Forged in Battle (20 page)

Gunter nodded and his men started to go into the houses on
either side of the street and carry pieces of furniture out.

Edmunt nodded to the family sitting at the dinner table as he
came in and started to drag a heavy oak cupboard towards the door.

“Not my cupboard!” the woman of the house said, her pink
cheeks flushing, but Edmunt took no notice. The choice was simple: her oak
cupboard or the future of Helmstrumburg.

As Sigmund returned to the barracks he walked into the
marketplace to check on the various bands of free companies who were training
there.

Blik Short and the retired soldiers of the Old Unbreakables
had taken it upon themselves to drill the other companies, and now they were
marching up and down, or duelling with each other.

The men marched out of step. Half of them turned to the left
when ordered to right turn, and when they wheeled round the bottom of the market
square they lost their ranks and ended up a jumbled mess of men.

Blik Short smoothed down his waxed moustache.

“No! You three-legged bunch of apes!” he bellowed. He
reminded Sigmund of the drill sergeant who had trained them when they were first
enlisted; he and his friends hadn’t known their right foot from their left.
Until this point he hadn’t realised how used to army life he had become, and how
much he had learned, but now he and his men marched in their dreams.

Marching did more than teach men how to walk in step: it
trained them to accept orders and most importantly—it built up the unit
spirit. A unit couldn’t march if one man was out of step. When all the men could
walk together, then there was a hope that they could fight together too.

Sigmund left Blik to his business and started to cross the
marketplace to the Crooked Dwarf inn. The pub sign had been taken down and the
place looked odd without it. His heart was racing, and his mouth was dry. He had
not seen his mother and brother since they had come to town. Now his father was
dead and he felt it was his fault and he dreaded seeing them.

“Captain Jorg!” Sigmund heard his name called and stopped.

Vasir, the trapper was running up to him. “Captain, sir!” the
man said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Sigmund paused for a moment.

“Captain—when you called for free companies to be raised, I
brought together a few trappers and hunters I knew,” he nodded in the direction
of a motley collection of fifteen skinny, bearded men in simple jackets and
trews of crudely stitched leather and fur, squatting in the shade of an
abandoned cart. All of them had large skinning knives at their belts, short
hunting bows and quivers of arrows at their sides. A disgruntled member of the
Old Unbreakables had given up trying to drill them. “We wanted to be given a
spot to defend, sir!” Vasir said hopefully.

“I do have a job,” Sigmund said. “But it is more important
than defence. I need you to go out and find out where the beastman are and what
their numbers are.”

Vasir grinned his gap-toothed grin.

“Oh—and Vasir,” Sigmund said and he spoke more quietly now.
“I want you to go to my father’s mill. I want you to…” he started but he
didn’t know how to finish the sentence. They both knew what happened to those
that the beastmen took alive.

Vasir nodded. “I will look,” he said.

Sigmund’s heart was pounding as he pushed open the bar door.
The place was empty except for a boy who was sweeping the floor.

It was Josh.

“Captain Sigmund!” Josh said. “Are you looking for your
mother?”

Sigmund nodded.

“They’re in the back room!”

Sigmund nodded.

“And Captain Sigmund!” Josh said as he put down his broom and
hurried around the tables. “I want to fight!” he said, “but Guthrie says I’m too
young! Please will you talk to…”

“Josh,” he said. “You must listen to Guthrie and stay here
and look after the other boys. If the fight comes to you then strike with all
your courage. Until then, do what Guthrie says.”

Josh nodded. He turned away and went back to his broom and
swept slowly.

As he climbed up the stairs, Sigmund kept thinking how he
should have forced his father into town.

He paused on the fourth stair, remembering the time he had
gone to tell Arneld’s mother that her son had been cut down in the defence of
Blade’s Reach. He had stopped at the gateway and had not gone in. The old lady
had faced him down and he had turned away and walked home. It was not enough for
a captain to be brave in the face of the enemy, he also had to be brave in
harder situations like this when the sense of failure was almost overwhelming.

Sigmund pulled himself up, the stairs creaked as he climbed
the stairs. This was not only his job but also his family. He turned right at
the top and followed the corridor to the rear room, but paused at the doorway.
He could hear the muffled sound of people talking. Yellow candlelight flickered
under the door.

Sigmund took a deep breath and turned the handle. His mother
was sitting on the bed knitting, Hengle sat next to her. As Sigmund came in, his
mother looked up. Her eyes were dry, but her lower lip was trembling. She looked
for Sigmund to give her good news, but he slowly shook his head. She put her
knitting down and put her hand to her mouth.

“I tried to help,” he said, and put his arms around his
mother and brother together. “I’m sorry. But I was too late.”

Sigmund’s shoulders started to shake and the three of them
held each other tight, as if it were some protection from the loss they all
felt.

Roderick had refused to leave his house since Sigmund’s men
had taken control of the gates but at last he set off to the guild hall to talk
to the burgomeister and plan to return the power to themselves.

The docks were strangely empty. All the boats had left. A few
dockers stood around, but most of them had enlisted in the free companies and
were marching up and down the market square.

Roderick’s blue coat was unmistakable—the dockers laughed
as he passed. No one listened to the town watch anymore.

He strode towards the guild hall, but the front door was
shut.

He shouted up to the windows but there was no answer. His
skin prickled: it was strange seeing the centre of the elector count’s authority
in Helmstrumburg locked up and deserted. Where could the burgomeister have gone?

From the side of the guild hall to the banks of the river ran
a short wall, seven feet tall and made of red brick.

