Forged in Battle (21 page)

Strong-arm Benjamin was standing at the end of the wall,
staring up at the water tower, which marked the wall’s end. The tower stood
twenty feet above the walls and there were a number of arrow slits in the
stonework, but there was a number of inch-wide cracks running up it.

“It’s a sorry sight,” Strong-arm said, nodding towards the
stonework.

Sigmund nodded.

“One cannon ball would bring this tower down.”

Sigmund nodded. “Luckily beastmen do not have cannons,” he
said.

Sigmund returned to the barracks as the sun began to set, and
realised how tired and hungry he felt: but there was no time for exhaustion—he
had to check the state of preparation.

“We have armed all the men we could,” Edmunt said. “There are
maybe three hundred volunteers, by my count.”

Sigmund nodded. The armoury of weapons and shields and every
scrap of amour. The stone-floored room had an empty echo to it as Sigmund walked
up and down, looking at the empty racks. There were a lot of men wondering if
this was their last night around town. Simple, honest men who never wanted to
lift a sword in anger, now forced to defend their homes and family.

It was different for professional soldiers. This is what they
were paid to do: kill or be killed, and not to worry about death, shadowing them
day and night.

When Sigmund came out of the armoury Edmunt had his whetstone
and was sharpening his axe. He rubbed the steel dust away and the axe head had a
fresh curve of polished steel along the edge, like it was smiling.

Edmunt kissed his blade. “I’ve given it a name,” he said.

Sigmund stopped to listen.

“Butcher,” Edmunt said.

Osric’s men had been billeted in the houses along the
palisade, many of which had been emptied of furniture already. Hanz’s men were
billeted at the north gate. Only Gunter’s men were still sleeping at the
barracks.

The drill yard was quiet with so few men here. As the sun
began to slip out of sight, Sigmund took in a deep breath. He needed to be alone
for a few minutes.

He went into his room and swung the door shut. He put his
feet up on his camp bed and put his arms behind his neck and tried to clear his
mind of all the small details.

Who was the enemy leader, he wondered and what was he doing
now?

Sigmund shut his eyes and tried to imagine where he would
attack Helmstrumburg, were the situations reversed.

The palisade, he thought. Obviously it was the place most
easily stormed.

But was that too obvious?

If he didn’t attack the palisade then where would he attack?

It was hard to say. The water tower? Maybe he would send
rafts in, and try to gain entry into the harbour.

There were so many weak places that the beastmen could
attack, and he didn’t have enough men to cover them all. Where will the beastmen
attack, he asked himself again and again? He was sure they would attack the
palisade. He had no liking for Osric, but he had a hard bunch of men. They would
hold up any attack, for a while at least.

After Sigmund had finished a simple meal of bread, cheese and
ale, he put his feet up and lay down on the bed, eyes shut, working through the
list of all the things he had done that day, searching in case there was
something he had missed.

There was a knock on his door but Sigmund did not move.

“Yes?” he called.

The door opened. “There is a man to see you,” a voice said.
It was Edmunt.

Sigmund opened his eyes, pushed himself up from the bed and
walked to the door. Outside, he saw one of the trappers standing in the yard.

Sigmund recognised Vasir and gave a tired smile.

“Vasir!” Sigmund said, feeling that the man had been sent at
this opportune moment to give him insights into the enemy. “What news?”

“Many tracks. All my men found spoor.”

Sigmund nodded and Vasir licked his lips. “From the signs
there must be more than five hundred, but I’d say they were waiting for
something. I’d say they were expecting more, if you was to press me sir.”

Sigmund nodded. Some power seemed to be organising the
beastmen. Was it the stones?

Vasir seemed to hesitate. “And one of my men went to your
father’s mill,” he said. “He found three skinned bodies. Not one of them was
your father.”

Sigmund nodded. He had grown up with the men who worked in
the mill. They were real country folk: hardworking with little to say, unless
pressed. Their deaths should never have happened. It was his father’s fault, and
he felt his anger flare up. But there was no point in being angry at a dead man.

Vasir’s eyes flicked back and forth as he watched the
captain. Vasir took a bundle from the inside of his jacket, and unwrapped it and
held it out to the captain. “And he found this!”

