A WARHAMMER NOVEL
FORGED IN BATTLE
Justin Hunter
(A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
PROLOGUE
Two and a half thousand years
before the present day
White banners of mist hung around the clearing. The thick frost gave each blade of grass a cruel edge, the tree-line was as dark and impenetrable as a shield wall. In the centre of the clearing a gruesome splinter of black rock stood at a crooked angle. From niches carved into it, the eyeless sockets of skulls stared out and crude totems hung limp in the freezing air. With their backs to the stone, the last of the beastmen herds stood close together, their breath misting the chill air, their furred fingers clamped on the shafts of their spears.
They were surrounded.
From the still banners, all the tribes of Sigmar’s new Empire were represented: mail-clad chieftains with their jostling warbands behind them. Despite the cold many warriors were naked, their pale skin inscribed with swirling blue tattoos. A few gnashed their teeth, the frenzy of battle overcoming them.
From the Imperial ranks one man stepped forward. His white beard hung nearly to his waist, but there was nothing frail about the way Johann Helmstrum, first Grand Theogonist, raised his mailed fist and pointed towards the hated foe.
Sigmar had been gone for ten years, but the furnace of his passions still glowed in men like Johann. From Sigmar’s own tribe of the Unberogens, he had followed Sigmar until his disappearance—and like others of the man-god’s warband, he now led armies of his own to destroy beasts like these.
For too long had people lived under the threat of death. For too long had nightmare beasts haunted the night. For too long had the people along the Stir River been prey to the occult rituals of these creatures, foul amalgams of man and beast.
Hefting his dented warhammer, Foe-crusher, Johann picked out the largest beastman and fixed him with a merciless stare: warlord to warlord. “In the name of Sigmar,” his voice carried across the clearing, gathering power as he spoke, echoing over the ranks of warriors. “I claim these lands for man. Your kind has no right to laws or life. I hereby pronounce your execution.”
The Unberogens beat their spears and sword-hilts against their shields. The beastmen shuffled uncomfortably; even their leader, eight foot of rippling muscle, bowed his horned head.
Johann Helstrum lifted his warhammer again and turned back to his men. “For Sigmar!” he roared and led the charge.
The clash of armies was like two waves breaking upon each other. Through months of battle and slaughter, the beastmen had been harried and hunted to the very edge of their tribal lands, and now with their backs to the mighty River Stir, they had nowhere left to flee. It was around the last of their herdstones that they fought, and the arcane monolith, of a stone known to no man, gave them renewed strength and resolve.
They fought with all the ferocity of trapped animals. Three times the men of the Empire were thrown back, but each time the white-bearded figure of Johann Helmstrum led them back into the charge, and as close around him as a mailed fist went the men of his bodyguard, led by Ortulf Jorge and his brother, Vranulf.
It was mid-morning when the men fell back in confusion for a fourth time. There were heaps of dead on both sides, but a knot of a hundred monstrous beastmen survived: berserk with blood-lust, their snouts stained red, their weapons dripping blood.
Men collapsed from exhaustion and the sight of the enraged beasts was enough to make the bravest man falter, but Johann’s encouragement sent the fire of Sigmar from man to man, and gave them the energy for one last fight. One last charge would surely break them.
The old man’s warhammer cut a swathe through the beastmen. He wielded the warhammer as if it weighed no more than a hatchet, and with his bodyguard round him he cut a path right to the base of the herdstone, where goat-horned shamans still desperately prayed to their capricious gods.
The closer they came to the monolith, the more the men could feel its evil. It pulsed at the priest’s approach, made the arms of his bodyguard heavy and leaden. Ortulf found that simply raising his weapon to parry was a terrible effort; Vranulf was almost run through as he struggled in mortal combat.
Only Johann seemed immune to the arcane power of the stone. He killed both shamans and splattered the herdstone with the remains of their horned skulls. With their death, the beastmen’s spirit seemed to waver—but the wargor let out a huge bellow, like an enraged bull, and charged through the battle. Ortulf and two other bodyguards stood firm, but the aura from the monolith made their legs and arms shake with the effort. The beastman shrugged off their sword and spear thrusts, battering them aside as if they were sticks. He cut Vranulf down and reared up over the venerable warrior, knocking Foe-smiter from his hands.
Ortulf shouted out as he saw his brother cut down, struggled to get back to his feet. As the wargor raised his axe Ortulf tried to pick up his sword, but it slipped from his fingers.
“Sigmar!” the Grand Theogonist shouted and drew his sword, but his voice was weak and the beastman batted the blade away as if it were a child’s toy.
The wargor had dragged the old man to the herdstone. He took a handful of beard and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. The monolith hummed with pleasure as the knife was raised.
