Forged in Battle (3 page)

“Sigmar’s balls,” Osric said at last, and shook his head.
“They made a mess here.”

The door of the cabin swung open and Sigmund came back out of
the doorway. His face was deathly white, his jaw clamped against some greater
horror inside the cottage. “Gunter!” he said. “I don’t want anyone else going in
here. Get a fire started, we’ll burn this place down.”

Gunter nodded and his men started piling brushwood against
the cabin walls. “We’ll find these creatures!” Sigmund called as his men worked.
“And we will pay them back!”

A few of the men nodded, but Baltzer caught Elias’ eye.
“Let’s hope we don’t!” he muttered under his breath.

Elias looked away, but Osric pulled him over to the corner of
the yard. “Look at this!”

The beastmen had sprayed and defecated round the edges of the
enclosure: the dung looked as if it had been kicked about to spread out their
pungent stink.

“It’s like they’re marking their territory,” Freidel said and
his nose wrinkled at the thought of the filthy beasts. “Abominations!” he spat.

Osric kicked a pile of dung that was the size of a cow pat.

“Look at the size of that one!” he said. “I personally don’t
want to see anything that made that.”

Elias swallowed hard. He also hoped that the beastmen had
gone back into the high hills and stayed there. He didn’t want to see the
creature that made that either.

The halberdiers set off following the path of the beastmen,
but after an hour’s march Sigmund called a brief halt by a stream. While the men
filled their flasks and drank long gulping mouthfuls of water, Sigmund went
forward with Edmunt. The giant woodsman was crouched on the ground staring at
the forest floor as if it were a book he was unable to read. “I am no tracker,”
he said at last.

Sigmund nodded. None of them were: from their clothes they
were soldiers, but in their hearts they were still tailors’ assistants,
woodsmen, farriers, farmers’ boys. And miller’s sons, Sigmund told himself.

“If you had to guess, which way do you think?”

Edmunt looked to the left and right: briars and ferns clogged
the space between the tree trunks and the ground was thick with moss and
well-rotten leaves. Dusk was closing in around them. On all sides the forest
appeared impenetrable. Edmunt shook his head. He couldn’t tell. It seemed
impossible that the beastmen had come this way and not left any sign.

“I don’t know,” Edmunt said after a long pause, “but if I had
to guess I would say that they went that way, to the left. There are a couple of
farmsteads over the ridge, about half way to Gruff Spennsweich’s land.”

He pointed to where the stream splashed down a staircase of
slippery black stones. A fern waved as if caught in a breeze and Sigmund’s skin
prickled. Since they had left the hut he felt as if they were being watched. He
cursed himself. It was impossible hunting beastmen like this: they could
disappear as easily as wild animals; to the untrained eye they left less trace
than a passing ghost. And night was already setting in.

“We’d better get to the nearest farmstead and raise the
alarm,” Sigmund said. Edmunt nodded.

“Does Farmer Spennsweich rent out his daughters?” Petr asked
and Edmunt laughed out loud.

“Touch one of his daughters and he will use your guts for
sausages!”

Behind them the men were filling their water skins. Sigmund
felt his skin prickle again. “Keep your arms to hand!” he hissed, the tension
showing in his voice as they started forward again.

Sigmund led the way down along the stream bank. The stones
were rough but slippery; they turned under foot and made the going difficult.

Osric shouldered his pack. This was stupid. The only way they
knew which way the beastmen had gone was the trail of burnt cottages and
farmsteads, the dead bodies of women, children and men. He waited for Elias to
go before him. No point having the new guy take up the rear, but taking the last
spot made Osric too aware of how exposed they were, strung out like pack-horses
in the thick forest at dusk.

“We’ll be the ones caught next,” Osric muttered.

As they filed through the forest, Osric kept muttering. Elias
didn’t know if he should respond or not. “These are not deer we’re hunting,”
Osric said, and Baltzer overheard and turned to join in the fun.

“These animals hunt you back,” he whispered. “We could be
walking into a trap. In the forest, at night.”

Elias started to look around him.

Gaston stopped on a stone in the middle of the stream. “Leave
off him.”

