03 - Call to Arms (4 page)

“I wouldn’t have thought there’d be that much money in supplying soldiers,”
Dieter said to him.

“No? Well, you’d be wrong there. The army quartermasters will pay a fine
penny for every scrap of food they can get their hands on. Never mind what the
troops themselves will pay for drink, black snuff, and any other luxuries a man
can manage to transport north.”

Otto took a long draught from the wine bottle, before continuing.

“You see, this is the best time to be victualling—early in the campaign,
when the supply lines are still not properly sorted. I hear the Count called up
twenty thousand men. That’s a lot of hungry mouths. And the generals and
quartermasters know if they don’t see to feeding ’em, the men will desert.
There’s lots of armies end their days that way. Not killed by the enemy, or even
by disease. They just melt away through lack of supplies.”

“But, if that’s true, there’s more at stake here than just money,” Dieter
said, appalled. “The rumours say there’s a horde of orcs ready to come sweeping
down through Hochland from the mountains. Surely it’s your duty to help the
army, not try to make a profit from them?”

“Duty?” Otto spat out a mouthful of phlegm, tinged pink from wine. “That’s
another one of those arse-water words like glory and honour. I have a wife and
family. Duty won’t put bread on their table, nor replace me if I get killed by
the orcs in the woods. Silver, Dieter. And gold. They’re the only things with
real value in life. Everything else is pig shit.”

“But what about Hochland? If the rumours are true, the entire province could
be in danger.”

“Pfah.” Snorting in contempt, Otto took another pull from the bottle. “You’re
young, my friend—that’s the problem. When you get older, you’ll realise these
things are not uncommon occurrences. The orcs are
always
invading. Or, if
it is not them, it’s the Ostlanders, or the undead, or the followers of the
Ruinous Powers.”

Still gripping the bottle tightly in his hand, Otto made the sign of the
hammer.

“Someone is always trying to kill us here in the Empire. We are surrounded by
enemies. War is the natural order of things. After a while you realise it’s
better not to think of it. If you dwell on these things too much, you’d never
get a good night’s sleep. Not like your friend there. Now there’s a man who
knows how to avoid his cares.”

Jerking a thumb behind him Otto indicated Hoist, still asleep in the back of
the cart. A sack of flour perched on a stack of crates beside him had developed
a small tear at the corner, dribbling white dust into Hoist’s face. Even that
was not enough to wake him. Sniffing in unconscious irritation, Hoist blew out
from under his lips and turned on his side.

Not for the first time since they had met, Dieter found himself staring at
Hoist intently. The soldier was a large man, with a bearish build and a broad
tanned face distinguished by an impressively bushy moustache. When he wasn’t
snoring like a sleeping milch cow, Dieter had found him to be a boisterous,
personable fellow, much given to loud opinions and expansive gestures.

They had met in Hergig, at the barracks of the 3rd Hochland Swordsmen. The
3rd was a famous regiment. Nicknamed the “Grey-and-Scarlets”, or simply “the
Scarlets” for short, the men of the 3rd wore a distinctive uniform that set
them apart from the other Hochland regiments.

Hoist was wearing the uniform now: a grey doublet, scarlet undershirt, hose
that were grey on one leg and red on the other. There were slashes in the fabric
of the doublet, running along both arms and down either side of the torso, which
allowed the colours of the undershirt to peek through, creating an effect eerily
reminiscent of bloody wounds as though the wearer had suffered injury in battle.
As well as the uniform, Hoist wore a steel breastplate and an open helmet topped
with a feather dyed red and green, the state colours of Hochland.

Taken together, the effect should have been impressive. Certainly, it set
Hoist apart from the other soldiers they had met on the road, most of whose
uniforms followed drab variations on the more typical Hochland colour scheme of
red and green.

Hoist had told Dieter his story soon after the pair had met. He was a member
of the Scarlets, but he had been wounded in a tavern skirmish some weeks back
with the soldiers of a rival regiment. Although his injuries were now healed,
they had caused him to arrive too late to join the muster when the regiment had
been sent north. Since Hoist was eager to rejoin his comrades, he and Dieter had
agreed to travel north together. It had been Hoist’s idea to bribe one of the
victuallers to take them in his wagon, rather than walking. Although, in a
development that Dieter now recognised as part of a pattern, Hoist had persuaded
him to pay the entire bribe himself, citing his recent “medical expenses” as
the reason for his lack of coin.