Roderick jumped and caught the top of the wall and hauled
himself up then dropped down onto the other side. The guild hall’s private jetty
was twenty yards away, jutting out into the river water. The burgomeister’s
ceremonial barge was still moored there, bobbing violently. Roderick waded
through the deep mud, heard voices and ducked down against the side of the guild
hall, even though it offered him no cover.

Despite the danger of discovery, Roderick crouched down and
edged forward. He could hear footsteps and the scrape of boxes being dragged
over wooden planks. He tried to move silently through the mud, but it was so
thick as to be impossible, so he stopped and peered up.

It was the burgomeister, pulling crates onto his barge. There
was a man with him—and Roderick peered up to see who it was. Of course, he
thought, who else! He was about to stand and make his presence known, when he
heard the two men exchange a joke and the note of their laughter made his skin
shiver. Instead, he huddled low until it was safe to flee.

Sigmund’s mother had brought all kinds of supplies with her:
a ham, a sack of flour and a couple of large cottage loaves with a freshly hung
cheese. She insisted that she did not need anything, but Sigmund gave her a
purse full of coins. At last his mother accepted the money.

“I will be back as soon as I can,” Sigmund said, and his
mother forced a smile.

“Son, your job is with the town. If the town falls then we
will all die. If you save it then we will also be saved,” she said and fumbled
for a chain that her husband had given her, years before. It was a silver hammer
of Sigmar, strung on a steel chain. She held it out and the hammer swung back
and forth. “Your father gave me this when we were betrothed,” she said. “And now
I give it to you. Sigmar be with you, my son!”

The hammer was worn with age. Sigmund imagined it coming all
the way from Ortulf Jorg, the man who slew the beastman lord a thousand years
earlier. He had tears on his cheeks as he took the amulet from his mother and
fastened it round his neck. Then he kissed his mother and brother, and hurried
from the room.

In the barracks there was a long queue of volunteers trailing
all the way across the drill yard. The queue ended in the “U” of buildings,
where Edmunt stood at the doorway of the armoury as each man came up to be
equipped with old weapons and armour that had been stored there. Much of the
equipment was broken or simply forgotten by the many units that had been
stationed here: but broken straps could be repaired, rivets could be fixed and
sword and spear handles could be re-strapped. Old spearheads were mounted on
freshly cut shafts.

“Sword and cap!” he called and Gaston and Elias tried to find
something suitable from all the old weaponry stored there.

Gaston found a sword, with no scabbard, that the volunteer
thrust through his belt.

“You’ll need to sharpen that thing,” Edmunt told him and the
man’s cheeks reddened as if he had not realised.

“It’s for killing,” Edmunt said. “Not for impressing the
girls!”

“Don’t listen to him,” Gaston said. “It’s just that he
doesn’t have a girl!”

The men who were queuing laughed, but not too loudly. Edmunt
was bigger than all of them.

“Next!” he scowled and the next man stepped up.

“Did you think that was funny?” Edmunt demanded.

“No,” the man said.

“Good.” Edmunt looked the man up and down. He had a sword of
his own: a machete blade such as some of the farmers used to clear scrubland.
“Cap!” Edmunt shouted and Elias brought out a plain steel cap, rusted in a
number of spots. Edmunt tried it onto the man for size. “There you go!” he said.
“Next!”

When Sigmund got back to the barracks there was still a queue
of men waiting to be armed.

There was a group of men standing together who were short and
thick-looking. Their banner was the sign from a tavern that was frequented by
dockers, and supervising their arming was a man with a short stabbing sword at
his belt and a leather jerkin with metal plates stitched on. He had a stiff
leather cap on his head, metal bands riveted onto it, but he was smoking a clay
pipe and under the martial exterior Sigmund recognised his friend.

“Frantz!” Sigmund said and laughed as he embraced him.

Frantz grinned as he waved the mouthpiece of his pipe along
the line. There were forty dockers: strong and hard men. Edmunt was sizing them
up for spare breast-pieces and steel caps that cluttered the armoury. Each man
was issued with a sword and most of them were given bucklers.

“We want a hot spot!” Frantz said and Sigmund smiled.

“They’ll all be hot!” Sigmund promised.

Sigmund was busy all afternoon. At the palisade gate Osric
had deepened the ditch by over two feet. He spat on the floor as Sigmund
approached. Sigmund didn’t look at him.

“I need this finished by evening,” Sigmund said, “then I need
your men to make sure the barricades on Eel Street, Altdorf Street and Tanner
Lane are secure.”

Osric nodded. “We will do that, sir. Don’t you worry.”

Sigmund was surprised at Osric’s manners.

“Good,” he said. “Keep it up.”

Sigmund walked out of earshot, inspecting the depth of the
ditch.

Osric watched him go then turned to his men. “Get working you
lazy bunch of whore-mongers!”

Baltzer stared at his sergeant. “What’s all that about?”

“What?”

“Yes-sirring that bastard,” he nodded with his chin towards
Sigmund.

Osric wasn’t going to admit that he felt sorry for Sigmund.
“I thought I’d give him a day off,” he said. “Now get digging!”

Helmstrumburg had boomed under the care of the burgomeister,
but precious little had been done to keep up the city defences, Sigmund thought
as he climbed up the bank to the palisade. It was about eight foot high: fine
against man-sized warriors, but many of the taller beastmen they had fought were
nearly seven feet tall. It would not be difficult for them to clamber over. If
the enemy came here in force then they would not be able to defend this stretch.
The gate was solid enough, but there was no gatehouse from which the men could
rain down missiles on the enemy. Osric had two teams of carpenters hastily
erecting a covered walkway over the top of the gate so that men could throw
rocks down onto anything that tried to assault the gate, but it was rudimentary
at best.

“There will be a fierce fight here,” Sigmund said. “I want
your men to be ready.”

“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.