Osric gave him a half-smile, half-sneer. Gaston let him go in
front, took the position of end man himself, but not even the presence of Gaston
could soothe the new boy.

As the first stars began to glimmer through the leaves above,
Elias could sense the forest watching and waiting, a hundred eyes behind each
tree.

As Morrslieb rose behind the stark crags of Frantzplinth, the
Ragged Company broke through the trees onto a walled field. They had come down
to more civilised parts. Sigmund paused and conferred with Edmunt. He had grown
up near this place, in a cabin deep in the woods.

“If we go that way,” Edmunt said to Sigmund and pointed down
towards a patch of tall cedars. “We will cut out a couple of miles.”

Sigmund nodded and the men scrambled down the hillside, over
a dry stone wall, and through the cedar copse. He did not tell anyone what he
had seen inside the house. He tried to scrub the memory from his mind: but the
unbidden sight kept appearing of the fresh hides of Osman Speinz and his three
daughters, hair and face and legs, nailed across the inside of the wall.

When the dogs started barking, Gruff Spennsweich went out to
quiet them down. The animals were tugging at their chains, teeth bared. He could
see shadows moving in the trees. The horses started to toss and neigh in the
stables and the farmer’s skin prickled.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. The shadows moved and he shouted
again, louder this time in an attempt to bolster his nerves: but he felt more
frightened than ever. A horn blew and Gruff ran back to the house. A strange
scent hung in the evening air, vile and musky.

“Dietrik! Olan!” he called the farmhands from the barn then
hurried back inside, took the old crossbow from above the fireplace and began to
wind it.

Valina, his eldest, stared at him as if he had gone mad.

“Father, what are you doing?”

He had kept the mechanism oiled, but it was still stiff from
lack of use, and he began to sweat as it jammed.

“Sigmar’s balls!” he hissed and Gertrude, his youngest, and
Shona and Werna, the blonde twins, blushed.

Olan and Dietrik stood at the door, uncertain whether to come
into the house or not.

“Here! Dietrik,” Gruff said and the farm boy stepped inside
and took the crossbow hesitantly. “Olan, get a pitchfork. Watch the trees. Shout
if you see anything.”

Dietrik held the crossbow reverently while Olan hurried
across to the barn, a worried look on his face.

“Don’t point that at me!” Valina cursed him. The farm-boy
blushed and pointed the crossbow out of the doorway.

Gruff took no notice. He was digging through his chest for
his blunderbuss. He unwrapped the oil cloth, and the smell of polished iron
rekindled memories of hunting when he was a young man, up in the hills. He
didn’t like to use too much blackpowder—it was expensive—but this time he
poured a good measure in and then rammed home a good few handfuls of pellets and
smithy scraps.

“This is pointless!” Osric dared to raise his voice. Silently
the rest of the men agreed, even Edmunt. They had somehow missed the road and
were caught in a defile that seemed to be winding its way back into the
mountain. They could barely see anything in the darkness, but if they could hit
the road then at least they could make their way to a farm and get some shelter
and protection. None of them fancied sleeping rough with a band of beastmen
raiders nearby.

Sigmund came and stood next to Edmunt. “Any idea which way?”
he asked. Edmunt shook his head.

Sigmund looked left and right. None of the ways seemed good.
“We’ll double back,” he said, “and follow the stream down.”

It was as good a plan as any. Osric imagined what tales he’d
be able to tell Richel and the other handgunners all about the latest chase that
Sigmund had led them on. He would have a platter of roast beef and the largest
flagon of ale at the Blessed Rest inn. Then he might visit the House of Madam
Jolie and see if she had any new girls in.

“Quiet!” Gaston hissed. Osric snarled, but crouched down like
the rest.

The men huddled down low and listened. Even though the trees
deadened noises, there were men shouting, the distant clang of metal. Then the
unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Sigmund sprang forward and his men followed
slipping on the ground and tripping on the undergrowth.

Elias tripped over a tree root and fell face forward into a
tangled knot of briars. He felt a hand dragging him out and he yelped with
terror, expecting a beastman to tear him apart. A rough hand grasped his shirt
and hauled him to his feet, then Edmunt’s broad silhouette jogged ahead of
him.

