Sigmund tried to explain, but was still weak and dizzy. Osric took over, telling the knights’ commander what had happened, and as much information as he could about the layout of the town, and the number and type of the beastman forces. Marshal von Dvornsak nodded and waved his men on.
The pistoliers moved alongside them. A few of them gave the halberdiers curt nods, but most of them passed by without even an acknowledgment.
“And those bastards will probably claim they liberated Helmstrumburg,” muttered Osric, as the mounted column trotted past.
An order was given and the squires spurred their horses forward to take the lances from the knights. Marshal von Dvornsak split his men into three squads of ten—sending one each down Tanner Lane, Altdorf Street and Eel Street, swords drawn. Behind the knights’ massive warhorses came the pistoliers, their light geldings chomping and tossing their heads at the stink of blood and the musk of the beastmen.
The horses moved slowly through the shattered remains of the barricades, picking their way carefully through the heaps of dead men and beastmen. On Tanner Lane they came across the Chaos spawn, still inside the field station, contentedly digesting the remains of over thirty men.
The Chaos creature’s pulsating flesh flared blue and sickly green as the first pistol shots punctured its overblown carcass. The horses started to panic as it began to squeeze back out of the door, following its own sticky trail of slime, but the pistoliers casually reloaded and then fired again; it was impossible to miss at such short range. It was a deadly fusillade, riddling the Chaos-spawn with lead shot.
Within twenty seconds the fearsome beast stopped moving. Its flesh began to deflate and change colour, until it was translucent, then sections tore open, the half-digested forms of the people it had devoured spilling out onto the street.
The captain of the pistoliers commented as he pointed at one of the forms—“What a shame…” he said and the men looked and saw the remains of a young girl with dark black hair.
With a shake of his head, the captain spurred his horse on and the pistoliers turned their horses down the street after the knights.
As soon as the beastmen realised that the roads out of town had been blocked they began to scramble for a way out of the tight and alien confines of the townscape—back into the wild woods.
The only ones that did escape were those that managed to break through to the docks and leaped into the river. The rest were cut off by the knights and pistoliers, and then slaughtered.
One band managed to hide from the knights and flee out of town along Eel Street, but the knights’ squires gave pursuit with spears and ran them to ground, one by one, as if they were hunting wild animals.
* * *
Sigmund limped into town and found his way to the marketplace, where the survivors were gathering. Edmunt picked Sigmund up in a bear-hug that was as gentle as he could make it, considering Sigmund’s wounds. Elias nodded politely and even managed a smile. Vasir was there: a dirty bandage around his thigh. Guthrie was sitting on a barrel; he looked ten years older. Hengle saw his brother and sprinted to embrace him in a fierce hug.
“Where is mother?” Sigmund asked.
Hengle pointed to the Crooked Dwarf.
“She stayed there the whole time?”
“Yes! The beastmen never made it to the marketplace. Edmunt and the others were magnificent!”
Sigmund gave Edmunt a look, but the woodsman shook his head.
“But how are you?”
“I am alive,” Sigmund laughed, and then saw a pretty blonde girl—her skirts torn and singed—make her way through the startled crowd and stand next to Gaston. Sigmund smiled. He was glad that Gaston was still alive. He didn’t know why but the handsome warrior’s presence reassured him.
“Where is Gunter?” Sigmund asked, but the men looked down. The list of the fallen was too long to dwell on. Sigmund shook his head. He never thought that Gunter would be killed. The old sergeant seemed to have survived so much. He had been old and wise when they were just raw recruits.
“What time is the Crooked Dwarf open?” Sigmund said, forcing a smile through his exhaustion and shock.
The men laughed, but the laughter was weak.
EPILOGUE
Four days after the battle of Helmstrumburg, the knights from the Valkenburg Kommondaria rode out of town with the Kemperbad Pistoliers and the long train of squires.
The town stank of blackpowder and smoke still hung over the rooftops. Most of the new town had been burnt down; the blackened stumps of rafters and beams were stark against the skyline as people picked their way through the rubble, looking for food or for the bodies of their brothers or mothers or children.