“Sigmar…” Ortulf prayed, and just the name gave him strength enough to stand. He dropped his shield, picked up his brother’s spear from the bloody grass, and staggered towards the wargor. The pain in his head was like hammer blows. Ortulf saw the raised dagger and thrust with all his remaining strength. The spear head went in next to the creature’s spine and up under its ribcage. The wargor let out a bellow of pain, but instead of falling it turned and Ortulf realised he was defenceless. His fingers grasped for a weapon or shield—but his hands were slippery with blood and sweat and could find no purchase. The wargor picked him up and threw him aside. Ortulf’s body hit the monolith with a sickening crunch. But in that brief moment of respite, Johann Helmstrum’s fingers found the haft of his warhammer. He had fought a hundred campaigns against the enemies of humankind. It was not his fate to die here. The face of Sigmar came to him, whispering quiet words of encouragement, and gave him the strength he needed to raise his warhammer one final time.
Johann Helmstrum swung Foe-smiter down, and buried the blunt head deep into the wounded beastman’s skull, between its curled horns.
The monster staggered and raised its axe once more, but sank slowly to its knees, an
d fell face down at the Grand Theogonist’s feet.
* * *
With their shamans and leaders slain, the last of the herds were quickly routed and hunted down, Johann Helstrum had men loop ropes around the vile stone and tear it from the ground, roots and all. They built a great pile of wood over the thing and set fire to it, and when the fire at its hottest and the stone was glowing a dull red, they carried freezing water from the Stir River and drenched it. Steam filled the clearing for a whole day, and when it cleared they saw the stone had shattered into a thousand pieces.
Johann led them all in prayers to Sigmar, and then he declared the land to be free of the enemies of man.
When the dead had been buried and the wounded tended, the Grand Theogonist’s army struck camp. The people watched them leave, astonished to find that the woods and hills were clear of enemies. In the crowd that watched them leave was Griselda Jorge, young widow of Ortulf. She let her tears flow, reliving the moment she and the other women had hurried through the piles of dead and dying to find her lover: crushed at the foot of the herdstone. But where that accursed monolith had once stood was now a high burial mound, where her husband’s and her brother’s broken bodies had been laid: their weapons at their sides and the heads of their enemies piled about them. Griselda sat there until evening, watching the shadows grow, her cloak tight around her, pressing their son to her chest.
“Your husband was a brave and honourable man,” the Grand Theogonist had told her, and she repeated his words to her son, over and over. “Your father killed many of the enemy. He was a brave and proud and honourable warrior.” But inside she cursed his bravery and his pride and the honour that had left her widowed and her son fatherless.
At last one of the local women came out to her. The woman patted her hand. “Your husband is with Sigmar now,” she said and Griselda nodded and wiped away her tears. He would be happy here, she thought and let the old woman lead her back to the new village they had founded, named in honour, not of her dead husband, but of the Grand Theogonist: Helmstrumburg.
CHAPTER ONE
The present day, spring 2521
Helmstrumburg
Vasir crouched low and blended into the patch of ferns. A twig snapped underfoot. The trapper cursed silently, but the mistake was momentary. He kept breathing slowly, stayed perfectly still—and his quarry relaxed and renewed chewing.
Taal’s bones! This one would get him a good price.
Vasir fitted the arrow to his bow. Another sip of water, that’s it, Vasir smiled. And have something to eat, why don’t you? He pulled the bow taut, let his breath out and then loosed the arrow which flashed briefly in the sun-dappled green.
The beast dashed off into the undergrowth, and Vasir leaped up after it, crashing through the undergrowth and the snapping branches. He found the stag, twenty yards off, lying on the ground, flanks heaving, the arrow embedded deep into its side. The fletching had broken off in the chase, there was no way to pull it out. Vasir drew his knife. The stag tried to struggle to its feet again—but its legs flailed weakly on thin air. The creature coughed and red foam began to bubble from its open snout.
Vasir said a prayer to Taal, then put the blade against its throat and opened up the artery with a deft nick.
After skinning and gutting the deer Vasir hiked up to the crag called the Watching Post and washed a skin in the cold melt-water stream, then laid it out on a rock to dry. From this rocky outcrop, on the shoulder of The Old Bald Man, he could look down the town of Helmstrumburg.
Though he’d been trapping in these hills all his life, Vasir never tired of the view: The Old Bald Man, Galten Hill and the snow-clad slopes of Frantzplinth—the three mountains sat high above town, their ridges descending to the valley, where the ancient stone-walled town of Helmstrumburg stood beside the river.
Helmstrumburg had grown rapidly in the past few years, now spilling over the western wall, rambling along the banks of the River Stir.
Vasir watched fat barges push their way downriver a thousand feet below, their sails tiny squares of white in the distance. He had heard it from boat hands in the inns in Helmstrumburg that it was nine days’ sail to Altdorf. Maybe when he had enough money saved he would go and see the capital city of the Empire, Kemperbad and the miraculous bridge at Nuln. He would travel all through the lands that Sigmar had cleared for humans, a thousand years ago or more.
