“Gunter,” he continued. “Yours will take the rear, and Sergeant Alter’s section will lead. Understand?”
“Answer the officer,” Alter barked, and as one man they said, “Yes, sir.”
It was on that unified note that the Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig set out on their first posting.
By the time the sun had risen they were passing through the city gates. The previous day had seen Erikson and Porter bully and bribe and scrounge their way through the city’s stores, the requisition parchment in their hands, and of all the dangers they would face starvation was not one. As well as their bedrolls and weapons each man also carried a half-sack of grain or millet or salt-fish over his shoulders. The half-dozen mules they had been able to commandeer carried barrels of wine and the two massive brass kettles which Porter had acquired for boiling water.
As the company moved off Erikson was in high spirits. Last night he had secured an advance on the payment for the company’s hire, and the purse was as heavy on his belt as the sun was warm on his neck.
What more could a mercenary ask for?
They marched for four hours at a steady pace that ate up the miles with a deceptive speed. The ground rolled ahead of them in a gently undulating sea of growing wheat, waist high and shimmering with tones of green and gold. It was coated with dust on either side of the road, and high overhead hawks circled, looking for the mice that feasted on the growing crop. Erikson looked across the endless fields and wondered how long it would be until they were scythed.
For some reason the thought sent a chill down his back, and he quickened the pace until, in the distance, they could see the storm front of a distant forest. It edged up to the fields, as dark and silent as some terrible predator. As the column drew near to it the head of every man in the company turned to peer nervously into the tangled depths. If Erikson hadn’t known better he would have thought it impossible that beasts the size of those he had seen could move so easily through such undergrowth.
But know better he did. That was why he marched the company through the midday heat. It wasn’t until the sun was setting on the exhausted column that the road wound away from the forest and towards the wreckage of a deserted village. A stream gurgled between the broken walls and blackened timbers, and before Erikson could stop them the men were stampeding towards the delicious coolness of the fresh water.
“We’ll camp here tonight,” he told Alter as they watched the men slaking their thirst, getting down on all fours to drink like cattle from the stream.
“It doesn’t look as though it has been deserted for long,” Alter said doubtfully, and scratched a fingernail through the charcoal that blackened one of the shattered timbers which littered the ground.
“I know,” Erikson nodded, and looked back towards the forest which lurked no more than a couple of bow shots distant. Whatever fate had befallen the people of this village, he had no doubt that it had come from the depths of that terrible wilderness.
For the first time he noticed the scatter of bones and stakes that lay to the south of the ruins. At first he took the bones to be human, but as he drew closer he saw that they belonged to dogs. The animals’ skulls had been punched into sharpened sticks, which had since been blown over.
“I’ve heard of this,” Alter told him. “Some say that the beasts fear our hounds more than our arms.”
“They have nothing to fear from these hounds anymore,” Erikson said and examined the gnaw marks that had patterned one of the skulls. He was still turning it in his hands when a scream rang out from amongst the men.
Erikson raced towards the commotion, vaulting tumbledown walls and sodden piles of collapsed thatch as he did so. His sword was already in his hand when he reached the group which had gathered around the man. Erikson pushed through them to see a man bent over, vomiting up the water he had drunk. As he stumbled away from what he had found a groan went through the crowd and suddenly another man was vomiting. And then two more.
The acrid stink of their sickness adding a bitter tang to the sickly-sweet smell of decay that Erikson could now smell. It grew stronger with every step Erikson took closer to the stream, and by the time he reached the carcass he wasn’t surprised. He had smelt death often enough in the past.
The rotting corpse was wedged beneath the bank where it had been hidden by overhanging vegetation. As Erikson leant over it and prodded it with his sword the stink of it rose up and hit him like a fist. He felt his stomach roll and saliva flooded his mouth as he fought back the urge to retch.
Whatever the thing was, it hadn’t been human. The fur, which now undulated with the wriggle of maggots, was as thick and coarse as a goat’s, and the partially stripped skull was armoured with horns and long, yellow fangs.
Erikson poked at it again and it disintegrated with a squelch of rotten flesh. The skull rolled out into the centre of the stream but another part broke free and floated down past where the men had been drinking moments before.
Their cries of disgust rose in a chorus, and Erikson cursed himself for letting them drink before he had checked the water source.
“From now on, gentlemen,” he called, “we will boil all water until we know that it is safe.”
He didn’t think that he would need to tell them again.
That night they ate a hearty meal of salt-fish stew and flatbread. As the sun set and the dying cooking fires sent their shadows chasing amongst the ruins, Erikson set the first sentries and rolled into his blanket. Within minutes he was asleep, and as the fires died down so the rest of the company also collapsed into their blankets. Soon they were snoring amongst the ruins as happily as a herd of pigs, oblivious to the pale moon that rose overhead.
It wasn’t until the purple of dusk had fully darkened into the velvet blackness of the night that Minsk made his move.
He was exhausted from the day’s march, and only his anticipation of the trials to come kept him awake. When he finally rolled up his blankets and sidled over to where Hofstadter was curled up, he was alive with expectation.
