Forged in Battle (11 page)

On the slopes of The Old Bald Man, Fritz Shorr’s dogs began
to bark. He came out of the cabin door and shouted. “Shut up, damn you!”

The dogs strained on their chains. Fritz shook his head. Dumb
curs. As he went back inside he noticed an odd smell.

“A dead fox or something,” Fritz told his wife, who was
breast-feeding their youngest by the fire. The other two children were already
in bed, their blond hair visible in the bed that the whole family shared.

“Worst-smelling fox I ever heard of,” Fritz’s wife said after
a few minutes. She was right, the smell was getting worse. Fritz stood up, but
as he turned to the door it flew open and a hooded figure stood in the doorway.
Obscenely fat, the thing filled the doorway.

Fritz gagged on the overpowering stench. One of the children
woke up and started to cry. The stranger stepped over the threshold and Fritz
saw horns curling around its head. The figure had the legs of a goat; they ended
in brown hooves. Fritz’s wife screamed, clutching the baby closer to her for
protection. The creature took a sharp skinning knife from its belt and took
another step forward.

They moved silently through the forests, pausing every few
minutes to smell the air, nostrils flaring as they closed in. They had pushed on
ahead of the other bands, but it was not far now.

Red Killer moved at the head of band. His belt was plaited
with fresh heads. Man-gore dripped down his thighs, and he gave a low snort of
warning as he stopped at the end of the clearing.

The stones had risen from the ground. There were four of
them: black and jagged and throbbing with power. Red Killer would be the first
to draw on their power. With the strength that the stones gave him, he would be
able to challenge the Albino Abomination that had usurped the leadership.

Red Killer snorted. His men began to herd the prisoners
forward. They had gathered them as they marched down from Frantzplinth. There
were fifty of them, their tongues torn out. Ready for sacrifice.

On the upper slopes of Galten Hill, Gruff went out into the
cold night air and paced across to the latrine. Just as he was about to bang the
wooden door shut, he noticed the flicker of flames a little way down the hill.

That was the Larsen farm. He was about to call his farm hands
to come with him and see if they could help out when he heard a horn blowing:
strange and eerie high in the forest. More beastmen, Gruff thought, and then
another horn blew, lower in the valley. A third answered a little way up on the
ridge. It sounded again, closer this time and Gruff suddenly became scared.

Surely there couldn’t be more beastmen? But then another horn
blew, even closer this time. He ran back to the house. “Wake up!” he shouted as
he burst into the front room. “Get up now, for the love of Sigmar!”

He waited for a few seconds until the sound of voices and
doors banging told him his daughters had woken up, then he ran back out to the
stables to hitch the cart up.

Valina came out of the house in her nightgown. “What’s the
matter?” she asked, shivering.

“Another beastman raid!” Gruff hissed.

“It’s not possible!”

The horses shifted nervously and Gruff swore as he dropped
one of the leather straps. He struggled to retrieve it, then pulled the second
horse into place between the shafts.

“Father, what’s the matter?” Valina asked, confused and
frightened.

But before Gruff could answer the horn sounded again, even
closer now, and the dogs began to whimper and growl.

“Get your sisters!” Gruff said as he dragged the horses out
of the stables.

Sigmund was woken by a fierce banging. He rolled out of bed
and pulled the door open. It was one of the spearmen. When the man raised the
lantern to his face, Sigmund could see it was a boy with a scar down his cheek.

“What news?”

“Sir—there are flames in the hills.”

Sigmund frowned. “I will come and look,” he said. He threw on
his jacket, pulled on his boots and together they hurried through the empty
night streets, through the old stone gateway and down Altdorf Street to the top
of the rampart and the palisade.

High above the town, all along the hillsides, fires were
burning. Sigmund could tell from their size and shape that these were not
bonfires, but burning buildings. As he stood, shaking his head, another fire
started: much closer this time, past the apple orchards on the outskirts of
town. Embers spiralled up into the night sky. The low clouds glowed with
reflected light, but they did not glow red, but a hellish green.

Sigmund’s skin prickled.

