Forged in Battle

by Justin Hunter - (ebook by Undead)

  He had chosen, and here—unseen and unremembered—would be where he would die.

  * * *

  On the eastern wall of Helmstrumburg a crowd gathered to watch Andres Jorg’s mill burn. The flames reached a hundred feet into the air, lighting the waters of the Stir with a thousand tiny sparks.

  Hengle joined the crowd then ran through the streets back to the marketplace. He slipped on the cobblestones and scrambled up the steps and up the narrow staircase to the back room he shared with his mother.

  “The mill’s burning!” he said.

  “And your father?”

  Hengle didn’t know. “No one has seen him,” he said.

  “What about Gunner and the others?”

  Hengle shook his head. His mother bit back her tears, determined not to cry. Andres would have escaped, she told herself, even though she doubted the truth of the words. He wouldn’t have stayed to fight, would he, she asked herself—even though, in her heart, she knew the answer. He would die rather than let beastmen drive him from his mill.

  Sigmund rode hard along the Kemperbad Road, foam splattering down the horse’s flanks as he drove it on. Half a mile from town there was a low defile to the left, and on the right a patch of trees grew close to the road. As Sigmund approached, five beastmen ran out of the copse, attempting to intercept him. He used the ends of the reins to swat the flanks of his mount. They outpaced the beastmen, but behind him a crude horn sounded and Sigmund felt trapped, as if the alarm had been sounded and the whole forest would now be ready for him.

  As he passed through a dense patch of forest the bank where his father’s mill stood came into view. It was clearly visible in the darkness, flames reaching a hundred feet into the night air.

  A hundred yards off he drew his horse to a halt. Both the mill and the house were ablaze: flames leaping hundreds of feet into the air. Sigmund could see figures outside—horned figures—illuminated by the conflagration running away from the heat. He could feel the warmth on his cheek: it bathed the forests with a ruddy light. Roof timbers crashed down in the house. The mill wheel kept slowly revolving as the rest of the building began to collapse.

  There was no way anything was still alive in there. His father must be dead, Sigmund realised—but there was no lime to grieve. His mount seemed ready to collapse with exhaustion and it snorted with alarm at the scent of smoke. Sigmund looked away from the flames into the dark shade of the trees. He was sure that he saw two horned figures detach themselves from the shadows and start silently towards him. The horse stamped with alarm and Sigmund turned it round. He’d never trained in fighting from horseback, but to dismount would be suicide in the forests at night. He felt the nag stumble in the darkness and cursed the creature’s age. He had pushed it too hard. If it died here he would never make it back to Helmstrumburg. The horse pulled down on the reins as if it was trying to lie down. Sigmund suspected that if it fell then it would never stand again. He had to keep the creature moving.

  Sigmund spurred the horse towards the creatures—their horned heads becoming visible as he got closer. Their eyes were fierce and their crude lips were curled with ferocious snarls. The nearest had long fangs that overlapped the bottom lip, the other’s teeth were blunt and yellowed, standing out in irregular angles from enflamed red gums. Both had fetid breath that Sigmund smelled as he rode past, parrying desperately.

  There was nothing he could do here. It was stupid and dangerous for him to come out at all. His father was dead. But there were thousands of people in Helmstrumburg who needed him. Sigmund cursed his rashness and spurred his horse forward. There was nothing more he could do to help his father. His duty was with the town and his men.

  Osric and Baltzer took a barrel each and hefted them onto their shoulders.

  “Where are we going to put these things?” Baltzer hissed.

  Osric thought for a moment. “I know the perfect place!” he grinned and set off towards the centre of town.

  There was a crash as the roof of the main room fell in. Scorching air blasted into the bedroom, and with it came a thick chocking smoke.

  Andres choked and tried to blink away the stinging tears in his eyes. There was a pile of dead beastmen at his feet, but he was almost spent.

  “Come on spawn of the Dark Gods!” Andres Jorg spat as he heard the unmistakable tap of hoofed feet move towards him.