Inside there was a silver pistol with a curiously wide
barrel. Sigmund took it and stared at it incredulously. There was only one man
in Helmstrumburg with a pistol like this.

Sigmund rushed over to Gunter and let him know that he would
be out for half an hour.

“Do you need help?”

Sigmund shook his head. “No. It is a personal matter,” he
said, his face dark.

Sigmund hurried across the drill yard and into the evening
streets where a hush seemed to have fallen. He hurried through the dark streets,
picking up speed as he went, and ended up running across the marketplace. He
ignored the calls from Blik Short and his Old Unbreakables and took the stairs
of the Crooked Dwarf two at a time.

Guthrie was out, but Josh was there.

“The two Reikland merchants!” Sigmund demanded. “Where are
they?”

Josh pointed to the front of the inn. Sigmund sprinted up the
stairs and pounded down the corridor. He kicked the door open and drew his
sword.

The room was empty, except for Theodor, who saw the naked
foot of steel and jumped from the bed, his hands outstretched.

“You!” Sigmund said and stepped forward, knuckles white on
his sword handle.

Theodor leaped up. “I know why you are here,” he said,
backing up to the wall as Sigmund advanced. “I know why you are here and I can
explain!”

But Sigmund kept coming forward. He only stopped when the
point of the sword was an inch from the Reiklander’s chest. “Captain Jorg!” the
man blurted. “Your father is alive! I know where he is. If you kill me, you will
never find out!”

Sigmund did not remove the sword, it pressed into Theodor’s
skin.

“I was there to help your father,” Theodor said. “I helped
him escape. There was a terrible fight. Look!” he pulled aside his shirt,
showing Sigmund a ragged cut along the bottom of his ribs. “I got this! Your
father would not have given me such a wound.”

“You could have done that yourself,” Sigmund said.

“I promise you your father is alive! I saw him last night
riding away from the mill. But we cannot talk here. My companion might come back
at any moment and that would be disastrous for you, me and everyone in
Helmstrumburg!”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He might return at any moment!” Theodor said.

Sigmund started out of the door, but Theodor pulled him back.

“Please—I need to explain!”

The barge carried him out of Helmstrumburg and along the dark
banks—the lights of town retreating behind him.

The burgomeister waited until he was safely past town then
paddled desperately to shore. The current was too strong so he threw himself
into the water. It was deeper than he thought and he took a mouthful or two of
water before he found the muddy bottom and struggled to shore.

His clothes dripped as he hauled himself ashore.

“It’s me!” he shouted. “The burgomeister!”

The moonlit trees were silent. A few leaves moved in a breeze
but he saw no one. Where were they?

“I have come!” he shouted, but even though he felt he was
being watched, he saw nothing.

The trees were like a silent wall. Occasionally one of the
soldiers thought he saw something, but each time it appeared that it was nothing
more than a bird, flapping in the undergrowth—or sometimes a fox, bolting
across the open ground.

But even though they saw nothing, the men on the walls had
the feeling that they were being watched. And watched (hey were: even though the
beastmen were too stealthy to be seen. Closer than any of the men could imagine,
the smaller beastmen lay still, watching the preparations on the town walls.

In the shelter of the trees, a white figure stamped his
hooves and snorted with barely contained rage. Only half of his force had
arrived. The attack which he was to have led was late.

A stooped figure shuffled towards him, bent low in
suppliance, shaking its rattle in homage to the beastman warlord.

“My lord—Brazak’s and Drakk’s herds have arrived!”

Azgrak snarled with fury and turned from the town. Drakk was
the brood-brother of the Red Killer. He had inherited the Red Killer’s herd.
There were fresh heads plaited into Drakk’s human-hair belt. His legs were brown
with caked blood. On his snout there were fresh gouts of blood. In his left hand
he dragged the headless corpse of a child.

Brazak walked next to him, his suppurating skin now
accelerating to a rolling boil of pus and slime. The stink was overpowering.

Azgrak’s fingers clenched and unclenched on his axe shaft. He
bared his fangs, let out a roar of fury, and the warlords stopped. It took a
moment for the noise to die down. “You are late!” he snarled.