“Run back to barracks and ask the sergeants to come,” he told
the soldier.

Sigmund stood and stared at the flames for nearly half an
hour. He was so immersed in the spectacle that he barely heard the footsteps of
his sergeants as Gunter, Osric, Vostig and Hanz arrived, panting from the rush
across the town.

They clambered up the steps and stopped when they saw the
fires spreading across the hillsides. “Sigmar!” Gunter swore, and Vostig and
Hanz shook their heads in horror.

“But look at that one?” Sigmund said and he pointed towards
the fire that was burning along the river.

“Is that a farm?” Gunter asked. Sigmund shook his head. There
was nothing there but orchards and fields.

Osric frowned. “Isn’t there a burial mound there?”

Sigmund nodded. Something had brought the beastmen down so
close to the city walls. They would not risk such a move unless the benefits
were worth more than the risk. His sense of alarm grew. “There is something
afoot. We must do something to stop it!”

Gunter was adamant. “We cannot go out into the night with
beastmen around. We do not know their strength or even their location. And these
creatures are wild animals—they would pick us off at their leisure. It would
be suicide.”

“We cannot go out,” Hanz agreed. “Marching out there in the
dark would be suicide.”

Sigmund nodded. “But gentlemen, we do not need to march!”

The other men gave him strange looks as he started to
explain.

In the barracks the men were sleeping soundly until the doors
flew open and Gunter stormed in, lantern in hand. “Up men!” he yelled. “Up! Damn
you all! Up!”

Elias sat bolt upright and fumbled on the ground for his
clothes and his boots. He heard Edmunt cough in the bed next to him and cursed
Sigmar, the Emperor Karl-Frantz and the elector count in one long expletive.

When Elias was half dressed he followed the other men
outside. Osric was standing at the armoury door. Inside the lanterns had been
lit and men were stumbling out, polished black breastpieces gleaming in the
lamplight, tying their sword belts around their waists, halberds in hand.

“Arm yourself!” Osric shouted and Elias ran into the armoury,
pulled a sword belt from the racks, and tied it around his waist. He lifted one
of the cuirboili breastplates and Gaston helped him strap it on, then he took a
steel cap, grabbed a halberd from the rack by the door then went to line up in
the yard with the others.

Holmgar was behind Elias. He grabbed sword, powder belt and
handgun. Vostig was waiting outside, and as each handgunner lined up he checked
their powder flasks were full, then went from man to man, handing each twenty
round lead shot that they dropped into pouches at their waists.

In twenty minutes sixty halberdiers and fifteen handgunners
were lined up, ready for battle.

Gunter gave the order and Baltzer started beating the drum,
and the men marched across the drill ground to the barracks gates, then turned
onto the road that led to the docks.

The horns were getting closer as Gruff Spennsweich helped his
last daughter up onto the cart, and then checked the ropes that held all their
possessions down. A few leaves rustled in the breeze and he turned as fast as he
could—but the moonlit tree-line was silent and empty.

He shivered. The Larson farm was still burning. Olan and
Dieter held the horses. They clambered up after the farmer, and clutched their
pitchforks nervously.

The horn sounded again and Gertrude, the youngest, started to
cry.

“Hush!” Floss hissed and put her arm around her sister.

They were all silent as the cart rumbled out of the yard onto
the tree-lined road. It was uncomfortable in the back. Beatrine huffed and put
her hand to stop her hair from blowing all over the place. The youngest,
Gertrude, sat next to their father, her knees drawn up to her chin. The twins,
Shona and Weina, sat together at the back. Valina put her arms around them. It
was times like this that she felt like their mother. She brushed a lock of hair
from her face. She had been born here, had grown up here, and now they were
leaving. At any other time the prospect of moving to town would have filled her
with excitement—but at night, like this, it was different.

On either side the trees were like silent sentinels. When she
had been growing up they had seemed green and full of light and adventure. But
now they were dark, sinister and frightening. Shona started to cry and Valina
hugged her harder.

And the horns kept drawing closer.

* * *

While the others ran back to raise the men, Sigmund ran to
Frantz’s home and banged on the door until a candle was lit in an upstairs
window and a woman’s face peered down.