“Hofstadter,” he whispered into his comrade’s ear, “Wake up.”
The two of them had been together for years, right up until that last job when they’d been captured by the city watch. When Hofstadter blinked awake he took one look at Minsk, wide-eyed in the moonlight, and knew that the time had come.
“I said we’d take Karl, too,” he whispered as his comrade silently gathered his belongings.
“And I promised Ernst and Hendrick we’d take them when we left,” Hofstadter hissed, and Minsk sucked his teeth as he considered the idea. There was always safety in numbers, especially when some of those numbers could be outrun. On the other hand, he didn’t want to take so many men that the swine Erikson would be compelled to pursue them.
Eventually it was the thought of what might happen if they ran into some of the enemy before they got back to Hergig that decided him, and he nodded reluctantly.
“Right you are,” he whispered into Hofstadter’s ear, “but make it quick. Theo is the sentry in the west, and he’s in on it too. We need to go before he’s replaced.”
The two deserters made their way amongst the patches of moonlight and endless shadows as they gathered together their little band. Now and again they froze at some movement or the sound of one of their sleeping companions crying out in his sleep, but slowly, with a stealth born of long practice, they gathered their friends and slipped towards the sentry.
He leapt to his feet when he heard them approach, and the blade of his halberd winked coldly with starlight.
“Don’t say anything,” Minsk hissed urgently. “It’s only us.”
“Minsk,” Theo said. His expression was invisible in the darkness but there was something in the tone of his voice that Minsk didn’t like.
“You ready?” he asked. “Me and the boys are heading off. Going to do our own little bit of campaigning.”
There was a snigger from behind him and an angry hush. Minsk looked back, eyes flashi
ng with anger at the stupidity.
“No, I’ve changed my mind,” Theo said, his voice quiet but edged with defiance.
“Are you mad?” Minsk said. “This is the best chance we’ve got.”
“I think I’ll stay with this lot, all the same,” Theo said, then hesitated as he saw two of Minsk’s companions circling silently around on either side of him. “You don’t need to worry about me, though. I never saw you. All right?”
There was a moment of breathless silence in which nobody moved. Minsk broke it.
“All right, Theo,” he said. “I trust you. Let’s shake on it.”
As the two men gripped each other’s hands Hofstadter struck, banging the hilt of his sword into the side of Theo’s head. There was a crack which sounded as loud as a gunshot in the night, and the sentry collapsed into Minsk’s arms.
“Maybe we should finish him off?” Minsk whispered as he carefully lowered the unconscious man to the floor.
Another silence, this time broken by Hofstadter.
“Well, I don’t fancy doing it,” he said.
“Let’s get a move on then,” Minsk said and, pausing only to relieve Theo of his purse, he led his band of deserters out into the night.
Despite the day’s march they moved fast, especially when the glow of the company’s fires disappeared behind a small hill and they found themselves alone in the darkness. The moon had risen high enough to give them a good view of the road. The solid earth of its surface glowed pale in the moonlight and even without torches the men trotted along at a good pace.
They didn’t stop until the moon had begun to sink down towards the horizon, and even then it was only to rest for a while before heading on.
They first saw the flame a mile after the stop. It hung on the horizon like a miniature sun in the darkness.
“Are we there already?” Hofstadter wondered aloud.
“No, we can’t be,” Minsk told him.
The deserters looked at the light uncertainly.
“Maybe we should go around it,” Ernst said.
“No,” Minsk decided. “I think it’s only one torch. Let’s get a bit closer. But quietly, now. You never know, we might have found our first bit of loot on our first night of freedom.”
It was on this happy note that the men advanced. When they were close enough to see that the flame was a single torch they spread out, leaving the road on either side to outflank whoever the torch bearer might be. It was an instinctive manoeuvre, as lethal and well tried as the circling of wolves, and soon the target was surrounded.
The torch had been driven into the hard-packed earth of the road, hammered fast before it had been set alight. The top was a wicker basket that blazed with flames from the oil reservoir that had been bundled inside. There was neither sight nor sound of who might have left it there.
“Perhaps it’s a signal to somebody,” Hofstadter suggested.
“Or a warning,” Minsk replied. “Look, look there. There’s a parchment tied to the haft.”
Reluctantly, knowing that he would have to do this if he was to remain his pack’s leader, Minsk edged forwards. He moved slowly, examining the ground before him for any sign of pit or snare, although occasionally he would look to his comrades for reassurance.
He finally reached the torch and, careful of the sparks that crackled and sputtered from the fire, he untied the parchment and held it to the light to read. He squinted as he tilted the parchment to make out the single word which had been printed across it.
“What does it say?” Hofstadter called out impatiently.
“‘Goodbye’,” Minsk said, puzzlement creasing his brow.
A hum cut through the darkness, as soft as the purr of a silken cat, and when Minsk stood up his men could see that the expression had been pinned to his face for an eternity. The arrow had buried itself between his eyes, a perfect shot that had killed him so neatly that he stood for a while longer, his body not yet realising that it was dead.
