Forged in Battle (22 page)

As Theodor ranted, Sigmund heard the door creak at the top of
the stairs.

“Captain Jorg?” a voice called. It was Josh.

“What is it?”

“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you but Edmunt is here.”

“Tell him to wait in the bar. I will be up shortly.”

Josh’s footsteps hurried back up the stairs and the door shut
again. Sigmund looked back to Theodor.

“Trust no one! There is some great event to which they are
working,” Theodor said. Tribes are gathering in the north. Beastmen rise here.
On the borders of our allies in Kislev, raiding parties have struck again and
again. On the Sea of Claws dragon-prowed boats cleave a path south. It is as if
all minions of Chaos are being moved by a single will. We are ever vigilant, but
we are always one step behind! It is only by chance that I was allowed to come
to Helmstrumburg. And thank Sigmar I was. The situation is dire, Captain Jorg!
Danger approaches!

“Long have the beastmen waited and watched the stars.
Sigmar’s star has come like a signal to them, that the time to retake their
ancestral heartland is here. For did you not know that your town was built upon
a site sacred to the beastmen?”

“I knew this,” Sigmund said. “But what does this have to do
with Sigmar’s star?”

“Chaos is a power that is impossible to describe,” Theodor
said. “It glories in destruction and violence and yet—and yet,” he sighed, “it
has powers of organisation beyond the realm of sane understanding. Even as the
northern tribes gather, so too do the mutants of the Drakwald, and so too do the
beastmen around Helmstrumburg. If the beastmen seize Helmstrumburg they will be
able to blockade not only the road that links Kemperbad and Altdorf, but also
the River Stir!”

Sigmund shook his head at this nonsense. Whoever saw beastmen
on boats? The men of the Stir River patrol would drown every one of them.

“They are not planning to blockade the river,” Theodor
whispered. “They are going to dam it!”

“Not even dwarfs could dam the Stir!” Sigmund snorted.

“They are not planning to dam it with trees or any means
known to man. With the powers of the gods of Chaos, they were going to block the
Stir with the corpses of Helmstrumburg!”

Sigmund could see that Theodor believed every word he said,
but his claims defied imagination.

“And how would the town be destroyed by Chaos?”

“Sigmund Jorg, you do not know how far your town has sunk.
There are cultists through every level of society here. Those that they could
not buy through money or terror they have bought with gold. Even the
burgomeister has sold his soul—unwittingly—to Chaos!”

“It was only as we were approaching Helmstrumburg that I
realised the true extent of the danger. If I had known how deep the rot had sunk
I would have asked for more troops. All we can do now is to put our faith in the
Heldenhammer and our own right hands.”

“But what does all this have to do with my father?” Sigmund
asked.

“The beastmen have a prophecy that their lands will be
returned to them when the descendants of their warlord and Ortulf Jorg fight
again.”

“Then I could fight him?”

“You could,” Theodor said. “But you are a young man,
untrained and unschooled in war. The beastmen do not fear you as much as they
fear your father. They are happy for you to fight because they believe that they
can kill you, and your death will bring their victory. In fact, they want you to
fight because a Jorg has to die—and they believe it is you. Your death will
bring about the return of their land.”

“What can I do?” Sigmund asked.

“You have already done much, Captain Jorg. I have sent out
word to allies, but if you cannot hold back the first assaults then they will
not come in time! You must hold back the beastmen and you must not die.”

On the west gate of Helmstrumburg Edmunt watched Morrslieb
set over the Stir. He felt the weight of Butcher, hanging at his belt, and the
familiar feel of the halberd in his hands. The moonlight glittering on the
rippling water was a beautiful and chilling sight: and made him think of the
battle to come.

“Do you ever worry that this will be your last night?” Elias
asked. The red lantern flames made him think of the blood that would soon be
spilt.

Edmunt looked at him, surprised. “Not yet,” he smiled.

Elias nodded. He wondered whether that was last time he would
ever see Morrslieb set.

As the night deepened around them, Gunter left the guardroom
and went from man to man, on sentry on the gates or along the walls, offering
brief words of encouragement.