“I need Frantz!” Sigmund shouted up and the woman nodded
sleepily and ducked back inside.

It took a few minutes for Frantz’s face to appear, and
Sigmund could barely contain his impatience.

“Sigmund?” Frantz croaked.

“Frantz,” Sigmund interrupted. “I need boats that will carry
eighty men and I need crews.”

Frantz took in one long deep breath and shook his head.

“And Frantz—I need them now!”

When they got to the moonlit docks Frantz took a look at all
the boats moored up along the jetties. It was a confusing tangle of masts and
rigging and boats of all sizes and descriptions. Sigmund had no idea where to
start.

Frantz rubbed his chin as he appraised the boats that were
moored closer to the harbour entrance. When he had made up his mind he set off
along the long wooden jetties. Sigmund could see the water lapping dark through
the gaps between the slats. The jetty was uneven in places, and he marvelled at
Frantz’s and his men’s ability to carry loads up and down these jetties, day in,
day out.

At the end of the jetty was a thirty-foot barge called the
White Rose.
It had a single mast and a small cabin aft, where the crew ate
and slept. There was a canvas stretched over the rest of the boat. Frantz lifted
it and Sigmund peered down. Empty.

“We unloaded this beauty this evening,” Frantz said. “And I
know the captain. He’s a good sort. I’ll speak to him.”

Frantz stepped from the jetty onto the gunwale and walked
quickly up the boat to the cabin. Sigmund saw him bend to knock on the cabin
door and then go inside. There was a long pause. Sigmund looked to the
mountains, fires slowly descending. Then he looked to the west and saw embers
climbing into the sky.

It seemed like an age before Frantz came back—followed by
the captain of the ship.

“Congratulations. You have your first boat! Captain Jorg,”
Frantz allowed himself a little joke, “meet Captain Ehab!”

Ehab was a short, bow-legged man with a knitted cap pulled
down over his head and a grizzled grey beard that covered the lower half of his
face, leaving bright eyes twinkling. His gait gave him the appearance of an ape,
but he held out his hand and shook that of Sigmund.

“I need to take my men downriver,” Sigmund began and Ehab
mumbled something in the broad sailor’s lingo, which Frantz had to translate.

“I told him all about it,” Frantz said, and then he leant
into Sigmund and whispered, “and of course I said there would be a reward
afterwards.”

Ehab’s crew slept on the boat. They got up and began to
organise the boat for sailing. Frantz found two more barges, one called
Myrmidia’s Grace,
which was a little larger than the
White Rose,
and
one about half its size called the
Heidi.

Their rigging had to be sorted and the sails and yardarms
made ready for hoisting. It took nearly an hour to get the boats ready for
sailing. Sigmund paced up and down the dock front waiting for his men. Come on,
he said to himself. Come on!

But the night streets were silent and dark and empty. lust as
he was beginning to think that something had gone wrong he heard the sound of a
marching tune. Baltzer was bringing them on in style.

The sound of drumming and tramping feet grew louder and
louder until it filled the empty streets.

It was a magnificent sight seeing the men come on through the
gloomy street, like a ghostly regiment of men, repeating some final march.
Edmunt was in the front rank, carrying the company’s banner, Baltzer was
drumming and Osric was two paces ahead of the unit. Behind them came Gunter’s
men and at the back were Vostig’s handgunners. The men’s halberds glittered with
reflected moonlight. Their steel caps shone, their black cuirboili breastplates
seemed to suck in whatever light there was and throw back a distant glimmer.

Sigmund’s heart swelled with pride to see his men, and to
know that he was to lead them into combat.

Gruff Spennsweich’s horses foamed with sweat as he drove them
on at a furious pace. “We will stop at Struhelflossen,” he said, which was the
nearest village, grown up around a tin mine, now long exhausted.

The cart rattled along and his girls were thrown back and
forth as they prayed to Shallya and Sigmar for protection. The horns had fallen
behind him now, but the night forests were no less terrifying. Valina shut her
eyes and pretended to sleep—hoping this was all a dream.