[Empire Army 03] - Call to Arms

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  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.”

  “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 sh
aped 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.

  The beastman attacked once more, swinging its axe on the backstroke as it came at him remorselessly. Dieter jumped backward just in time to avoid the blow. Dodging to one side as the creature swung the axe again, he tried to stop himself being pushed back against the cart.

  It was hopeless. The monster was relentless. It was all Dieter could do to stay clear of the blade—the axe strokes came too quickly to allow him to escape. He had managed to steer away from the cart itself, but instead his retreat had pushed him toward the dray team hitched in front of it.