Elias followed Edmunt’s silhouette through the trees. They
ran as quietly as they could until they broke through the foliage and the open
sky above seemed almost as bright as daylight. They had found the road. They saw
two carriages, their horses lying in pools of blood, and around them were dead
human bodies and cavorting goat-headed figures carrying spears and crude
shields. Sigmund was at the front. He led the halberdiers in a ragged charge:
all of them roaring furiously. Elias opened his mouth but had no idea if he made
any noise at all, he just concentrated on following Edmunt’s hulking shape.
Suddenly a beastman loomed in front of him. He jabbed and felt the blade smack
through fur and flesh and then the beastman went down and Elias kept running and
screaming.

Elias caught another beastman in the gut, but this time the
creature did not go down so easily. Elias was so terrified of being killed that
he thrust the point of his halberd at it again and again, until it hung, impaled
upon the side of the carriage. Elias tried to pull his halberd free, but it was
stuck. He had a terrible fear that he would be caught and drew his sword, but
when he looked around there were only halberdiers.

The fight seemed to have lasted no more than a few seconds,
but suddenly a gun flashed again, and the retort was so loud Elias dropped his
sword in fright.

The carriage stood amidst the ruin of its former occupants
and attackers. From the spread of bodies it appeared that the carriage driver
had attempted to crash through the beastmen, but the beastmen had torn out the
throats of the horses, and with such superior numbers against them the defenders
had been doomed. The driver’s blunderbuss had crudely beheaded one beastman and
turned the creature’s shoulders into a mangled mess of lead shot, gore and bone.
But he and his two guards lay gutted and dead, their eyes staring blindly up
into the starry sky.

The two survivors had run down the road, and it was there
that the last beastman was cut down. Sigmund pulled his blade free, turned the
body of the creature over with his foot, and cleaned his halberd on the shaggy
fur. In their frenzied attack on the carriages, the beastmen had smashed all but
one of the lanterns. The remaining lamp swung back and forth, casting eerie
shadows. The largest beastman lay on its front about ten feet from the second
carriage. Its horns were broad and straight, curling forwards at the ends like
the horns of a bull. It had a bull’s neck, pale and creamy and thick with
muscles. There were many stab wounds on its front, Sigmund knew. He had made
half of them himself. It was the one that had killed one of the new boys, Petr—it had cut the lad almost in half.

Osric had already covered Petr with his cloak, but from
beneath the cloth a red pool was spreading. Sigmund shook his head. The boy had
forgotten all his training and had been an easy kill.

“Is anyone else hurt?” he called out.

No one answered. They gathered together, hushed by the sudden
relief of surviving battle.

Gunter led the two men who had survived the attack back down
the road.

They were dressed like merchants, with silk cloaks and velvet
hats. The taller man was the one with the pistols, one of them in his belt and
one hanging—spent—from his hand. Even in the glimmer of lamplight, they
could see the quality of their manufacture. The hilts and barrels were worked
with silver filigree, but there was nothing delicate about the shots they fired.
The barrels were as wide as Sigmund’s thumb. A short range, but deadly.

Not far off was proof of its power: a beastman lay on its
front, the gaping exit wound raw and bloody. The shot had driven flesh, bone and
cartilage before it, and then ripped out of the monster’s back, leaving a hole a
hand’s breath wide.

“Who are you?” Sigmund asked to the merchants.

“Are you free company?” the shorter man said. He had a
Reikland accent, refined and arrogant. The man had a finely cut beard and his
bone structure was delicate. His hands were gloved with the finest kidskin, his
deerskin boots trod silent as he strolled up to the halberdiers’ captain.

Sigmund pulled himself up to his full height to compensate
for his patched jacket. “Captain Sigmund Jorge, Helmstrumburg Halberdiers,” he
said. “And I want to know your business.”

“Well. How lucky that you came along,” the man said, but
there was something about his tone that made Sigmund bristle. If these fools had
not been out at night then he would not have lost one of his men. He watched the
Reiklander tilt his head towards the dead beastman at their feet. “Otherwise we
would have been in a more than a little trouble.”