Forged in Battle

by Justin Hunter - (ebook by Undead)

  “They’ll be more than ready,” Osric said and refused to look at Baltzer.

  Sigmund walked all the way around the town wall. There were cracks running through the long straight sections. Some of the battlements had fallen off, but the walls should hold, Sigmund thought, as long as there were enough men to defend them.

  Hanz’s spearmen were stationed on the north gatehouse. The discipline of the professional soldiers was a fine example to the volunteers. They were calm and assured, but well-honed and disciplined.

  Everywhere he went, Sigmund encouraged the men. When he got to the east gate the men had found a crack in the crossbar and they were busy hammering strips of iron around the circumference.

  Sigmund encouraged them. “That’ll never break now!” he said, and his upbeat tone disguised the doubts he had. He tried to ignore the smouldering ruins of his family mill. The Guild of Blacksmith Hammerers had been assigned this stretch of wall. They looked to Sigmund as he passed them by and he nodded to each man.

  Strong-arm Benjamin was standing at the end of the wall, staring up at the water tower, which marked the wall’s end. The tower stood twenty feet above the walls and there were a number of arrow slits in the stonework, but there was a number of inch-wide cracks running up it.

  “It’s a sorry sight,” Strong-arm said, nodding towards the stonework.

  Sigmund nodded.

  “One cannon ball would bring this tower down.”

  Sigmund nodded. “Luckily beastmen do not have cannons,” he said.

  Sigmund returned to the barracks as the sun began to set, and realised how tired and hungry he felt: but there was no time for exhaustion—he had to check the state of preparation.

  “We have armed all the men we could,” Edmunt said. “There are maybe three hundred volunteers, by my count.”

  Sigmund nodded. The armoury of weapons and shields and every scrap of amour. The stone-floored room had an empty echo to it as Sigmund walked up and down, looking at the empty racks. There were a lot of men wondering if this was their last night around town. Simple, honest men who never wanted to lift a sword in anger, now forced to defend their homes and family.

  It was different for professional soldiers. This is what they were paid to do: kill or be killed, and not to worry about death, shadowing them day and night.

  When Sigmund came out of the armoury Edmunt had his whetstone and was sharpening his axe. He rubbed the steel dust away and the axe head had a fresh curve of polished steel along the edge, like it was smiling.

  Edmunt kissed his blade. “I’ve given it a name,” he said.

  Sigmund stopped to listen.

  “Butcher,” Edmunt said.

  Osric’s men had been billeted in the houses along the palisade, many of which had been emptied of furniture already. Hanz’s men were billeted at the north gate. Only Gunter’s men were still sleeping at the barracks.

  The drill yard was quiet with so few men here. As the sun began to slip out of sight, Sigmund took in a deep breath. He needed to be alone for a few minutes.

  He went into his room and swung the door shut. He put his feet up on his camp bed and put his arms behind his neck and tried to clear his mind of all the small details.

  Who was the enemy leader, he wondered and what was he doing now?

  Sigmund shut his eyes and tried to imagine where he would attack Helmstrumburg, were the situations reversed.

  The palisade, he thought. Obviously it was the place most easily stormed.

  But was that too obvious?

  If he didn’t attack the palisade then where would he attack?

  It was hard to say. The water tower? Maybe he would send rafts in, and try to gain entry into the harbour.

  There were so many weak places that the beastmen could attack, and he didn’t have enough men to cover them all. Where will the beastmen attack, he asked himself again and again? He was sure they would attack the palisade. He had no liking for Osric, but he had a hard bunch of men. They would hold up any attack, for a while at least.

  After Sigmund had finished a simple meal of bread, cheese and ale, he put his feet up and lay down on the bed, eyes shut, working through the list of all the things he had done that day, searching in case there was something he had missed.

  There was a knock on his door but Sigmund did not move.

  “Yes?” he called.

  The door opened. “There is a man to see you,” a voice said. It was Edmunt.

  Sigmund opened his eyes, pushed himself up from the bed and walked to the door. Outside, he saw one of the trappers standing in the yard.

  Sigmund recognised Vasir and gave a tired smile.

  “Vasir!” Sigmund said, feeling that the man had been sent at this opportune moment to give him insights into the enemy. “What news?”

  “Many tracks. All my men found spoor.”

  Sigmund nodded and Vasir licked his lips. “From the signs there must be more than five hundred, but I’d say they were waiting for something. I’d say they were expecting more, if you was to press me sir.”

