Forged in Battle (10 page)

Osric had had a brief thing with Nadya when Osric was still a
lowly town watchman. As soon as he’d been promoted to officer of the watch he’d
dumped her straight away—and she’d held a grudge ever since.

“When you lads have earned it maybe you’ll get a proper
uniform!” Fat Nadya cackled and looped her arm through that of the nearest
spearman.

Osric couldn’t hit her so he hit the spearman instead. The
man barely had time to turn to face the blow before the fist crashed into his
chin with the force of a hammer. He crashed against the wall and Fat Nadya
screamed. Two of the other spearmen jumped in but instead of punching Osric they
held his arms and stopped him hitting anyone else.

Baltzer, Freidel and a few other men were sitting on the
other side of the room. They leapt up, but Guthrie stepped forward and held up
his arms.

“For the love of Sigmar, stop!” he shouted and the
halberdiers paused.

The spearmen held up their hands.

“Cowards!” Baltzer cursed, but Osric dusted down his uniform.

“That man insulted me and I have paid him back! No need for
any further fighting!” he said and his men returned to their seats and the
spearmen carried their friend out.

The men came home, loud and drunk. Lying on his bed, Sigmund
listened to each group return: the unsteady footsteps and the loud banter of
drunk men.

A long time passed. He didn’t hear anything, and dozed off.
He was woken by the sound of footsteps coming across the yard, the sound of a
door squeaking, then more footsteps coming up to his door. There was a loud
knock.

“Yes?”

The door opened. Sigmund blinked. The lantern was so bright
he could not see who was holding it.

“Sir!” a man said. “There’s a man just in from the hills. He
says he’s seen beastmen.”

The voice sounded familiar. “Is that you Holmgar?” Sigmund
asked.

“Yes, sir!”

“Then take that damned lantern from out of my face!”

“Sorry sir!”

Sigmund followed Holmgar out into the yard. There was a light
on in the kitchens. The kitchen door was open. Sigmund took the lantern from
Holmgar, and went in. The kitchen had the lingering smell of pickled cabbage. In
the gloom Sigmund could make out the huge cast iron cauldrons that were used to
cook the daily rations, hanging from the beams. The walls were hung with brass
dippers and knives. There was a platter of bread and cheese on the table, next
to the lantern. A man stood there. He was short and dirty. He certainly looked
and smelt like a trapper.

“Who are you?”

“Vasir,” the man said. “I am a trapper. Up in the hills.
Under Frantzplinth.”

“What have you seen?”

“I went to Goethe’s place, and—”

“Jonn Goethe’s place? On the western spur?”

Vasir nodded and carried on with his story. “They were all
dead. Skinned—like hunted animals! I ran. When I came to Burhens, the village
was silent. Human skins hung from the trees. There were strange symbols.” The
man clutched himself. “I never thought I would make it here alive!”

Sigmund shook his head and seemed to make up his mind.
“Alright, rest here tonight. Holmgar—look after this man. He can sleep in the
stables.”

Holmgar nodded. Sigmund walked back to his room and lay down.
Burhens was on the slopes of The Old Bald Man. It was twenty miles from there to
Osman’s shack on Galten Hill. He must bring the people down, he told himself and
lay down to sleep with that single thought in mind.

The next day at morning parade the four sergeants came to get
their orders for the day. Vostig’s men were to clean the stables and count the
supplies of food and blackpowder. Hanz was to supply the sentries for the day.
The rest of his men were to cut up the loads of firewood that were stacked by
the docks. Gunter’s men were to practise their sword-play. Osric was to take the
cart to buy wheat for the stores.

When he was finished, Sigmund set out to the guild hall. The
streets were busy with morning traffic as farmers brought their goods into the
marketplace.

When Sigmund got to the guild hall there were four watchmen
on guard. They eyed Sigmund warily, but made no move to approach him. He strode
past them and knocked on the oak door.

“Yes?”

The burgomeister seemed surprised to see Sigmund.

“Good day,” he said, and shuffled the papers in front of him
as if he were anxious to hide the papers he was reading.

