins hauling siege engines, orcs riding boars and chariots, goblin wolf
riders; he even thought he caught a glimpse of a troll. He swallowed hard,
finding his mouth was suddenly dry.

This was no mob of raiders or scouting party. It was an entire greenskin
army, he suspected larger in size than anything General von Nieder had expected.

To make matters worse, the orcs were headed straight for the Hochlanders’
camp.

“I have spoken to Captain Harkner,” Sergeant Bohlen said. “The good news is
that the regiment is retreating. The bad news is that we are the rearguard.”

Several minutes had passed since the presence of the orc army had been
discovered. In that time, decisions had been made.

A runner had been sent to find Captain Harkner. Arriving at the scene to see
things for himself, the captain had immediately ordered the men to pull back
from the lip of the valley. So far, the greenskins had been too busy squabbling
amongst themselves as they crossed the river to notice they were being watched,
but Harkner was wary the enemy might have sent scouts on ahead of them.
Accordingly, he pulled his troops back into cover, leaving only a few men as
lookouts to monitor the greenskins’ progress.

After that, the captain had summoned the senior men from each file to a terse
conference.

To Dieter, they seemed the longest moments he had ever known. Excluded from
the deliberations, ordered to wait with the other men of his file while Sergeant
Bohlen consulted with the captain, he was painfully aware of the orcs’
proximity.

In reality, he supposed the greenskins were at least half a league away as
yet, all of it uphill and across heavily forested terrain. As long as the enemy
cavalry remained unaware of their presence, it might take them as long as half
an hour to reach the Scarlets’ position. They might even bypass them entirely,
missing them in the cover of the woodland. Still, Dieter did not relish the
prospect of betting his life on those odds.

By the time Bohlen returned, it was clear the other members of the file held
similar views to Dieter. They gathered around the sergeant eagerly, hoping for
good news.

They were quickly disappointed.

“Ours is the most dangerous job,” Bohlen told them. “But someone has to do
it. When the captain asked me if I thought we were up to it, I had no hesitation
in telling him we were.”

“Lucky for us,” Krug muttered under his breath, his words attracting hostile
stares from those close enough to hear them.

“Do you have a problem, Krug?” Bohlen glowered at him.

“No, sergeant.”

In the aftermath of the skirmish, it had become plain Krug and Febel had
survived intact. As yet neither of them had said anything to Dieter about the
events at the peasant hut earlier in the day, but a few menacing stares from
Krug had been enough to warn him the affair had not been forgotten. For his
part, Dieter had not decided whether he should report the two men’s behaviour to
Sergeant Bohlen. He was inclined to ask Gerhardt or Rieger for their opinion,
but for the present he thought he should let the matter rest. There were far
more pressing issues ahead of them.

“The rest of the regiment will withdraw in stages, file by file,” Bohlen
said. “The captain has already sent runners ahead to take news of the orcs to
our army. But, if they don’t make it, it is the duty of every man in the
regiment to make sure the news gets through. If not, there’s the danger the
greenskin bastards will catch the encampment unawares. We all have friends and
comrades back at camp. I take it I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen to them
if the orcs overrun it?”

No one among the men of the file tried to answer his question. The glum
expressions on their faces were answer enough.

“It’s our job to cover for the others so they can escape,” Bohlen continued.
He pointed to a trail that cut through the trees and led over the lip of the
valley. “There aren’t enough of us to form a line and guard the whole area, so
we’ll position ourselves in the place where the greenskins’ scouts are most
likely to emerge. This trail here seems the easiest way up from the river. We’ll
set up on either side of it and hope for best.”

* * *

“Well, that’s it,” Hoist said, ten minutes later. “It’s in Sigmar’s hands
now. We’ll just have to trust to his mercy.”

“Sigmar’s mercy?” Rieger lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “I suspect you would’ve
had to have lived a more virtuous life, my friend, to have any hope of that.”

In accordance with Sergeant Bohlen’s instructions, the ten men of the file
had split into two groups of five and hidden themselves on either side of the
trail that led up from the river. Preferring to avoid any further entanglement
with either Krug or Febel, Dieter was relieved when Bohlen ordered him to join
the men on the opposite side of the trail to theirs.

He had been assigned to the left side of the trail, to a five-man group
commanded by Gerhardt, alongside Hoist, Rieger and Kuranski. Given that an
entire enemy army was probably headed towards them, it seemed a pitifully small
force with which to meet their advance.

Still, the Scarlets had done their best to make sure any impending battle was
not wholly one-sided. Expecting the leading elements of the enemy army to be
scouts or fast cavalry, they had laid a length of rope across the trail,
camouflaging its existence with fallen leaves. Other than that, they could only
wait.

“At least I’m better off than Kuranski,” Hoist said. “Admittedly, I’m no
theologian. But I can’t see Sigmar performing any miracles on behalf of a
Kislevite.”

Hoist turned to Kuranski with a mischievous smile.

“What gods do they worship in Kislev anyhow, Kuranski? Whoever they are, I’d
say you’d better start praying at once. Of course, you’re so far away from your
homeland, they might not be able to hear you.”