  Sigmund nodded. Some power seemed to be organising the beastmen. Was it the stones?

  Vasir seemed to hesitate. “And one of my men went to your father’s mill,” he said. “He found three skinned bodies. Not one of them was your father.”

  Sigmund nodded. He had grown up with the men who worked in the mill. They were real country folk: hardworking with little to say, unless pressed. Their deaths should never have happened. It was his father’s fault, and he felt his anger flare up. But there was no point in being angry at a dead man.

  Vasir’s eyes flicked back and forth as he watched the captain. Vasir took a bundle from the inside of his jacket, and unwrapped it and held it out to the captain. “And he found this!”

  Inside there was a silver pistol with a curiously wide barrel. Sigmund took it and stared at it incredulously. There was only one man in Helmstrumburg with a pistol like this.

  Sigmund rushed over to Gunter and let him know that he would be out for half an hour.

  “Do you need help?”

  Sigmund shook his head. “No. It is a personal matter,” he said, his face dark.

  Sigmund hurried across the drill yard and into the evening streets where a hush seemed to have fallen. He hurried through the dark streets, picking up speed as he went, and ended up running across the marketplace. He ignored the calls from Blik Short and his Old Unbreakables and took the stairs of the Crooked Dwarf two at a time.

  Guthrie was out, but Josh was there.

  “The two Reikland merchants!” Sigmund demanded. “Where are they?”

  Josh pointed to the front of the inn. Sigmund sprinted up the stairs and pounded down the corridor. He kicked the door open and drew his sword.

  The room was empty, except for Theodor, who saw the naked foot of steel and jumped from the bed, his hands outstretched.

  “You!” Sigmund said and stepped forward, knuckles white on his sword handle.

  Theodor leaped up. “I know why you are here,” he said, backing up to the wall as Sigmund advanced. “I know why you are here and I can explain!”

  But Sigmund kept coming forward. He only stopped when the point of the sword was an inch from the Reiklander’s chest. “Captain Jorg!” the man blurted. “Your father is alive! I know where he is. If you kill me, you will never find out!”

  Sigmund did not remove the sword, it pressed into Theodor’s skin.

  “I was there to help your father,” Theodor said. “I helped him escape. There was a terrible fight. Look!” he pulled aside his shirt, showing Sigmund a ragged cut along the bottom of his ribs. “I got this! Your father would not have given me such a wound.”

  “You could have done that yourself,” Sigmund said.

  “I promise you your father is alive! I saw him last night riding away from the mill. But we cannot talk here. My companion might come back at any moment and that would be disastrous for you, me and everyone in Helmstrumburg!”

  �
��Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He might return at any moment!” Theodor said.

  Sigmund started out of the door, but Theodor pulled him back.

  “Please—I need to explain!”

  The barge carried him out of Helmstrumburg and along the dark banks—the lights of town retreating behind him.

  The burgomeister waited until he was safely past town then paddled desperately to shore. The current was too strong so he threw himself into the water. It was deeper than he thought and he took a mouthful or two of water before he found the muddy bottom and struggled to shore.

  His clothes dripped as he hauled himself ashore.

  “It’s me!” he shouted. “The burgomeister!”

  The moonlit trees were silent. A few leaves moved in a breeze but he saw no one. Where were they?

  “I have come!” he shouted, but even though he felt he was being watched, he saw nothing.

  The trees were like a silent wall. Occasionally one of the soldiers thought he saw something, but each time it appeared that it was nothing more than a bird, flapping in the undergrowth—or sometimes a fox, bolting across the open ground.

  But even though they saw nothing, the men on the walls had the feeling that they were being watched. And watched (hey were: even though the beastmen were too stealthy to be seen. Closer than any of the men could imagine, the smaller beastmen lay still, watching the preparations on the town walls.

  In the shelter of the trees, a white figure stamped his hooves and snorted with barely contained rage. Only half of his force had arrived. The attack which he was to have led was late.

  A stooped figure shuffled towards him, bent low in suppliance, shaking its rattle in homage to the beastman warlord.

  “My lord—Brazak’s and Drakk’s herds have arrived!”

  Azgrak snarled with fury and turned from the town. Drakk was the brood-brother of the Red Killer. He had inherited the Red Killer’s herd. There were fresh heads plaited into Drakk’s human-hair belt. His legs were brown with caked blood. On his snout there were fresh gouts of blood. In his left hand he dragged the headless corpse of a child.