  There was another crash as the kitchen roof collapsed. It wouldn’t be long until the bedroom was an inferno too. Hooves tapped on the floorboards as the beastmen inched forward. A thrust caught Andres on the thigh and he gasped with pain and swung the greatsword—but his arms were now so weak that there was no strength in the blow and it did little more than stun one of the attackers.

  Andres threw the greatsword away and drew his short sword. It felt light as he parried another spear thrust and another. But this was an impossible battle. Another jab caught him on the arm and he dropped the sword.

  This was it. The beastmen dropped their spears, took out long knives and moved in for the kill. There was a moment before Andres realised what the beastmen intended and he promised himself that they would never take him alive.

  In the confined space there was a thunderous explosion and one of the beastmen’s head exploded in a shower of brains and skull fragments.

  Andres ducked and there was a flash and another explosion—but this time he could see what had caused it. A silver pistol appeared from the smoke and rested against the temple of his last attacker. The beastman paused—confused that there should be anything behind it—then the trigger was pulled and the round shot exploded from the other side of the creature’s head in a shower of gore and imbedded itself in the wall.

  “Here!” a voice shouted, but Andres had collapsed onto the floor and all he saw was a hand. He felt himself being dragged up from the floor then tipped through an open window, onto the slope at the back of the house.

  Andres sucked in lungfuls of air—and then he saw his saviour, a tall, thick man, with two pistol holsters at his waist and a few singe marks on his fine jacket.

  “Take this!” the man said. He took the cutlass from his waist and handed it to Andres—then he fumbled to reload his pistols.

  Andres shoved himself up. The wind was blowing the flames and smoke away from the bedroom towards town, and Andres understood why it had taken so long for the flames to spread to the bedroom. His head was clearing with each breath of clean air. He felt the cutlass for balance for a moment before more horned shapes appeared through the smoke. A pistol shot felled one and Andres disembowelled the other.

  “Run!” the man said, leading the way away from the house and Andres stumped along on his peg leg with the speed of a two-legged man. His saviour fumbled with his pistols, but he did not have time to reload before a huge maddened beast charged down the slope.

  The man threw a pistol into its face and it distracted the animal long enough for Andres to hobble up and dispatch the creature with a well-aimed slash across the throat.

  They kept hurrying down the slope behind the mill and towards the sluice that fed the water mill. The beastmen seemed so maddened with blood-lust that they had forgotten the purpose of their attack. Andres and the man hurried out of the circle of light around the blazing mill and along the path of the water sluice.

  There were two horses tethered to a tree and the man untied the reins of one and thrust them towards Andres. It was a long time since Andres had ridden a horse, but he set his good foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up, managing to fit his peg into the other.

  The man leapt into the saddle and moved his horse between Andres and the mill.

  “Ride!” the man shouted. “If you stay close to the river you should be safe. Do not head into the hills!”

  Andres’ horse shied for a moment, but he wrestled the creature back under control and brought it round next to the man’s.

  “Go!” the man shouted. “Please go! There’s no time to explain! This is too important! Ride to Talabheim! As
k for Hoffman! The Black Goat inn in Talabheim!”

  The stranger seized the bridle of Andres’ horse and turned its head away from the blazing buildings and out over the dark meadow towards the road.

  “Go!” he shouted. “Just go!”

  Andres kicked his peg leg into the flank of his mount and it jumped forward, eager to be away from the flames. He paused for a moment and turned to watch the mill collapse in a shower of sparks. It was a beautiful sight, but best of all, he was still alive.

  As Sigmund drove his exhausted horse back to the city, he could see a crowd of people standing on the eastern wall. The gates opened as he approached, and a mob of forty armed men surged forward with a great roar—led by Squire Becker’s Helmstrumburg Guard, with spears and shields, as he had promised, and at the front the squire himself with an inherited breastplate, brass buckler and rapier.

