03 - Call to Arms (24 page)

Yet, abruptly, Dieter found he was reminded of time’s passing. As he smashed
the hilt of his sword into the face of the goblin nearest him, Dieter caught a
glimpse of a gathering redness in the eastern sky.

Risking a momentary glance to confirm it, he realised the sun was beginning
to rise. The dawn was coming and, with it, the prospect of victory. Remembering
Brucker’s words earlier, Dieter found he hoped the marksman had been right when
he said night goblins preferred not to fight in the day.

For better or worse, he supposed he would soon know whether Brucker had been
correct. The marksman was right beside him, forced to fight hand-to-hand with
the rest of the wall guards against the goblins when his ammunition had given
out. Dieter was almost tempted to call out to him, to draw his attention to the
sunrise, but the close press of the enemy around them left little room for any
thoughts of bravado.

Either way, they would quickly know the answer.

Then, just as Dieter had begun to convince himself the goblin attack might
indeed be faltering, he saw a new horror, a terrifying sight that would remain
in his nightmares until the day he died.

A dark and massive shape suddenly emerged from the forest while the goblins
around it screamed out in shrieks of joy and wonder.

It was a scorpion, but a giant example of that insect, far larger than any
animal Dieter had ever seen in his life before. It was hard to judge, but it
looked to be at least fifteen paces long, with a body that was five paces wide—
not counting the reach of its claws. It was enormous and horrifying, a busy
writhing insect thing, the very appearance of which was enough to create a sick
feeling in the pit of Dieter’s stomach. Abruptly, he realised there was a reason
bugs were normally small—it was a mercy, the work of benevolent gods, intended
to preserve the human mind from ever understanding just what manner of loathsome
horror each insect represented.

“Sigmar protect us,” Brucker whispered beside him. The marksman made the sign
of the hammer as though he hoped it might ward off the monster. “I had heard
tales that such things existed, but I never thought it possible…”

The giant scorpion had a rider. A night goblin warlord sat on the creature’s
back, his squat form swathed in a black robe, chainmail armour and a weird
assortment of metal oddments and bones that Dieter could only assume was meant
to be some kind of regalia.

Watching the warlord prodding his mount forward while the night goblins
around them cheered, Dieter realised the battle for the mill was swiftly heading
for a climax. His hopes that goblin morale might collapse now looked forlorn.
Buoyed by the appearance of their chieftain and his “pet”, the goblin army
redoubled their efforts.

It no longer mattered whether it was day or night, whether the sun rose or
set. The Scarlets and their allies had fought the good fight, but it looked to
be in vain.

Death, in the form of a giant insect with snapping claws and an arching
venom-laden tail, was sweeping toward them.

“Stand fast!” Sergeant Bohlen’s voice roared out over the ramparts. “Stand
fast the 3rd! Stand fast for Hochland! Stand fast the Scarlets!”

“Stand fast!” Gerhardt yelled. “Stand fast the Scarlets!”

The cry was taken up all around the mill walls and the courtyard. As men
struggled to hold back the goblin tide pressing ever more keenly upon them, they
joined in the general chorus. The regimental battle cry rang out over the scene
of battle. From grizzled veteran to rawest recruit, the words came out.

“Stand fast the 3rd! Stand fast for Hochland! Stand fast the Scarlets!”

Even the handgunners contributed their voices. In the push and pull of
battle, amid the sound of screams and the smell of fresh blood, earlier
allegiances were forgotten. Today, they were all Scarlets. Facing death, they
were united.

But even as the words rang out proudly and strong, there was an element of
uncertainty hidden within them. A seed of doubt that had taken root in each and
every heart at the appearance of the giant scorpion and its master.

“Sweet Sigmar, look at the size of it,” Hoist said. “If that’s the bug, I
wouldn’t want to see the man whose boot heel is big enough to crush it.”

His witticism, such as it was, fell on deaf ears. On the ramparts around him,
men and goblins were too lost in their individual life-or-death struggles to pay
much attention.