The men watched in silence as their leader stood there, ridiculous in his injury.
“Gentlemen,” a voice called out of the darkness. “Minsk was given his warning. He chose not to take it. Now, I give you yours.”
The four mutineers froze. They could see each other in the torchlight. And so could the archer.
“Will you abandon this attempt at mutiny and return to your comrades?” the voice asked again, and this time Hofstadter recognised it.
“Erikson,” he said.
“What?” The voice took on a harder edge.
“Captain, I mean,” Hofstadter corrected himself with a quick glance down towards the corpse of his comrade. Minsk’s eyes glittered in the torchlight, as dead as the stars above.
“That’s more like it,” Erikson said as he rose from the hollow he had lain in and strode into their midst. He bent down over his victim and, with a well-practiced twist, freed the arrow. He knelt on his haunches, his back to the mutineers, and used Minsk’s tunic to clean the gore from it.
“Will we be punished, captain?” one of the mutineers asked.
“Yes,” Erikson told them. “You will have to carry double loads until we reach our destination. And if you try to mutiny again…” He stood up and gestured towards the cooling corpse of their leader.
The mutineers hesitated, torn between returning to the company or trying to kill their captain.
“Hofstadter.” Erikson pretended not to know what was going through their minds. “You can carry the body. The man may not have been much of a soldier, but I know he was your comrade and we will bury him properly before we move on tomorrow. Ernst, you help him. Come on, man, snap to it. Who knows what else that flame may have brought?”
The men looked around nervously then hurried to pick up the body of their leader.
“Come on,” Erikson said, and led them back towards the camp, the occasional splash of Minsk’s cooling blood leaving a dark trail behind them.
Chapter Nine
“Mummy, I’m scared.”
Hilda looked down at her daughter’s big wide eyes, and felt her grubby little fist close even tighter around her fingers. The rest of the children were gathered about them, huddled amongst the wheat bins of the town’s granary. It was the only building to be made of stone, and it was pleasantly cool compared to the sweltering heat outside.
Not that that was why they were packed in here today.
“You don’t need to be scared, Henni,” Hilda said and stroked the back of her daughter’s neck as she bounced her on her knee. She had only started speaking in the last few months, and her vocabulary had been shaped by the horror that had emerged with the green shoots of this spring.
“But will the beasties get me?” It was a heartfelt question, and Hilda felt like crying. Instead she smiled and kissed her on the forehead.
“Of course not, darling,” she said. “You said your prayers to Sigmar, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“There you go, then. Sigmar will protect you. Remember what he did to the orcs in the story?”
“Yes, but will he protect Daddy too?”
Hilda swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I hope so,” she said. “I hope so.”
The noise of battle that raged outside was muted by the thick stone walls and bolted oaken door of the place, but even so the roars and the screams were terrible. In the darkness several children were crying, and now somebody else started. Hilda realised that it was one of the other mothers and felt something like outrage. She sat Henni down with another little girl and went to quiet the woman.
It was Gerta, the baker’s wife. Her plump cheeks glistened with tears, and she was hugging her child to her chest as she rocked back and forth.
“Gerta,” Hilda told her quietly. “Stop that.”
“I can’t. I can’t stop it. They’re coming for us, can’t you hear them? They’re going to kill us all, even the little ones. The baron has abandoned us and now we’re all going to—”
Hilda
slapped her, hard. It felt good.
“I said stop that,” she repeated and Gerta, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise, already had. Hilda thought about apologising, and decided not to. Instead she stood up and looked around the other women who sat miserably amongst their children.
“She’s right about one thing, though,” she told them, her voice carefully cheerful so as not to upset the children. “The baron is no help to us now. We’re on our own. I think that the grandmothers should stay here and look after the little ones. I think the rest of us should go and give the men a hand.”
“But Elder Ronald told us all to stay in here,” Gerta whined, and Hilda had to fight back the urge to slap her again.
“Oh, you don’t want to pay any attention to that silly old fool,” Elder Ronald’s wife said. A lifetime of grinding corn and scrubbing floors had given her strong arms, and she lifted the scythe off its rack easily.
“Hilda’s right,” said Mabel, and brushed back a strand of the jet-black hair that she was so fond of but could never quite keep in her bonnet. “So tell us, Hilda. What shall we do?”
Hilda, who couldn’t quite believe what she was getting them into, shrugged.
“Take a scythe,” she said. “And go and protect our babies.”
As a war cry it would never find its way into the histories of the war, but in the darkness, with the howling of the beasts outside and the crying of the children within, it kindled their hearts with a wild courage.
“Grandma, lock the door behind us,” she told one of the old women and then, after giving Henni a last, loving kiss, she led her little band outside.
After the gloom of the granary the brightness of the world outside made her eyes water and she squinted as she marched forwards, pitchfork held expertly in her hands. The gate to the stockade was fifty feet ahead, and she could see the bodies swarming over it. The men had been standing on a walkway behind the timber, but even through the dust she could see the twisted forms that were clambering over the sharpened tree trunks to bite and hack at the men.
Broken Honour Page 14