  Sigmund almost smiled at the sight of the pompous aristocrat and his motley band of soldiers, but he was exhausted by shock and grief and, worst of all, failure.

  “Captain Jorg!” Squire Becker said. He was a short plump man, who seemed more suited to horseback hunts than armed service. “I have assembled my men. Let’s march forth and punish these filthy animals!”

  Sigmund glared down at him. He had wanted glory as much as any man, but glory would not save the people of Helmstrumburg. And the care of the whole town was his responsibility as captain of the army here.

  “Squire Becker,” he spoke in a cold and clear voice. “You will take your men back to town and await my orders. There is an army of beastmen in the hills, and we will need each man we have. I will not have you sally out and waste a single life—not even your own!”

  The squire opened his mouth to argue but Sigmund cut him off. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Squire Becker’s cheeks reddened. He was not used to being spoken to like this. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

  “Good!” Sigmund said, and kicked his horse through the deflated crowd. There will be enough time to fight, Sigmund knew. And then Squire Becker and his rabble could have all the glory they wanted.

  Sigmund’s horse was too exhausted to carry him back to the barracks. He had to dismount and lead it slowly back through the streets, and as he went he felt the eyes of all the people on him. Riding out had been the stupidest thing he could ever had done. He was Captain Jorg of the Talabecland army. The army was his family. He had responsibilities to the whole town.

  But however much he told himself this, Sigmund couldn’t help thinking that he might have been able to save his father. He imagined his father’s screams as he was flayed alive—and had to struggle to fight back a wrenching sob.

  When Sigmund reached the barracks he could see from the men’s faces that they had heard what had happened, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak to them.

  He led the horse back to the stables, took off the saddle and rubbed it down. He washed the smell of horse sweat from his hands and crossed the yard to the barracks.

  Sigmund fell onto his bed, kicked off his boots and then pulled the sheets over his head and bit back his grief.

  The flames at the mill burned all night. People were still standing on the city walls as Sigmund’s men came home, watching the spectacle.

  Dawn came early and only a thin trickle of smoke climbed into the sky. The sentries on the walls looked for flames in the hills, but the air was clear. Not a single fire burned—but the very absence of flames was ominous. The forests and hills: for so long home to so many of them had become suddenly evil and threatening. No one knew what the forests held: but all were clear—whatever it was it was now very close.

  In the barracks Sigmund had barely slept. The whole night had been a torment. If he had not gotten so angry with his father he might have persuaded him to come to town. If he had not been so busy with the free companies he might have sent men out to bring his father home. Not only had his father died, but also the six men at the mill. All of their deaths weighed upon him.

  And on top of all his worries, there were the beastmen moving inexorably towards town. When the dawn reveille sounded, Sigmund was glad to roll out of bed and dress for parade. Anything was better than being alone with the endless and revolving list of “what ifs”. There was work to be done, and he was in charge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The beastmen came face to face in a clearing at the foot of Galten Hill. The forest was silent as Red Killer waited. The scent of musk hung in the air, an unmistakable challenge to the white figure that stepped into the clearing.

  A fallen branch snapped beneath Azgrak’s hoof. The pink eyes focussed on the challenger and blinked with recognition and fury.

  The animal lips formed crude, bestial words: a challenge.

  The sound of Dark Tongue was harsh in the stillness.

  Red Killer did not respond, but hefted his axe and charged.

  Soldiers and civilians alike stood on the eastern wall and watched the sun rise over the ridge, silhouetting the smouldering ruins of the Jorg family mill. The most long-sighted among them could make out lone timbers thrust up from the ruins, blackened and charred. The waterwheel was a half-burnt skeleton, the machinery that had been the wonder of Helmstrumburg had devoured by the rapacious flames.

  Unseen at such a distance was the gruesome fate of the mill-hands who had stayed with Andres. Nailed to an apple tree in front of the house were four flayed human skins. The skinless bodies lay abandoned in the grass not far off, crude runes carved into their flesh. Their eyes and tongues had been ripped out.

