03 - Call to Arms (21 page)

“Well, thank the gods for that,” Hoist snorted. “It will be good to have a
night’s sleep with a roof over our heads. Who knows? Maybe this is a sign? Maybe
the worst of it is over now, and from now on it will be clear sailing all the
way to Hergig.”

“I wouldn’t tempt fate,” Rieger cautioned. “Nor count your chickens before
they’ve hatched.”

“Feh, you’re too grim, Rieger,” Hoist grunted. “Always looking on the dark
side. Believe me, I have every reason for confidence. There is a pattern to
these things, you know. And, after all we’ve been through so far, it stands to
reason our luck has got to change some time.”

“All right, you needn’t say it,” Hoist muttered as the rain fell in great
torrents and soaked their clothes to their skin. “I should have kept my big
mouth shut.”

They were standing on the ramparts of the wall encircling the mill. Several
hours had passed since the mill buildings had been scouted and pronounced clear.
Night had fallen and, much to Hoist’s displeasure, he had been among the men
posted on first watch alongside Dieter and Rieger. While the rest of the
regiment slept, the three of them manned the walls on sentry duty along with
another dozen men.

“Of course, how was I to know I was putting my foot in it?” Hoist grumbled,
continuing his diatribe. “How was I to know the gods are spiteful, thrice-damned
bastards? How was I to know they were listening? Imagine. They hear a man make a
perfectly innocent comment in the heat of the moment along the lines that things
can only better. And what do they do? They unleash the heavens and piss in his
eyes just to show him who’s in charge.”

“Let us accept for a moment that all of that is true,” Rieger said, his body
huddled under his cloak in the shadow of the wall as he tried to escape the
worst of the downpour. “Let us assume for the sake of argument that the divine
powers spend all their time listening to you and trying to find ways to spite
you. I don’t see how calling the gods ‘thrice-damned bastards’ is likely to
improve things.”

“I suppose it won’t if you think about it,” Hoist said, glumly. “Do you think
I just damned us to another month of rain? Although, actually, when you consider
the facts it is really Sergeant Bohlen who is at fault here. It would hardly
matter to us how hard it is raining if it wasn’t for him putting us out here on
sentry duty.”

“Surely he did that because he trusts us?” Dieter said. He was as wet and as
cold as the others, but he was struggling to find some cause for optimism. “It
is a weighty responsibility being on sentry duty, after all. Especially
considering that those wolf riders could still be pursuing us.”

“Feh. You’ll excuse me if I fail to see that as a subject for great rejoicing
at the moment.” The rain was so heavy that Hoist’s usually luxurious moustache
hung down limply by the sides of his face, adding to his hangdog look. “Right
now, I’d prefer not to be trusted. Especially if it meant I could be with the
rest of the men, where it is warm and dry.”

Privately, Dieter had to admit he could see Hoist’s point. The rain showed no
sign of abating, while their comrades inside the mill house luxuriated in what
had seemed like relative comfort after the deprivations of the last few weeks.
The miller and his family had evidently taken as much food and milled grain as
they could carry when they fled the mill, but that had still left plenty of
supplies to be looted when the Scarlets arrived.

In the course of scouring the mill and its buildings for any usable
foodstuffs, the Scarlets had found a few forgotten sacks of grain, some churned
butter, a few vegetables, salt and some dried meat, alongside a variety of other
useful supplies including lanterns, lamp oil and blankets. After the Scarlets’
recent experiences since the army’s defeat by the orcs, the mill seemed like a
palace.

What was more, they had eaten well for once. Demonstrating an unexpected
culinary ability, one of the handgunners—a man named Groetsch—had combined
some of the food found in the mill to create the most delicious stew Dieter had
ever tasted. Frankly, he suspected his opinion of Groetsch’s cooking might have
been unduly influenced by the lack of appetising food over the last few weeks,
but he had enjoyed the meal tremendously all the same.

Even granting the rain, which drummed down relentlessly, Dieter found it was
difficult to be entirely pessimistic when his belly was full—not that he was
much inclined to pessimism anyway. In the wake of a decent meal, the world
seemed brighter somehow.

In some ways, literally so.