When he came to Gaston the grizzled veteran winked. “If you
see anything then shout,” he said.

Gaston nodded and his sergeant passed along the wall.

Gaston took a deep breath and checked the sheath of his
sword. It was sticking a little, but if he twisted the handle and pulled it came
out clean. He practised drawing his sword a couple of times until he was
satisfied, then ran a finger under the chin strap of his iron cap and rested on
his halberd shaft.

It was the waiting that he hated most of all.

Squire Becker was supposed to be waiting for orders in the
marketplace, as instructed, but as night fell he led his men through the evening
streets towards the north gate.

Short, plump and effete, Squire Becker leading a squad of
twenty men would have seemed comic at any time other than this. But as they
passed townsfolk in the street the people made way for them and thanked them for
their courage.

“Sigmar bless you,” one old woman said, and she stepped
forward to mumble a prayer to Sigmar. Squire Becker heard the words and snarled
as if stung. His face curled in fury and disgust. He drew his sword and cut the
woman down, as if she were a common thief and his men did not pause as they
trampled over her.

The people in the street stood dumbfounded—disbelieving
their own eyes, but after the men had passed the trampled body of the old woman
still lay there in a pool of blood.

One man shouted to the men of the free company, but they
marched on down the street towards the north gate.

Squire Becker and his men were deaf to the hue and cry behind
them. They turned a corner and saw the north gate where spearmen and handgunners
were standing. The time was almost here and they had a job to do.

From the woods that covered the lower slopes of Galten Hill
moved a silent army: a thousand horned creatures, animal snouts sniffing the air
and smelling victory.

Their belts were heavy with human heads or hands, or other
gory tokens. With each victim they had daubed their fur with blood. It caked
their fur together in a matted mess. Many of them had come fresh from slaughter—and the blood on their snouts and shoulders and weapon edges still dripped
fresh scarlet blood.

One creature led them from the woods: an albino monster—patches of white fur showing through the dripping red gore. Behind him came the
largest of the beastmen warriors, which dwarfed the smaller beasts like grown
men dwarf children. They carried two-headed axes and massive clubs of twisted
wood, knotted and hammered with metal spikes. Some of them wore plates of iron
between their horns, or the shield of some long-dead knight strapped across
their chest, but most of them did not wear armour of any kind: their ferocity
and animal cunning were protection enough.

With the army came all kinds of creatures from the deepest
forests, abominations that had not been seen in the Stir Valley for a thousand
years.

There were bull-headed minotaurs with great axes in their
hands. They snorted and pawed the ground, eager to rip open the throats of their
enemies and suck their hot blood.

There were creatures that were half-man, half-horse. Their
heads were horned like rams, and in their hands they carried simple wooden
shields and sharpened poles, the ends hardened in the fires of their caves,
where they had stood for long hours, listening to tales of the ancient times
when beasts ruled this land.

There were creatures plucked straight from the nightmare of
the most insane: many-limbed, twisted and shuffling parodies of life—Chaos
spawn. And dashing through the tree trunks, blacker than midnight, ran packs of
slavering four-legged creatures, which might once have been wolves or dogs, but
had been corrupted by Chaos. Wickedly spiked spines tore through their twisted
bodies, driving them mad with torment.

As the warhost gathered, two contingents split off from the
main band and began to make their way around the city walls. Nearly two hundred
beastmen went, keeping well out of sight of the men on the walls, but as close
to the walls as they dared.

While Azgrak would lead an assault of power and savagery,
these two bands would rely on stealth and cunning to break into Helmstrumburg.
When all was set, Azgrak took a crude horn from his belt and blew a blast so
great that it made the walls of Helmstrumburg tremble.

The warhost of Azgrak the White charged.

Osric was sitting in the guardroom at the palisade gate,
playing dice with Baltzer and Blik Short, the leader of the Old Unbreakables,
when the first horn blast sounded.

