03 - Call to Arms (3 page)

It was a troll. Gessler had never seen one before, but there was no mistaking
it. The monster easily stood more than twice as tall as a man. It was bluish
grey in colour, covered in thick warty lumps that gave its skin a rocky texture
almost as though the creature was made of stone. It carried a roughly-hewn
wooden club, but one glance at its claws and fangs suggested it had no real need
of the weapon.

He heard a cheer from among the goblins. They seemed to draw strength from
the troll’s appearance, redoubling their efforts. Hearing a human scream,
Gessler turned to see Duhr being dragged from his horse, too far away to be
helped.

He heard other, more guttural cries as hundreds of orcs began to emerge from
the forest to support the goblins.

In an instant, the complexion of the battle was changed entirely. The orcs
were made of sterner stuff than their lesser brethren; it would take more than
the best efforts of a few men on horseback to put them to flight. With their
arrival, any hope of causing a panic in the enemy ranks was lost.

Meanwhile, the Hochlanders’ own charge had lost its momentum. Pushed forward
by the orcs behind them, the goblins were pressing in more fiercely, making the
weight of numbers tell.

Hemmed in, it was only a matter of time before Gessler and his remaining men
were killed. Worse, the swelling enemy ranks cast the greenskin presence in a
different light. There were too many of them for this to be a raiding party.
Horrified, Gessler realised it was more than likely he was looking at the
beginnings of a full-scale invasion.

Spurring his horse, he committed himself to a last, desperate gamble.
Fighting his way through the goblins standing in his path, he yelled a battle
cry and charged his horse toward the troll.

The monster seemed to recognise his challenge. It turned to face him, mouth
widening in a hungry smile.

Gessler knew it was suicide. If he had been armed with a lance, he might have
stood a chance of impaling the creature, spitting it like a piece of meat before
it could reach him. As it was, he had a sword. He was as good as dead, but the
concerns of the moment banished thoughts of fear. If he could distract the troll
long enough, he might buy enough time for one of his men to get away and warn
the fort of the enemy presence.

Reacting before the man could get close enough to strike it, the troll lashed
out with its club. Gessler felt a searing pain in his thigh. He was thrown from
his saddle, the world spinning crazily for a second before he landed jarringly
on the hard sun-baked ground.

Dazed, he tried to stand, only to find he seemed strangely unable to support
himself. Looking down, Gessler saw his left leg had been reduced to a pulped
mess by the troll’s blow.

He heard his horse whinnying in terror. Glancing behind him, he saw the poor
animal lying on its side. Its back was broken, the splintered bones of the spine
sticking out from underneath the saddle. He was moved to try to help it, to end
its suffering, but it was a forlorn thought. Unable to walk, he could hardly
help himself, never mind administer a mercy stroke to the dying animal.

A shadow fell across him. Looking up, Gessler found he was face-to-face with
the troll. The monster was standing over him. Grinning, it leaned forward to
inspect its prize, saliva drooling from its mouth and leaving discoloured
patches in the grass as it dripped to the ground.

Time seemed to slow. As he faced the last moments until his death, Gessler
found the world grew distant. He could hear the sounds of battle, the roar of
orcs and the screams of men, but they felt far away, drowned out by the noise of
the troll’s breathing.

Gessler’s final thoughts were of a beautiful girl with laughing eyes and hair
like spun gold. He did not blame her for his misfortunes. He had known her only
a few hours, but he supposed he loved her. In another world, perhaps they could
have been happy.

The troll opened its mouth. The last thing Gessler saw was its teeth. Then,
darkness swallowed him.

(Geheimnistag—Nachgeheim—Early Erntezeit)

From

The Testimony of General Ludwig von Grahl
(unexpurgated text):

It began in late summer. As the month of Vorgeheim drew to a close, a vast
army of orcs and goblins emerged from the Middle Mountains. Sweeping past the
network of forts and watchposts that guarded the frontier, the greenskins pushed
deep into northern Hochland.