Despite the fact they had every reason to fear the wolf riders might still be
on their trail, Sergeant Bohlen had decided to forgo the fire and light
discipline of the last few nights. Light shone through the shutters from several
of the mill house windows. The combination of the rain and a cloudy sky meant
they could see little luminance from the moon, but in comparison to the gloomy
night the mill house seemed like a shining oasis of light.

Then again, Dieter was well aware there was a reason Sergeant Bohlen had
decided to allow so much light in the farmhouse. It had been agreed that
Gerhardt would amputate Kuranski’s leg. To stand any chance of successfully
completing the operation, Gerhardt would need a great deal of light to see what
he was doing.

“At least, that’s one advantage of being outside.”

Noticing that Hoist and Rieger were staring at him, Dieter realised he had
spoken the last thought aloud.

“I was thinking about Gerhardt operating on Kuranski,” he said, trying to
explain. “I was almost glad in a way when the sergeant sent us outside on sentry
duty. I wouldn’t like to be in the mill house when the operation starts. Poor
Kuranski. I know Gerhardt found a bottle of wine and has tried to get him drunk.
But can you imagine the pain Kuranski is going to have to go through?”

“They are poor bastards—both of them,” Hoist said sombrely. “Kuranski, for
being on the verge of death. Gerhardt, for having to hack at a comrade’s leg
with a knife and hope for the best. Right now, I wouldn’t want to be either of
them.”

Just then, a scream came from the mill house. The scream went on for long
seconds before it fell silent.

Suppressing a shudder, Dieter mentally said a prayer for the suffering
Kuranski.

“A bad business,” Hoist said. His face darkened. “If you have to die, I’ve
always thought it is better to go quickly—say from an arrow through the heart
or having your head split open by an axe. Anything has to be better than getting
a wound infected and suffering a long, lingering death.”

“You don’t think the operation will be successful, then?” Dieter asked. “You
don’t think Gerhardt can save Kuranski?”

“Miracles happen, but I wouldn’t count on them,” Hoist answered. “It would be
wrong to gamble money on whether or not a comrade will die. But, if I was asked
to make odds on it, I’d say Kuranski’s chances are no better than one penny for
compared to twenty against. Still, he is a comrade. A fellow Scarlet. Even with
the odds stacked against him, there is no harm in doing everything we can to
give him a fighting chance.”

“Despite that, though, you believe Gerhardt is wasting his time?”

“That is not for me to say.” Hoist shrugged. “Anyway, that is the kind of man
Gerhardt is. He’s not the kind to give up. He’ll always risk life and limb to
try and save a comrade, even if everyone else thinks it is a hopeless cause. He
puts others first, before himself. He couldn’t be more different from Krug in
that regard.”

“Krug is an animal.” Dieter spat the words out with venom.

“He’s more cunning than that,” Hoist said. “Be wary of him, Dieter. You can
rest assured that me, Rieger and Gerhardt will watch your back, but keep your
eyes skinned all the same. It doesn’t matter what Sergeant Bohlen said—I
wouldn’t put it past Krug to risk cutting your throat in the hope he’ll be able
to talk his way out of the hangman’s noose later. It’s only gossip, but rumour
has it Krug made his living as a grave robber and bodysnatcher before he became
a soldier. That tells you what kind of man he is. Don’t trust him with your
back.”

“I wouldn’t have anyway,” Dieter nodded. “How does a man like that become a
Scarlet?”

“I don’t know,” Hoist shrugged again. “Bear in mind, the regiment may be well
thought of—but we’re not the nobility. The pistoliers and the knightly orders
may ask to see proof of a man’s wealth and breeding before they allow him into
the ranks, but in the infantry we keep these things more simple. If a man can
use a sword, show some brass, and carries some steel in his britches, like as
not the recruiters won’t turn him away. You’ve met the Ripper, of course?”

“Sergeant Rippner?” Dieter remembered the scowling face of the Scarlets’
recruiting sergeant in Hergig.

“Yes. In your brief acquaintanceship, you may have noticed the Ripper is a
bastard of the highest order. A fiend in human form. Still, even fiends
occasionally make mistakes. Even with the best efforts of men like the Ripper,
sometimes a bad apple slips into the regimental barrel.”