Even as he said it, Hoist knew he was whistling in the dark. It was his
nature to try and deflect the seriousness of any situation with humour. Looking
at the spectacle of the scorpion advancing on the mill, however, he found it
difficult to think of anything that was actually funny.

A goblin charged screaming toward him brandishing a heavy, cleaver-like
blade. Hoist deflected its blow with his shield, then stabbed his sword deep
into its chest. A second goblin followed it, and a third. Hoist made short work
of them, cutting one down with a sword slash to the throat while he smashed his
shield into the face of the other.

“Any more for any more?” he shouted at no one in particular. “I’m just
getting started, you ugly runty bastards!”

He had no idea whether the goblins could even understand him, but it felt
good to give voice to his frustration. Right now, Hoist felt like screaming his
anger loud enough to deafen every living thing within twenty paces. He wanted to
curse the gods, to damn them all as bastards, and to hell with the consequences.

It had looked like they were winning, that was the fact which frustrated him.
Only five minutes earlier, Hoist had been confident of victory. Dawn’s rosy
fingers had begun to light up the sky to the east, while the goblin horde had
not made any progress in trying to drive the mill’s defenders back from the
walls. In such circumstances, he had been sure it was only a matter of time
before the goblins’ morale failed and they turned to run.

Then, the scorpion had appeared and ruined everything.

Even with the goblin warlord riding on its back, it was clear the monster was
at best only half-tamed. As it lumbered its way through the thronging goblins,
it paused here and there to grab a struggling greenskin with its claws and toss
it into its mouth. The goblins around it did not seem to greet this behaviour
with shock, as though they expected nothing less of the creature and its
appetites.

Unencumbered by any of the limitations faced by the goblins, the thing
advanced on the mill wall and simply climbed over it, sweeping the men in front
of it from the ramparts with its claws. Moving past the wall, the insect
monstrosity advanced in the courtyard. All but immune to the attacks of the puny
soldiers who scurried around it, it laid waste to its enemies with its claws and
tail while the goblin warlord on its back egged it on.

Meanwhile, goblins had begun to surge through the gap in the Hochlanders’
defence caused by the scorpion’s attack. Although the men to the west and east
of the breach tried their best to stem the flow of invaders, their efforts
seemed hopeless. Despite hours of fighting, of blood and sweat, the defence of
the mill lay within moments of collapse.

It will take a miracle to save us now, Hoist thought to himself as he lashed
out with his sword and downed another goblin. He had never really considered the
prospect until that instant, but suddenly it occurred to him that these could
well be the last seconds of his life.

He resolved to meet his death in the same way he had lived his life. He would
go down fighting, vowing to spit in the eye of whichever goblin finally struck
the fatal blow and killed him.

If there was one small comfort, it occurred to him, it was that he would die
with so many old friends around him. Gerhardt, Rieger, even Sergeant Bohlen: he
had known them all for years and counted each one of them as kings and princes—
in spirit, if not in title. Like Hoist, they would fight until the last.

Sadly, not all men were made of the same, stern stuff. From the corner of his
eye, Hoist saw Dieter Lanz suddenly turn and flee the ramparts. Appalled, Hoist
came to the obvious conclusion: the Scarlets’ newest recruit evidently had a
hidden yellow streak.

Given that he was already too busy fighting for his life, Hoist did not try
to stop Dieter’s flight. The sight of it filled him with sorrow, however. He had
thought the young recruit had the stuff to be a fine soldier, but it seemed he
was mistaken. He understood it, naturally enough. Fear could become any man’s
master, especially when he was a young blood, unused to the blood, violence and
sheer madness of close quarter battle. Any man could break, Hoist understood
that, but it didn’t mean he had to forgive it. He would accept almost any flaw
in a comrade, but cowardice was the one inexcusable sin in a soldier. To make
matters worse, in his panic, Dieter appeared to have completely lost all sense
of direction.

Instead of running away from the scorpion, he was running
towards
it.

Dieter landed on the flagstones of the courtyard and was running toward the
scorpion before he even had a chance to question what he was doing.