“What in the name of all the gods was that?” Osric said, but
he was half way to the door when the call was answered by a thunderstorm of
other horns—each brazen voice adding to the cacophony that made the timbers of
the gatehouse shake. Osric grabbed his steel cap and halberd and took the stairs
to the palisade three at a time. “To arms!” he shouted as his men poured out of
the guardhouse and grabbed their weapons. “To arms!”

Baltzer grabbed the money from the table and slipped it into
his pouch with the dice before he ran out with his weapon in hand.

The bells of the Chapel of Sigmar began to ring the alarm,
wild and frantic bell-tolls summoning all the able bodied to battle.

Blik Short marched out and his company of retired soldiers
stood smartly to attention: only their guts and grizzled hair betraying their
age. “Onto the walls, men!” Blik said. “Fight well!”

The retired soldiers hurried up the walls and soon the
palisade wall was lined with halberdiers and men of the free companies.

Osric stared out into the night, but could see nothing,
despite the sound that was like the thunder of a hundred galloping horses. Then
he saw—first one horned head, sprinting towards the ditch—and then a
hundred.

“Sigmar’s balls!” Osric cursed. It seemed that the land was
thick with a thousand sprinting goat-men: their crude banners flapping and
moonlight glinting like frost on the tips of their spears. It looked like a wave
of hatred that would sweep Helmstrumburg away.

Holmgar leaned on the battlement of the north gate and stared
out into the darkening sky. He and Vostig sat together, their handguns ready and
charged—even though neither man expected battle tonight.

“Have you ever been to Nuln?” Holmgar asked after a long
pause.

“I have,” Vostig said. “It’s a fine city.”

Vostig stood and went over to the swivel gun and started to
polish the brass back to a shine.

“It was a shame to let such a piece go to waste,” he said.

Holmgar nodded. Occasionally he’d seen other weapons like
repeating handguns or pistols which could fire eight shots before needing to be
reloaded, but rather than being different breeds of firearm, they seemed to him
to be different animals entirely.

As Vostig polished the swivel gun lovingly, Holmgar shook his
head in wonder. As he stood upright, he saw Squire Becker come round the corner
of the street that led lo the gate. He didn’t have much faith in their fighting
ability, but the more men Sigmund sent to help them, the better.

“Who’d have thought that Squire Becker would stay and light,
when he could have bought himself a passage out of here?” Holmgar mused and
Vostig nodded, then frowned. Squire Becker had a drawn sword in his hand.

And if Vostig was not mistaken, the sword was dripping blood.

lust as Vostig opened his mouth to shout a warning there was
a horn blast like a clap of thunder and Holmgar dropped his sword in shock. At
the same time Squire Becker broke into a run and behind him his men lowered
their spears and charged.

Roderick waited in the bar until Sigmund came out, pushing
one of the merchants with him.

His legs were mud-stained, but he smoothed down the front of
his blue jacket and assumed his usual air of pomposity. His stomach was hollow,
his palms sweated. The last person he wanted to talk to was the arrogant
captain.

“I demand to speak to you,” Roderick declared.

“All right, but make it quick!” Sigmund said, and signalled
to Theodor to step aside for the moment.

Roderick pursed his lips and wiped the sweat from his upper
lip. “This evening I went to see the burgomeister, only to see him leaving town
on his barge!”

Sigmund shook his head. He had expected no more.

“And he was helped,” Roderick leaned in close to whisper, “he
was being helped by the friend of that man there!”

Sigmund clapped Roderick on the shoulders.

“I have disliked you, for so long, Roderick, but now it seems
you are an honest man after all. I already knew the burgomeister was a traitor.
The most important thing we can do now is defend the town, soldiers and town
watch alike. Will you join us? Will you give your life to save Helmstrumburg?”

After a second’s pause, Roderick replied, “Yes.”

“Find yourself a sword and that band of cut-throats you call
the watch, and join us on the palisade!” Sigmund said.

As Sigmund clapped Roderick on the back, there was the
distant sound of a horn call. The attack had begun! “The palisade!” Sigmund
shouted and he shoved Theodor in front of him. “Edmunt—run to the west gate—I will be with Osric!”