At their head was a new leader. Through a mixture of brutality and cunning,
an orc chieftain called Morgoth Ironfang had managed to combine the fractious
orc and goblin tribes of the Middle Mountains into an effective army. In time,
it would become clear Ironfang was a far more able opponent than most of his
human adversaries were inclined to credit, but for the moment that revelation
still lay in the future.

In the meantime, Ironfang’s forces cut a destructive swathe through northern
Hochland, destroying every settlement in their path.

In Hergig, the first news of the invasion reached the Elector Counts court on
the night of Geheimnistag, the so-called “Day of Mystery”—one of the most
ominous dates in the Imperial calendar. None dared say it aloud, but many at
court wondered whether it was a sinister omen.

Whatever the case, Count Aldebrand Ludenhof of Hochland was not a man to be
swayed by omens. Ordering that an army should be immediately dispatched to repel
the invasion. Count Aldebrand made known his wish that the orc chieftain’s head
be delivered to him so he could mount it on a pikestaff.

Of course, it takes time to raise an army—regiments need to be mustered,
supplies have to be organised, and so on. Accordingly, several weeks passed
before the Count’s army took to the field, allowing the greenskins time to push
even deeper into Hochland. Soon, the roads from the north were crammed with
refugees, while the sky was black with the smoke from burning villages.

As for my own situation, at this moment of darkest crisis for my homeland, I
found myself stalking the corridors of my summer house on the Talabec, condemned
to the premature retirement that had been forced on me by my enemies at the
Elector’s court. I have never been a political animal; too much the old soldier
to speak gladly to fools or play the dirty business of politics. Perhaps I was
foolish in this. Certainly, at that moment, finding I was forced to endure long
days of enforced inactivity while the land I loved was in peril, I had reason to
regret some of my past actions. But wishes are the same as the dedications on
tombstones: heartfelt they may be, but they can do little to change what has
already been done.

Naturally, I did my best to reverse my exile. From the instant I heard of the
orc invasion, I fired off letters sent by messenger to the Count and his staff,
offering my service in whatever capacity was deemed necessary. The response was
always the same. My pleas were returned with felicitations as to the state of my
health, alongside assurances my services were no longer needed.

I should enjoy my leisure, the messages said. Let other men take up the
strain of battle; I had earned my retirement through years of hard campaigning.
It was time to let younger men put their shoulders to the stone.

I recognised the sardonic handiwork of some of my rivals in these messages,
in the way they said one thing while they meant another.

Don’t bother us, von Grahl, was the real message hidden between the lines.
Your time is over, old man. Good riddance, we no longer need you.

And so, while war raged through northern Hochland, while her people were
slaughtered, I found there was nothing I could do.

Of course, I followed the progress of the war as well as I could. Old habits
die hard. In my study there was a full set of maps of Hochland and the
surrounding provinces, left over from my campaigning days. As news, rumours and
reports came from the front, I made marks and notations on my maps, trying to
keep some sense of how the war was going.

I was helped in this regard by the fact I still maintained some friends at
court. There were a few old warhorses like myself, still in positions of
command, who had not as yet been put out to pasture. By drawing on these
friendships, I was even able to wheedle out the occasional piece of privileged
information. I might be unable to have any effect on the campaign, but I was
better informed than most.

Not that it helped my mood, not any of it. In particular, I found myself
concerned when I heard Count Aldebrand had decided to appoint General Erich von
Nieder to command the campaign against the greenskins.

I knew von Nieder of old. The two of us had clashed many times over the years
on matters of tactics, strategy, protocol, even coming close to fighting a duel
once, many years ago. I had always regarded the man with disdain. To my mind, he
was cast from the same mould as many of the unctuous toadies who spent their
lives trying to gain influence at the Elector’s court. I viewed him as an
arrogant blowhard who had risen to his office on the back of political
manoeuvrings rather than through any real skill as a general.

Unfortunately, no one was interested in my opinions on such matters. Forced
to follow the progress of the war from afar, I could only hope von Nieder proved
me wrong. With the future of Hochland at stake, I had to trust von Nieder’s
abilities and hope he could deal with the crisis.