It was for the best this way, he supposed. His decision to charge the
scorpion and try to kill it was born of a moment’s mad impulse. He had seen the
creature climb over the mill wall as though the wall was not even there. He had
seen it slaughter the men guarding the wall with ease. He had seen it skitter
across the courtyard, its tail rising and falling in a series of deadly arcs,
its claws grabbing men and crushing them, pausing only to feed the occasional
sundered body into its mouth.

He had seen the creature and he had felt a rising sense of terror and
despair. Its very presence had seemed to enliven the goblin army with a new
sense of energy and purpose. They followed in the scorpion’s wake, surging onto
the walls and into the courtyard as they tracked the creature’s trail of
destruction. Realising the Hochlanders’ dogged defence of the mill was on the
verge of collapse, Dieter had been provoked to take action. Admittedly, the fact
he was not entirely sure what that action would be was possibly a defect of his
decision, but he hoped to come up with something before he came within range of
the scorpion’s claws.

Abruptly, an idea occurred to him. In the cold light of day he was sure it
would seem like madness, but at that instant any kind of plan was better than
nothing.

Angling his path as he ran through the courtyard, he headed for the mill
stream that emerged from underneath the exterior wall and travelled across the
courtyard until it ran underneath the spars of the massive mill wheel set at the
side of the mill house.

The stream was deep and fast flowing. Casting aside his shield, helmet and
breastplate as he ran, Dieter jumped into the stream and swam across it. He was
taking a risk, he knew. The current was strong, and if he lost control it could
easily drag him into the mill wheel where he would likely either drown or be
crushed by the turning wheel.

Fortunately, he was able to make the swim. Emerging from the other side of
the stream, his sword still gripped in his hand, he ran toward the scorpion.

As he charged toward the creature he briefly wondered how he would attract
its attention, but it quickly became clear it would not be an issue. Perhaps it
was the fact Dieter was the only man in the courtyard running towards it rather
than fleeing, but the scorpion immediately fixated on him as he moved closer.
The monster’s black eyes swivelled to regard him, while—sure of its
superiority—the goblin on its back grinned down at Dieter with a smug,
malevolent smile.

Wary of getting too close, Dieter came skidding to a halt. Then, turning to
run away, he was pleased as he glanced over his shoulder to see the scorpion had
decided to give chase.

Hoping the creature’s goblin rider would not be intelligent enough to guess
his plan, Dieter sprinted over to the mill house. Coming to a halt in front of
the enormous brick housing that sheltered the mill wheel, Dieter watched the
scorpion charge toward him.

He waited, muttering a prayer to Sigmar under his breath. If the scorpion
decided to attack him with his claws, or if Dieter failed to time it correctly,
the whole business would be over quickly—and, with it, any chance of defeating
the goblins.

The size of the creature was extraordinary. As the scorpion loomed over him,
Dieter felt like a character from a childish nursery rhyme confronting a giant.
He raised his sword in a threatening gesture, inwardly aware that the blade must
seem no larger than a needle to the eyes of the monster.

Lifting the bulbous stinger at the end of its tail high above its head, the
scorpion made ready to strike. To Dieter, the moment seemed frozen. Seeing a
tell-tale quiver run along the creature’s tail, he dived out of the way as the
scorpion’s sting flashed through the air and smashed through the stonework of
the housing wall behind him.

The creature hissed in what he could only guess was the sound of
disappointment. It lashed out again, its tail striking the housing at several
points along its base as Dieter rolled desperately along the ground to elude it.

Hissing even more furiously the scorpion lifted its tail to strike once more,
but the damage was already done. With an awful wrenching noise, the housing
collapsed, spilling an avalanche of falling bricks, splintered timbers and the
entire weight of the tilting mill wheel onto the scorpion and its goblin rider.

Dieter saw the creature crushed beneath a rain of stone. Then, something
struck him hard in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. He felt the breath
whoosh
from his lungs as a heavy weight pressed down on him. Realising he
could no longer breathe, he began to panic, his view of the scene around him—
and whatever it was that weighed so heavily on his torso—was obscured by the
clouds of dust raised by the collapsing housing.