  Brazak walked next to him, his suppurating skin now accelerating to a rolling boil of pus and slime. The stink was overpowering.

  Azgrak’s fingers clenched and unclenched on his axe shaft. He bared his fangs, let out a roar of fury, and the warlords stopped. It took a moment for the noise to die down. “You are late!” he snarled.

  The pace of Brazak’s boiling skin slowed for a moment, and Drakk let go of the foot of his meal.

  “There were many humans to kill,” Brazak snarled and Azgrak opened his snout and roared in fury.

  “We were meant to attack today!” he raged. “You are late!”

  He tossed the head of Red Killer onto the floor in front of them. Drakk sprayed in supplication, but Brazak was too slow to show his deference to the warlord.

  Azgrak was a white blur. Brazak’s festering skin stopped all of a sudden, and his hooded head bent slowly forward as if he was bowing to the albino, but it tumbled forward, off his shoulders and onto the ground. A second later his legs gave way and the whole festering sack of flesh followed.

  Azgrak turned to Drakk but the shaman crept forward, skull rattle shaking. “The omens for tomorrow are good!” the shaman hissed. “The guilty have been punished. Oh fearsome warbeast, do not kill all your finest warriors!”

  Azgrak could barely restrain his anger, but instead of striking Drakk, he bent his horned head back to the moon and roared—and the leaves above his head shivered.

  “Tomorrow, Helmstrumburg will burn!” the shaman hissed, but Azgrak brandished his axe at the town of the enemy.

  “No,” he spat with fury. “It will burn tonight!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Theodor’s face strained as Sigmund put the point of his blade to the merchant’s throat.

  “Speak!” Sigmund commanded.

  “We cannot stay here. My companion might return at any minute! Trust me, let us go somewhere where we cannot be disturbed!”

  Sigmund heard footsteps on the stairs and saw Josh’s terrified face peering up at him. Sigmund bundled the Reiklander out into the corridor and down the stairs to the bar.

  Josh saw the drawn sword as they came towards him and ran down the stairs, but Sigmund called out to him and he stopped. “Open the cellars!” Sigmund said and Josh hurried to obey. The captain’s tone did not leave any room for discussion—and he had a drawn sword in his hand.

  Sigmund shoved Theodor through the door that led to the cellar. The temperature dropped and there was a distinct scent of fermentation.

  “Josh! Keep this door shut and guard it. Understand?”

  Josh nodded and then Sigmund winked, and turned to go down.

  The cellar was dark. Sigmund paused, about to call for a light, then a flint was struck, and Theodor lit a candle. In the flickering light, Sigmund could make out the face of Theodor and the barrels neatly stacked against the cellar wall.

  “What is all this about?” Sigmund demanded. “And why the need for secrecy?”

  “I work for the Count of Talabecland,” Theodor said, and as he spoke Sigmund heard his fine Reikland accent disappear and be replaced by one from Talabheim.

  Sigmund was not impressed. As he stepped forward, his sword edge glimmered in the candlelight. “And what does that have to do with Helmstrumburg?”

  “There are terrible forces at work,” Theodor hissed.

  Sigmund had heard the same warnings in the mouths of mad men and doomsayers all his life. He could not believe that he had come all this way and with such secrecy just to be told this. “Terrible forces,” Theodor continued, “for whom skinning a man and his family alive is just the prelude.”

  “You have seen these things, I can tell,” Theodor said.

  Sigmund remembered the nausea he felt when he’d been inside the cabin of Osman Speinz. It hadn’t so much been the sight of the butchered bodies that had disturbed him, but the crude symbols daubed in blood.

  When he tried to bring them back to mind the symbols were a blur in his mind, as if his conscious mind refused to dredge them back.

  “It is only with the greatest of efforts that I have remained sane,” Theodor told Sigmund, but his mouth was moving strangely. Sigmund suddenly felt as if reality were about to fail, that he was being pulled towards a world of insanity.

  “Four years ago I became involved in a Chaos cult,” Theodor spoke the word in a low hush. “And—Sigmar save my soul—I have seen things that would make a living man lose his sanity!” Theodor paused for a moment. “There is some great event for which the powers of Chaos—Chaos!” he said. “Hell-spawned incarnate! Abominations beyond comprehension! Chaos—the primal slime that is always trying to slither out and dissolve us all into a sickening stew of madness!”

  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?”