  Despite the proximity of the mill, no one dared to venture out to see for themselves. People looked to the hills with a sense of dread, but this morning there were no fires. A few people began to celebrate, but most saw the stillness with dread. The silence seemed to grow ominously. No one seriously believed that the beastmen had retreated into the hills. They felt that they were being watched.

  The free companies—the Old Unbreakables, Squire Becker’s Helmstrumburg Guard and the Crooked Dwarf Volunteers—assembled at their meeting points, the men edgy and eager in the early morning chill. If there had to be a fight they would rather get it over with. The long wait was a trial of courage.

  Blik Short, Squire Becker, Guthrie Black and Strong-arm Benjamin reported to the barracks to receive their orders. Sigmund assigned each of them stations of duty along the walls or in the marketplace, from where they could be rushed to any point along the walls. Each gatehouse also had a unit of Sigmund’s own men, and one of his sergeants.

  Squire Becker wasn’t comfortable taking orders from a miller’s son. “My men want to be at a gateway,” he declared in his aristocratic accent. “Where they can be of most use.”

  Sigmund gave the plump noble a hard stare. He was surprised the man had not fled town. “I am in charge of the defence of Helmstrumburg, Master Becker. And when I am not around you will all take orders from my sergeants! Do I make myself understood?”

  The squire’s face reddened. Sigmund smiled. “Good. It will be a hard fight, but with good men like you, and with the strength and courage and determination of the Heldenhammer we will prevail.”

  The men around were heartened by his businesslike speech and there were nervous smiles. Last week they had just been simple farmers and merchants and artisans; this morning they were kitted out in all the accoutrements of war. Sigmund looked from man to man, and there was something in his fierce stare that made them feel that they could fight and that they could win.

  “Good,” Sigmund said. “When the beastmen are sighted then the bells of the chapel will ring. Until then I want you and your men to stand to.”

  The first night in Helmstrumburg Gruff and his daughters had slept in their cart, but in the morning he set off to find proper lodgings. There were so many refugees in town it wouldn’t be easy, and any rooms that were still available were way overpriced. In the end Gruff managed to find a place in the new town.

  The house was a part of a rickety row of timber-fr
amed houses that seemed to lean on each other for support. The street was called Tanner Lane, and the stink of ammonia from the tanners’ vats was so strong it made the twin’s eyes water.

  “We cannot stay here!” Beatrine declared, but they were tired and hungry and there was nowhere else.

  Beatrine started to cry but still no one took any notice. “I refuse to stay here!” she said, at which point Farmer Spennsweich turned to her and spoke in a low hard voice.

  “You will stay here, young lady, or I will put you over my knee and thrash you like the insolent brat you are!”

  Beatrine blushed and bit her lip, but Farmer Spennsweich took no notice. He conversed with the landlady, an old widow with a hairy mole on her cheek and agreed a price.

  “Valina!” their father called. “Get everyone inside. Organise the rooms, and when you have made everything comfortable then look after your sisters. Keep them inside and safe! You are in charge!”

  Valina nodded. “Quickly now!” he shouted and the twins hurried to grab their packs and cases and climb down from the back of the wagon.

  They helped Gertrude down and then followed Valina inside. Beatrine made a show of holding her nose, but the landlady didn’t speak as she showed them into the room that their father had rented. Their father took the cart down the road to an inn, where there was room to stable his horse.

  It was a ground floor room that appeared to have been used for storage and keeping domestic animals. It stank of the tanneries, and the corner of the room smelled as if a tomcat had sprayed all over the straw. The floor was packed dirt. Foul-smelling straw was piled up against the front wall. The only hint of luxury or former opulence were the two glass windows. One looked out into the street, the other looked into the backyard where the girls could hear a pig rooting round. Both windows had been paned with thick bull’s-eye glass that distorted the world outside.