Sigmund had no interest in the burgomeister’s petty business
dealings. “A trapper came to the barracks last night. He said that Burhens has
been destroyed. I insist that we raise the alert!”

The burgomeister frowned. “You want to raise the alert on the
basis of one man’s report?”

“I believe the man. It fits in exactly with what my men
found.”

The burgomeister sighed. “I think we have every right to
expect you to defend us, rather than huddle in the city. Don’t you think,
Captain Jorg?” Sigmund started to speak but the burgomeister cut him off. “Stop
this talk of running and hiding and evacuating! Take your spearmen and do what
you are paid for—Captain Jorg. Defend the town!”

* * *

Vostig stood in the doorway and watched his men sweep horse
dung and used straw out of the stables. Holmgar and Richel carried sacks of
pulses and oats from one side of the stables to the other to count them.

“Twenty-three of oats. Fifteen of pulses.”

Vostig nodded. He chewed a piece of straw and waited for
Osric’s men to come over. The two horses snorted as they were led out and
hitched to the cart by Baltzer and Kann.

Osric climbed onto the driver’s seat. Vostig told him how
much they needed and Osric nodded and lashed the reins and drove the cart out of
the barracks.

“Now, get those sacks back over there!”

The men carried the sacks back across the stables.

Richel tripped and swore loudly.

“Language!” Vostig said.

“There’s a boulder in here,” Richel said and began to pull
the heaped straw aside, but when he uncovered it he laughed. “You should have a
look at this!”

The men came over to see what Richel had found. Buried in the
old sacks and straw was a primitive kind of firearm. It was three feet long, and
made of bands of copper around a steel barrel, with a primitive open powder pan
for firing.

“What is that?” Holmgar said with awe.

“It’s a swivel gun,” Richel said. “You dumb oaf!”

Vostig came over to look. “I’ve seen this kind of thing
mounted on boats,” he said. “But I can’t imagine what it’s doing here.”

The men shook their heads, and then Vostig told them to cover
it over again. “No use to us,” he said.

Along Tanner Lane, smugglers managed a good trade, sneaking
goods across from Stirland under cover of darkness. It was into one of these
dens that Theodor went. The stench of ammonia hung over the street. Theodor
ducked into one of the tanneries. Inside the gloomy building the tanning vats
bubbled poisonously. Cattle and calf skins dried over racks.

A man in a stained apron swirled one of the vats. Theodor
slipped a gold crown into his palm. “I’m looking for the Otter,” he said.

The man bit the coin and slipped it into the folds of his
shirt. He nodded over his shoulder. Theodor walked over to the back of the room,
to where skins hung in rows, drying.

“How can I help you?” a man’s voice said.

Theodor pushed through the dripping skins, but he couldn’t
see anyone.

“Are you the Otter?”

“None of your business. What do you want?”

Theodor explained what he needed. There was a pause.

“Ten gold coins,” the man said. “You are staying in the
Crooked Dwarf, are you not? I will have it delivered there.”

“No, there is an old stable at the back of the water tower.
Have it put there.”

“I will leave this here,” Theodor said and dropped the purse
onto the floor.

“The goods will be there tomorrow,” the unseen man said.

Sigmund spent the rest of the afternoon watching the
Vorrsheim spearmen drill. They seemed to be a solid group of men. When the
drilling was over, Sigmund let Gunter know he was going out. He’d a little time
before he’d to be back at barracks to check that the sentries were assigned
their duties. If he was quick he could get to his father’s mill and back before
then.

The Kemperbad Road ran parallel with the banks of the river.
To either side there were rich meadows and scattered trees. Sigmund’s stride ate
up the distance. The watermill appeared around the edge of the hillside and for
a moment he flashed back to his youth, when he remembered how proud he used to
be of his father. He wasn’t sure when the disgust began to replace it. Maybe it
was when he was old enough to understand that his father was a drunk; that the
man he’d idolised for so many years was a fraud.