Dieter had dreamed of joining the Scarlets almost since he was a child, but
he was finding it hard to marry his inner ideal of the regiment with the
representative example currently taking up valuable space in the back of the
wagon. Hoist was not what he had expected. Dieter supposed he had come to regard
the Scarlets as heroes. There seemed little that could be called heroic,
however, in a sleeping, farting oaf with a face covered in flour.

“Soldiering is not all it’s cracked up to be,” Otto said, as though divining
Dieter’s thoughts. “Nor are soldiers, for that matter. Don’t get me wrong. It’s
a useful skill, knowing how to kill. Valuable, even. But, then, that’s the
problem with soldiers. They sell their skills for a few pennies, when any
sensible man would realise there’s better ways to make money from your sword
arm.”

The forest was surprisingly quiet. Dieter had grown up in the country, in an
old mill on the outskirts of a small village. He was accustomed to the sounds of
the wilderness: the call of birds, wild animal cries, and the howl of wolves.
This far into the woods, he would have expected more noise, a forest cacophony.
Thinking about it, he realised the creatures of the deep woods were unused to
the presence of human beings, much less a caravan of rattling, noisy carts.

For all that, the forest seemed quieter than was normal. Abruptly, Dieter
realised the woods were all but silent. There were no sounds from among the
trees, not even the distant murmur of birds. It was unsettling. He could only
hear the noises of the caravan and the gentle whisper of the wind through the
leaves of the trees.

“You understand what I’m getting at?” Otto said, offering him the wine
bottle. “I’ve seen you practising your fencing with the caravan guards. You’re
good, Dieter. Too good to be wasting your talents on soldiering. You’d make a
damn sight more money by joining my operation. Victualling’s a hard trade;
there’s always some bastard looking to steal your gold or pilfer goods from the
cart. Then there’s the dangers of the road to contend with: bandits, highwaymen,
deserters, beastmen and the like. A man can be a lot surer of his profits if
he’s got someone with a good sword arm standing beside him. I can pay you a
shilling a day and cut you in for one tenth of the profits, minus expenses of
course. Added to which, naturally, I’ll teach you the trade. Well? What do you
say?”

They were his last words. Suddenly, a massive spear flew from the forest and
embedded itself in Otto’s chest, pinning him to the cart like a butterfly stuck
to its mount. The wine bottle fell from Otto’s dead hand and smashed to the
ground.

Unsheathing the sword at his side, Dieter turned as a chorus of bestial roars
came from either side of the trail. He saw horned, goat-legged creatures appear
from among the trees to attack the line of carts. Recognising them as beastmen,
he grabbed his shield from the back of the wagon, casting an eye at Hoist under
the canvas. The swordsman had begun to stir, his slumber rudely interrupted by
the tumult of screams and shouts as the caravan came under attack. The air was
suddenly filled with the sounds of battle: the yells and alarms of the guards,
beastmen battle-cries and the shrieks of panicking animals.

“Hoist!” Dieter yelled at the sleeping soldier. “Get up, dammit! We’re being
attacked!”

He kicked a small cask toward the man, hoping the impact would rouse him.
Unperturbed, Hoist grumbled in his sleep and turned over onto his side.

Glancing back outside, Dieter saw dark figures moving toward their cart. The
time when he could afford to waste precious seconds trying to wake Hoist was
past. Jumping down from the cart, Dieter hefted his shield and made ready to
meet the beastmen’s attack.

There were three of them. Each one stood at a little less than Dieter’s
height. They were armed with spears. In place of horns, their heads were crowned
with stubby nubs, like the seed-horns of an immature stag. Dieter recognised
them as the lesser breed of beastmen, reportedly less dangerous than their
bigger, horned brethren. Still, lesser breed or not, they had him outnumbered.

The first one charged him, a little ahead of the others. Dieter met its
spear-thrust with his shield, deflecting the blow downward and to the left as he
had been taught. At the same time, he slashed out with his sword, catching the
creature at the side of the temple with a blow that split its head open. With a
scream, the beastman fell.