“You can kiss my backside, Hoist,” Kuranski hissed back. “I keep telling you,
I’m only half-Kislevite. My father was from Kislev, but my mother was born in
Hergig—just like I was. That means I’m as much a Hochlander as you are.
Assuming you ever knew your parents well enough to be able to tell where they
came from.”

“Personally, I’d always assumed Hoist was raised by wolves,” Rieger offered.
“It would account for his atrocious table manners.”

“Hnn, we can’t all be born with a silver spoon in our mouths,” Hoist grunted.
“You are so fastidious about everything, Rieger, it surprises me you didn’t try
to become a tax collector when they wouldn’t let you be a priest. You have the
personality for it.”

“Quiet,” Gerhardt said, his quiet voice commanding instant authority. “I
think I heard something. Listen.”

Straining his ears as the others fell silent, Dieter wondered initially
whether Gerhardt was hearing things. Then, distantly, he heard a series of
unfamiliar sounds coming from further down the trail. It was a soft sound, more
like the padding of giant paws than the harsh echo of hooves.

Whatever was making the noise was coming nearer. Without realising it,
Dieter’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“Wait for the signal,” Gerhardt whispered, noticing his behaviour. “And keep
it quiet, all of you. Their ears will be sharp.”

Even as Dieter tried to guess what manner of creatures were approaching,
their identity was abruptly revealed as a pack of a dozen or so giant wolves
appeared at the end of the trail. As a small boy, growing up at the mill, he had
occasionally seen the paw prints left by such creatures on the edge of the
forest. However, it was the first time he had seen wolves of such great size in
the flesh.

Even more remarkably, the wolves had riders. He supposed, given the animals
were the size of horses, it made sense that goblins had long ago decided to use
them as mounts. Certainly, both species shared a common savagery and cunning.

If anything, the goblins he could see riding down the trail on wolfback were
more savage and barbaric than the ones he had already encountered. Perhaps it
was a measure of the confidence that came to them from riding their wolfish
mounts, but in their behaviour they seemed more reminiscent of orcs than
goblins.

Each wolf rider was festooned with grisly trophies, presumably taken from
vanquished opponents. Dieter saw leather cords that held severed heads, dried
animal claws and other unpleasant objects, dangling from the riders and their
mounts. The riders themselves were well-armed, each carrying a spear, shield,
bow and a quiver of arrows.

Watching them, Dieter realised Captain Harkner had been right to be wary of
the threat of enemy scouts. There was no doubt the wolf riders had been sent
ahead of the main greenskin army to scout the terrain. If Dieter and the other
men of Sergeant Bohlen’s file attacked them, there was every chance some of the
wolf riders would escape to bring back reinforcements. There was no other
option, however.

They could not let the wolf riders get past them for fear the goblins would
discover the rest of the regiment.

Dieter understood the logic of the situation. It was better for a ten-man
rearguard to be exposed to danger rather than to run the risk of the greenskins
riding down their fleeing regiment. If he and the men around him were destined
to be the sacrificial lambs in order to keep their retreating comrades safe, so
be it. It was the soldier’s way.

The wolf riders were coming closer. Dieter would have expected them to
advance more cautiously through unknown terrain, but their mounts moved down the
trail at a loping gallop. Suddenly mindful of the keenness of a wolfs sense of
smell, Dieter glanced at the leaves around him to see which way the wind was
blowing. If the wolves sensed their odour, it would ruin everything.

Seemingly unaware of the human presence, the wolf riders kept coming. The
lead riders were almost abreast of Dieter and the others’ hiding place. He could
feel his heart pounding in his chest, so loud it seemed a wonder no one else
could hear it. The air felt charged with invisible tension.

A shrill whistle sounded from the other side of the trail. It was the signal
to attack.

“Now!” Gerhardt yelled, as the Scarlets emerged from hiding.

On either side of the trail, two men pulled hard on the rope, lifting it to
head height as the goblins rode past. Riding into the rope, the three leading
goblins were thrown back from their mounts and sent tumbling to the ground.
Meanwhile, the other men of the file had charged from cover, catching the wolf
riders by surprise.

Dieter was among them. Attacking the nearest goblin to him, he parried its
spear thrust and jerked the creature from its saddle, pulling it down forcefully
enough to dash the goblin’s head against the hard ground. Almost immediately, he
realised his mistake as the goblin’s mount turned and snarled. Too late, it
occurred to Dieter that fighting wolf riders was not like fighting men on
horseback—not when the mount was potentially more dangerous than its rider.

Jumping out of the way as the wolf whirled and snapped its jaws at him,
Dieter cautiously backed away from the animal. Hoping to draw it into making a
lunge, he shook his shield at it and stepped forward as though he was going to
charge it.

The wolf took the bait. Leaping forward, it tried to pounce on him and knock
him from his feet, but Dieter was faster. Correctly gauging the animal’s angle
of attack, he sidestepped it and stabbed his sword deep into its side, just
behind the wolf’s front leg.

Howling, the wolf turned back on itself and tried to bite Dieter, but the
lethal blow had already been struck. Overcome by sudden weakness, it collapsed
to the ground and died.