That night, alone in his cabin, Vasir threw a few pieces of split wood onto the fire. The wood smoke eddied round the simple room as it searched for the hole in the thatch that served as a chimney. He ate a few slices of stale pumpernickel and dried sausage then lay down to sleep. Outside, the trees whispered to each other in the evening breeze.
Vasir slept as the trees whispered back and forth. Even if he could have heard them he would not have understood. But there were many that could. On the rocky crags, from the mouths of mountain caves, in the bleak pine forests, high on Frantzplinth—many ears heard the whispers and looked to the west, where they had long waited the sign.
A twin-tailed star. Burning red on the horizon.
Announcing the End of Times.
Elias shouldered his pack and struggled to keep up with the other forty men of the Helmstrumburg Halberdiers as they struggled along the forest track. When he joined up he had expected glory and excitement and a fine uniform. He’d had no idea how much marching there would be, and how little fighting. And the uniforms were old and faded and ill-fitting—and to make it worse there were not enough to go round: some of the men wore the uniform trews; others the jackets: once quartered with red and gold—but now so patched with leather that they were more patch than original.
A ragged company other men had dubbed them, but for the Helmstrumburg Halberdiers it was a symbol of pride. They were The Ragged Company.
When Elias had heard that the Helmstrumburg Halberdiers were returning to town to refill their ranks, he had joined up. That first day he had sworn service to the count and felt tall and strong: now as he hunted through the dark forests for the third day, all that courage and confidence had gone.
His sword slapped awkwardly against his thigh. He put his hand down to touch the hilt and reminded himself that he was a soldier now, in the pay of the Elector Count of Talabecland.
“Keep in rank!” Osric called as they passed through the scattered forests, and Elias hitched up his pack. His halberd caught on a branch above his head and nearly pulled him over. Osric gave him a shove to move him along. “Get on you useless bastard!”
Elias felt his face redden. His shame increased when Sergeant Gunter stopped and waited for Osric. “If you have a problem with one of my men then come to me.”
Osric nodded without a word. Gunter pushed Elias forward, next to Gaston and took his place.
“Now get going!” Gunter hissed. “And don’t mess up again.”
That night the halberdiers bivouacked in a wooded hollow, lit a fire and mixed their hard-tack with water and fried it for flavour.
“I’ll be glad to get back to town and get some real food,” Osric said as he chewed. “And some beer.”
“I’ll be happy when the captain feels like leaving these cursed hills,” Baltzer, one of Osric’s men and the company drummer, said. “I joined up to see Talabecland, not the woods round Helmstrumburg!”
A few men smiled, but Elias kept his mouth shut.
Their banter was interrupted by a sudden shout from the trees. “Sigmar save us!”
Gaston was on his feet immediately, sword drawn. Sigmund looked in the direction of the shout. It was one of the men they had posted at the edge of the camp to keep watch. “Freidel?” he called.
“Oh—Sigmar save us!” the shout came again. Osric shook his head: Freidel was one of his men, but he was tired, and had only just got comfortable by the fire. It was probably just a false alarm.
Sigmund, their leader, drew his sword and started running up the hill. Dark branches whipped his face as he pushed through the trees to the rocky out
cropping that Freidel had been posted on. From here, there was a fine view down to the Stir River below, and the twinkling lights in Helmstrumburg.
“What’s the matter, Freidel?” Sigmund demanded, and the halberdier pointed to the western horizon.
“Look!”
Sigmund kept his sword unsheathed as he turned to look. The Stir River was a ribbon through the darkness, rippling with moonlight. Low in the sky on the left hung a star with two tails. It glowed with a dull red light, menacing and sinister.
Sigmund shook his head. It was the star of Sigmar.
“What is it?” Osric called when Sigmund returned.
“The sign of Sigmar, the double-headed star!” Sigmund said, and rammed his sword back into its sheath. He looked shaken.
“I don’t believe it!” Osric retorted but Baltzer, who had followed Sigmund, confirmed what the other men had seen: it was definitely a twin-tailed star.
The firelight caught Gaston’s face, casting half in shadow. “What does it mean?” he asked.
No one answered.
“Will Sigmar come again?” Schwartz asked, finally.
Osric laughed at them all. “If he has, there’ll be some to-do in some far flung place and the news will take six months to reach Helmstrumburg,” he said, his thin face half lit by the dying firelight. The men nodded. That was how it always happened.
Baltzer tossed a stone into the fire. “I tell you what it means—it means that bastard—” he nodded towards the fire where Sigmund sat “—will be taking us on a lot more of these damned patrols!”
Osric laughed and threw a stone at Baltzer. He was always bitching about something.
The next morning the men of the Ragged Company were up early: hitching their heavy packs onto their shoulders, halberds resting on their left shoulders. It was damp in the early morning mist, and the woods were strangely quiet.
Forged in Battle Page 1