The other two were more cautious. Instead of charging him headlong, they kept
their distance. Making use of the superior reach of their spears over his sword,
they jabbed at Dieter, one trying to hold his attention while its brother-beast
tried to get behind him.

Wise to the trick, Dieter took the offensive. Charging the nearest beastman,
he met its spear jab with his shield and pushed into it, forcing the creature to
stumble backwards as it tried to prevent the spear being jarred out of its grip.
The beastman slipped. Taking advantage of his enemy’s momentary confusion,
Dieter stabbed low with his sword, catching the beast in the side as it fell.

In the meantime, the third beastman had charged towards him. Whirling away
from its fallen brother, Dieter parried a spear thrust with his sword, relying
on his attacker’s momentum to bring them into close quarters. For a moment, as
the beastman struggled to unlock the haft of its spear from the crossguard of
Dieter’s sword, they were face to face.

Up close, the monster was repugnant. It leered at him in bloodlust, eyes
staring at him in hatred. There was a sickening smell about it: the musk of a
herd animal mixed with the charnel stench of blood. With his free hand Dieter
smashed his shield into its face. Snout bloodied, the beastman lost its grip on
its spear, allowing Dieter to hook his blade underneath and stab upwards,
burying a good length of Empire-forged steel into the thing’s heart.

He had no time to celebrate his victory. Whichever way he looked, Dieter saw
men and beastmen locked in life-or-death confrontation as the caravan guards and
drivers did their best to hold their own against the beastmen raiders. Ahead, he
could see some of the carts had been dragged to the edge of the trail and
overturned onto their sides—though he could not be sure whether these were the
work of the caravan’s defenders or accidents caused by draught animals that had
panicked at the beastmen’s attack. Similarly, from Dieter’s vantage, it was
impossible to tell which side was winning. It was clear the outcome of the
battle could still swing either way.

Intending to add his own efforts to the caravan’s defence, Dieter looked
about him in search of any defender nearby who might need his help. Before he
could make his decision, however, he heard a deafening, bleating roar behind
him. It held a definite note of challenge.

Turning, he saw an enormous beastman moving toward him. It was a gor, the
larger of the beastman breeds. This one stood nearly one-and-a-half times as
tall as Dieter, not counting its horns which spread wide from its head and
curled back on themselves like the horns of a goat.

In the eighteen years of his life to date, Dieter had experienced the
misfortune of meeting with beastmen on several occasions. Given the size of the
creature currently bearing down on him, he judged it must be a leader among its
kind—not a chieftain perhaps, but certainly some form of champion or favoured
warrior. It reminded him of the bloodthirsty beast spoken of in the tale of
Tomas Wanderer, the “gallanting Knacht” whose death was commemorated in a
nursery rhyme told to the Empire’s children.

The monster was covered in scars, some evidently gained in battle, others
self-inflicted and shaped in the manner of sigils, as though the beast had
carved and branded some prayer to its heathen gods into its living flesh. Dozens
of trophies dangled on leather cords from its body: teeth, claws, fingers,
bones, even severed heads, taken from a variety of prey, including humans.

The beastman roared again. It lowered its axe and shield, leaving its chest
unguarded as though daring Dieter to strike it. Dieter could not be sure, but he
thought the beast was smiling.

“Gharrr-Kar,” the creature rasped, its voice sounding frighteningly human for
something so clearly not. “Gharrr-Kar! Kharnn Gor!”

Dieter could not be sure whether it was the creature’s name, a challenge
ritual, or even some form of beastman oath. He was not entirely certain whether
the noises the monster was making were even words.

“Gharrr-Kar… Gharrr-Kar! Kharnn Gor!”

Raising its axe, the monster stormed towards him with surprising swiftness.
Dieter barely had time to prepare his shield before the blow was struck. He did
not meet it directly, instead slanting the shield sideways at an angle to
deflect the blow and channel its force away from him. Even so, his shield was
split in two. Dieter felt the axe blade whisper past his skin as it cut through
the arm straps and dragged the broken pieces of the shield away. An inch or two
closer and it would have cut through the flesh of his arm like a butcher’s
cleaver.