The pace of Brazak’s boiling skin slowed for a moment, and
Drakk let go of the foot of his meal.

“There were many humans to kill,” Brazak snarled and Azgrak
opened his snout and roared in fury.

“We were meant to attack today!” he raged. “You are late!”

He tossed the head of Red Killer onto the floor in front of
them. Drakk sprayed in supplication, but Brazak was too slow to show his
deference to the warlord.

Azgrak was a white blur. Brazak’s festering skin stopped all
of a sudden, and his hooded head bent slowly forward as if he was bowing to the
albino, but it tumbled forward, off his shoulders and onto the ground. A second
later his legs gave way and the whole festering sack of flesh followed.

Azgrak turned to Drakk but the shaman crept forward, skull
rattle shaking. “The omens for tomorrow are good!” the shaman hissed. “The
guilty have been punished. Oh fearsome warbeast, do not kill all your finest
warriors!”

Azgrak could barely restrain his anger, but instead of
striking Drakk, he bent his horned head back to the moon and roared—and the
leaves above his head shivered.

“Tomorrow, Helmstrumburg will burn!” the shaman hissed, but
Azgrak brandished his axe at the town of the enemy.

“No,” he spat with fury. “It will burn tonight!”

Theodor’s face strained as Sigmund put the point of his blade
to the merchant’s throat.

“Speak!” Sigmund commanded.

“We cannot stay here. My companion might return at any
minute! Trust me, let us go somewhere where we cannot be disturbed!”

Sigmund heard footsteps on the stairs and saw Josh’s
terrified face peering up at him. Sigmund bundled the Reiklander out into the
corridor and down the stairs to the bar.

Josh saw the drawn sword as they came towards him and ran
down the stairs, but Sigmund called out to him and he stopped. “Open the
cellars!” Sigmund said and Josh hurried to obey. The captain’s tone did not
leave any room for discussion—and he had a drawn sword in his hand.

Sigmund shoved Theodor through the door that led to the
cellar. The temperature dropped and there was a distinct scent of fermentation.

“Josh! Keep this door shut and guard it. Understand?”

Josh nodded and then Sigmund winked, and turned to go down.

The cellar was dark. Sigmund paused, about to call for a
light, then a flint was struck, and Theodor lit a candle. In the flickering
light, Sigmund could make out the face of Theodor and the barrels neatly stacked
against the cellar wall.

“What is all this about?” Sigmund demanded. “And why the need
for secrecy?”

“I work for the Count of Talabecland,” Theodor said, and as
he spoke Sigmund heard his fine Reikland accent disappear and be replaced by one
from Talabheim.

Sigmund was not impressed. As he stepped forward, his sword
edge glimmered in the candlelight. “And what does that have to do with
Helmstrumburg?”

“There are terrible forces at work,” Theodor hissed.

Sigmund had heard the same warnings in the mouths of mad men
and doomsayers all his life. He could not believe that he had come all this way
and with such secrecy just to be told this. “Terrible forces,” Theodor
continued, “for whom skinning a man and his family alive is just the prelude.”

“You have seen these things, I can tell,” Theodor said.

Sigmund remembered the nausea he felt when he’d been inside
the cabin of Osman Speinz. It hadn’t so much been the sight of the butchered
bodies that had disturbed him, but the crude symbols daubed in blood.

When he tried to bring them back to mind the symbols were a
blur in his mind, as if his conscious mind refused to dredge them back.

“It is only with the greatest of efforts that I have remained
sane,” Theodor told Sigmund, but his mouth was moving strangely. Sigmund
suddenly felt as if reality were about to fail, that he was being pulled towards
a world of insanity.

“Four years ago I became involved in a Chaos cult,” Theodor
spoke the word in a low hush. “And—Sigmar save my soul—I have seen things
that would make a living man lose his sanity!” Theodor paused for a moment.
“There is some great event for which the powers of Chaos—
Chaos!”
he
said. “Hell-spawned incarnate! Abominations beyond comprehension! Chaos—the
primal slime that is always trying to slither out and dissolve us all into a
sickening stew of madness!”