The road dipped down to cross a stream, then up again to his
father’s fields. The mill was a low building about twenty feet from the river
bank. Just below it the water sluice rejoined the river. About fifty feet up the
bank was their farmhouse. There were stables to the side and in front of it were
a couple of ploughed fields.

Sigmund could hear the creak of the wheel as the water drove
it slowly round, the shouts of the men who worked there. As he approached the
door, Sigmund called out. His mother’s face appeared in the doorway and she
lifted her skirts and hurried outside.

“Mother!” he said and held out his arms to embrace her.

He was so used to soldiers that it felt strange to feel her
large soft body. She looked a little older and more tired. There was more grey
in her hair than there had been a year ago, when he’d first enlisted. She
worried about him, he knew.

“You look well!” he said.

“So do you!” she told him, even though he looked thinner and
tired. No doubt there were all kinds of things he’d to sort out. What with
Sigmar’s star appearing again.

“Come in! Come in!” she said. “I have a stew on the boil!”

The house seemed smaller and more rustic than Sigmund
remembered. Although his father was thought of as a rich man, it was a hovel
compared to the richest houses in the town, which were filled with luxuries from
Kemperbad.

Sigmund shook his father’s hand, embraced his brother, and
started to tell them about the news from town, and further afield.

“I should get back to barracks,” he said after about an hour,
when he heard the bells of the Temple of Sigmar ringing, but his mother looked
crestfallen.

“Surely they’ll be able to manage without you for one
evening?”

Sigmund nodded. He didn’t really want to go, but he knew he
shouldn’t leave his men. He was their commanding officer, but it was important
he explained the danger to his family.

“Maybe I will stay,” he said at last, but felt torn between
family and duty.

Over the meal he brought up the matter of their moving to
town. “I do not think it is safe for you to stay here.”

His mother paled but Andres waved his hand in dismissal.

“Why should we do that when we have you to protect us? The
beastmen have never come so far down the valley. All they dare do is steal and
run away,” he scoffed, refilling his glass. “They’d never dare attack somewhere
like this. There are seven strong men here. We’d easily beat them off!”

Sigmund could see the zweihänder, hanging as always over the
fireplace. He shook his head in exasperation. “It’s not safe here. If you are
too stupid to understand that then at least let me at least take mother and
Hengel into town.”

Andres slammed his wine cup onto the table and the room went
silent. “I will not be spoken to like that in my house,” he spat. “I thought you
became a soldier to protect us all—not to tell me that I should flee. What are
you a coward?”

Sigmund slammed the door behind him in rage, and stood for a
moment, trying to control his anger. There was nothing he could do to make his
father change his mind. As he strode off down the hill, his mother rushed after
him to catch him up.

“Your father’s drunk. He doesn’t mean what he says!”

Sigmund nodded, but he was too angry to be understanding. His
father had called him a coward!

“When he’s sober, try to make him see sense.”

His mother nodded. Both of them knew how seldom Andres was
sober.

“I will try,” she promised.

Sigmund nodded. “If you can, bring yourself and Hengel into
town tomorrow, and I’ll find you lodgings. Now I have to go!” he said and kissed
her on the cheek, then began to jog down to the bridge, heading along the water
meadows, towards the east gate of Helmstrumburg. As he ran he thought of the
beastman bands and hoped that his father lived long enough to regret his stupid
pride.

It had been a thousand years since they had smelled the
scents of life. For too long they had been buried. Hammers had shattered them.
Fires had burnt their surfaces, water had cracked them deep. But not quite
stone, they had lain long in the earth, slowly repairing themselves, moving
slower than worms to reunite the fissures, and now it was time. They could feel
it in the deep burrows of the world.

One by one, tentative at first, they began to push for the
surface. The turfs broke and split open, and the black stones began to rise, the
jagged tips rising like mushrooms from the ground. There was strange writing on
their sides such as would make any man who could understand the words go mad.
Such was their power that the beastmen tribes had waited this long for their
return. They were the slaves of the stones.

And as the stone circles and monoliths retook their rightful
place, between earth and sky, the beastmen knew, in the manner of migrating
beasts, that it was time to move towards the river.