Otherwise, I feared the worst…

“Make yourself comfortable,” the cart driver had told him once the money
changed hands. “We’ve a long journey northwards and you might as well make the
best of it.”

Three weeks later, as the cart jolted through the latest in a long series of
potholes, Dieter Lanz remembered the words with a certain ill-humour. Within a
few hours of the journey beginning, Dieter had learned an important lesson of
travel: there is no comfortable place in the back of a goods cart. Much less in
one piled high with supplies being transported to provision the army currently
at camp in the northern forests.

Granted, like the other carts in the caravan, there was a canvas covering
over the back that shaded it from the elements, but it hardly outweighed its
remaining defects. The roads the caravan had been following for the last three
weeks were little more than a series of trails winding a roundabout path through
the northern reaches of the Great Forest. The trails were not made for ease of
travel, but weeks of heavy traffic had transformed them into a rutted,
wheel-scarred obstacle course.

The cart hit another pothole, forcing Dieter to catch a heavy salted ham to
stop it falling on him. Placing the ham carefully to one side, he cast an
exasperated glance at the uniformed soldier lying in the back of the wagon with
him. Seemingly oblivious to the hardships of their journey, Hoist was asleep,
snoring loudly as he pillowed his head against a crate.

“Sigmar’s beard, but your friend can sleep,” the cart driver Otto called down
to him from the front of the wagon. “I’ve never seen the like. We’ve been on the
road three weeks, and I swear he’s been snoring for most of it.”

Dieter had no doubt of that. Having shared the back of the cart with Hoist
ever since Hergig, he had become unhappily accustomed to the other man’s habits.
Asleep, Hoist provided a one-man symphony of noises: snores, groans, snorts,
mutterings in his sleep, not to mention regular flatulent cannon bursts. So far,
Hoist had spent all but a few hours of each day sleeping, emerging from his
bear-like state of hibernation only when food was in the offing.

“Still, it’s a useful talent to have in the army,” Otto continued, ignoring
the trail ahead as he craned his neck around to look in the back of the wagon.
“You spend a lot of time on the road. Better to sleep through it than be bored,
I suppose.”

Sensing the driver was in a mood for conversation, and having had enough of
Hoist’s snoring to last him a lifetime, Dieter climbed over the partition
separating the back of the cart from the front and sat down next to Otto. The
driver may have made him pay twelve shillings for the dubious luxury of riding
in the back of the cart rather than walking, but Dieter held no particular
grudge. The man was good company, and without his camaraderie Dieter would have
been condemned to spend the journey listening to Hoist snore, wheeze and fart
his way toward their destination.

“Of course, it’s better to sleep than to fight,” Otto said, turning his eyes
back to the road now Dieter was by the side of him. “No offence, my young
friend, but I think you’re mad. Imagine wanting to be a soldier. Never mind
being so set on it you’re willing to travel from Hergig into these damned
forests, chasing some pretty boy regiment of sword-wavers in the hope they’ll
recruit you. Mad, that’s what it is.”

“But you’re making the same journey,” Dieter protested in good humour. In the
last three weeks, he and Otto had argued the point several times. “If I’m mad,
what does that make you?”

“Ah, but I’m in it for profit,” Otto said. Feeling in the back of the wagon,
he brought up a half-empty bottle of wine and pulled out the stopper. “It makes
all the difference. You can keep all your talk of glory, honour and the rest of
that arse-water. I’m a greedy man and I don’t mind who knows it. There’s only
one thing that would bring me this far north along these Sigmar-forsaken trails.
Silver.”

Gesturing with the bottle, Otto pointed to the long line of carts ahead of
them.

“It’s the same with all these others. Some are professional victuallers, like
me. Others are first-time men. Amateurs. The war brings ’em out. It gets so
anyone with a cart thinks they only have to fill it with provisions and take it
north to be rolling in coin like a pig in fresh manure.”