“And that’s what you’d call Krug? A bad apple?”

“Well, admittedly, I can think of less pleasant things to call him. But bad
apple will suffice for now.”

Throughout their conversation, Rieger had stayed silent. Keeping to his own
counsel, he had remained huddled under his cloak. Dieter had almost wondered
whether the man was falling asleep.

Suddenly, Rieger stood up straight. Turning to look hawkishly over the wall’s
ramparts, he stared into the darkness.

“Did you hear something?” Rieger said.

“Yes. Raindrops. Lots of them,” Hoist replied. “But then, it is raining. I
mention this just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Quiet.” Rieger raised his hand. His every movement was tense, his posture
alert and watchful as he stood facing the blackness of the night. “Dieter, get
the lantern.”

Complying, Dieter bent forward to collect an oil lantern from under a cloth
on the rampart floor. It was one of the lanterns they had found in the mill
house.

The lantern was already lit—Rieger had seen to that earlier. To prevent its
light giving away their position on the wall, the lantern’s shutter was closed
and its wick had been turned down, while it had been hidden under the cloth to
further obscure its brightness.

Picking up the lantern in his left hand, Dieter pulled open the shutter and
fiddled to turn up the wick. The lantern flared more brightly, its light
gleaming through the raindrops as they fell in front of it.

“Use it to have a look on the other side of the wall there,” Rieger said, his
finger pointing. “I’d swear I heard a scratching sound.”

Following the other man’s instructions, Dieter moved toward the spot Rieger
had indicated. Leaning over the top of the wall, he lifted the lantern to shed
more light on the area and looked downward to see if anything was below him.

He saw a half a dozen dark shapes clinging to the wall, with more waiting on
the ground below them. The creatures’ eyes glimmered redly in the light as they
looked back up at him. His breath catching in his throat, Dieter realised they
were goblins.

For a moment, the goblins seemed frozen in the light as though they were
uncertain whether to flee or continue climbing. Reacting more quickly, Dieter
pulled out his sword and shouted a warning to the other men manning the walls.

“Goblins!” he yelled. “Look to your swords!”

Spurred into life by the noise, the goblins hurried to finish their climb.
Slashing one of the goblins savagely across the face as it tried to climb over
the iron spikes at the top of the wall, Dieter found he was forced to take a
step backward as two more of the creatures vaulted over the spikes onto the
parapet. Mindful of the parapet’s narrow nature, Dieter met them head-on before
they could get their bearings.

The goblins were armed with wicked, curved-edged knives. Dodging a wild slash
from one of the greenskins, he responded with a well-aimed blow that split the
head of the first goblin down the middle. Turning to face the second one, he
parried another slash, before dispatching it with a fast thrust of his blade to
the creature’s heart.

As the second goblin fell, Dieter realised the fight was over. Hoist and
Rieger had made similarly swift work of their own opponents. Looking around him,
Dieter could see other sentries running to join them, but it appeared the
short-lived crisis was already at an end.

“Shine a light over the wall again,” Rieger said. “Quickly, before the rest
of them withdraw.”

Doing as his comrade asked, Dieter saw the remaining goblins scurry off into
the night. It was difficult to be sure, but he counted about another dozen. Like
the goblins that had climbed the wall, the ones on the ground wore black cloaks
and hoods. He supposed it could be considered a sacrilegious thought, but the
creatures’ appearance brought to mind some manner of species of stunted, ugly,
greenskinned monk.

“Night goblins,” Rieger said, watching them flee. “The ones we killed must
have been scouts, sent to test out our defences. We’d better tell the sergeant.”

He glanced back at the mill house. Already, soldiers were pouring out from
inside it, drawn by the sound of battle. Sergeant Bohlen was visible at the head
of them.

“I suspect he won’t like the news any better than the rest of us,” Rieger
continued. “But if the night goblins we killed were scouts, there will be more
of them waiting somewhere nearby. A lot more.”

He turned to Hoist.

“You thought we were having a bad night before? I suspect it’s about to get a
great deal worse.”