The beastman bodies had been piled up in the moat and burnt: the land reconsecrated by the priests of Sigmar.
Sigmund’s chest and shoulders were bruised black and blue—the hand prints of the beastlord neatly printed into his skin. The cut on his thigh was healing well. There were new patches on his uniform.
He saluted as Marshal von Dvornsak rode past and followed his men out along the Altdorf Road.
If it hadn’t been for the knights, the town would have been lost. Sigmund knew that, but he disliked being indebted to another soldier twice—even if it was the handsome old marshal.
Sigmund stood on the steps of the Crooked Dwarf then ducked back inside the tavern, sat down at the table with Edmunt, and put his feet up on the table.
He had lost thirty-three halberdiers including Gunter, eight handgunners, thirty-four spearmen, including Hanz and Stephan. He had chosen a bright young man called Verner to be their sergeant now. He was liked by his men, and seemed to have a good head for leadership. He had certainly earned their respect in the battle and had rallied a band of thirty men in the street fighting. As far as Sigmund was concerned, there was no better test for a man.
There was a clatter of hooves in the marketplace and Sigmund pulled his hat down over his face.
“One of the pistoliers has probably forgotten a feather,” Edmunt said.
Sigmund took a sip of his beer. Josh brought a new barrel up the stairs. Guthrie was polishing the tankards. Unfortunately he had lost most of his regulars, but if you ignored the bandages and the missing faces, you could almost forget that there had even been a battle.
They heard a horse stop outside the Crooked Dwarf. There were footsteps outside as someone came up the stairs to the inn. The door opened and a uniformed man came inside.
Sigmund pulled his hat down over his face. He couldn’t bear to talk to one of the pompous Kemperbaders.
“Captain Jorg?” someone said in a Talabheim accent.
Sigmund pushed his hat back and looked up at the new arrival. He was smartly dressed, with pistols at his waist and a sword at his belt—but he was not one of the men from Kemperbad.
Sigmund nodded.
“I have a message for you!”
Sigmund took the scroll and tore it open. It was from Landsmarshal Pesl.
“Your relief has been sent to Helmstrumburg. You are commanded to move with all possible haste to Fort Wilhelm on the Upper Talabec.”
At the bottom was a subscript: “Andres Jorg sends his warm greetings.”
So his father was alive, after all. Sigmund put the message down and let out a long sigh.
“New orders?”
“Yes,” Sigmund replied.
“Do we have time for another drink?”
“Just one,” Sigmund said.
He had floated all the way from Helmstrumburg, but an eddy brought the man ashore on the mud flats outside Altdorf.
The man barely had the strength to crawl a little way up the bank, before passing out again and lying there—his once-fine clothes stained and drenched beyond recognition.
In the afternoon Old Mother Scultzen made her way to the mud flats to see what she might find. There were often a few beached fish that the herons had left, or perhaps a piece of wood that she could dry out and burn. But today she saw the bod
y of a man lying with his feet in the gently lapping water. She hitched up her skirts and moved closed.
“Now then?” she said. “What have we here?”
The man let out a whimper.
“What’s that?” Old Mother Scultzen said. “You’ll have to speak up! I’m a bit deaf in that ear!”
“Help me!” the man repeated, louder this time and Old Mother Scultzen shuffled closer. “I’ve been robbed!”
She backed off in fear, but Eugen held up his hand. “I have rich… relatives who will reward you well!”
Old Mother Scultzen shuffled forward and saw the quality of the clothes he was wearing. Maybe he did have family who would pay for his safety? She shuffled another step forward, and peered down at the dishevelled figure.
The man feebly tugged a ring off his fingers and held it out towards her. She snatched the ring and bit it to make sure it was real before she decided to help him. She would get men from the village to help carry the man back to her hut. She knew just the thing that would cure him: fish head broth! And then she would see about the relatives.
“Wait there!” she shouted at the prostrate man. Eugen shut his eyes and nodded, lacking the energy to move his legs out of the water. There was nowhere else he could go.
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