Forged in Battle (5 page)

Edmunt tossed another stick onto the fire. “No,” he said at
last. “I do not. Nor did Gunter. There were prints of large beastmen at Osman’s,
but the ones we killed were all small.”

They sat in silence for a while longer. Behind them one of
the men coughed and turned over. “That means there’s more than one band.”

Edmunt nodded.

There was a long pause.

“I don’t know about you,” Sigmund said, “but I cannot believe
that this has nothing to do with the fiery star.”

As Sigmund and Edmunt talked, the two Reiklanders made their
beds upstairs, away from the halberdiers.

They had insisted that their packs were brought upstairs, and
the crates and bags piled together.

Gunter’s men left them to themselves. They had no interest in
the men’s airs and attitudes, nor in their heavy merchandise.

Half an hour after Sigmund and Edmunt had put out the fire
with the last dregs of beer and turned the lanterns down to low and hooded them,
Theodor checked his pistols were under the crude pillow of his rolled cloak.

He listened until he could hear the halberdiers snoring. When
he was sure that they were all asleep he turned to peer at his companion.

Eugen’s eyes were wide open. They caught a stray beam of
moonlight and glittered strangely in the darkness.

Theodor whispered, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “Why
were we attacked?”

The pale eyes turned down to him slowly, as if Eugen was in a
meditative state. There was something disconcerting in his companion’s manner.

“I thought everything was agreed!” Theodor said.

Eugen moved silently, and Theodor felt a hand rest on his
cheek.

His companion’s eyes were dark as he turned towards him, but
his teeth glittered with malice. “Do not question me again.”

The voice was sad, but as his companion spoke he ran a
fingernail across Theodor’s throat, then the Reiklander lay back, and did not
speak again.

A jagged skyline of three and four storey buildings lined the
broad cobblestoned marketplace of Helmstrumburg.

One of the many watering holes was Crooked Dwarf inn: a
crooked timber-framed building with ferns growing in the gutters. Its owner,
Guthrie Black, a portly bachelor, was standing in the doorway. He wiped his
hands on his apron and smelled the fine morning air. There was a strange hush.
Not even the town crier sounded as pompous as usual. It was all this talk of the
fiery star. Guthrie’s gut swelled as he took in a deep breath, and let it out in
one long sigh.

“Josh?” he called. Where was that boy when there were jobs to
be done? “Josh!”

Josh didn’t reappear for an hour. By this time Guthrie had
swept the bar himself, carried three barrels of ale up from the cellar, and now
rested in one of the chairs, mopping sweat from his brow.

“Where have you been?” he demanded as Josh slunk into the
room.

“Nowhere,” the lad said. If Guthrie hadn’t been so tired he
would have stood up and boxed the boy’s ears. “If you were a little closer!” he
said and shook his fist as he always did, but he never did hit any of his boys.
He said “his boys”, but they were no one’s boys really.

The lad scuffed his foot against the oak bar. “I wanted to
join the town watch,” he said at last.

“And?”

“And they said I was too young.”

Guthrie tousled the lad’s hair. Since his oldest, Elias, had
left, all the others wanted to join up. “Whatever this fiery star means,”
Guthrie reassured the boy, “it’ll have nothing to do with us here. Even if you
could join the halberdiers, all the excitement would be over before you even got
there!”

Josh pouted. “Promise?”

Guthrie smiled and pinched the boy’s cheek. “Promise!” he
said

The halberdiers were up before dawn. The eastern sky was
already paling, but in the west, late stars still glimmered above the tree-line.
The two-tailed star was nowhere to be seen.

The air was still, and their breath misted in front of them.
The halberdiers lined up in the courtyard of Farmer Spennsweich’s house, dark
shapes in the half-light. Osric yawned as he pulled his backpack higher on his
back and leaned on the halberd shaft for support. There was no sound from the
cabin. Not even the dogs were awake.

Sigmund stood to the side, silently watching his men rank up.
They distributed the merchants’ crates and packs amongst themselves, and then
stood, halberds on their shoulders, ready to march.

“All ready?” Sigmund called and the men hurried to their
ranks. They waited for a moment as the parade roll call was called. Each man
answered to his name.

“All present!” Osric called first, then Gunter.

Sigmund nodded. “Halberdiers—forward!” Sigmund called and
Osric’s men began to tramp out of the courtyard.

They were a third of the way down the hill when the sun rose
on their left. There was no warmth, just brilliant light that made the shadows
deeper and more impenetrable. Elias was sweating and tried to adjust his pack.
High above him the crags of Frantzplinth began to catch the first rays of sun,
the snow shone brilliantly and clouds began to run aground upon the sheer peak.

Below them the River Stir was a gold ribbon, sparkling with
reflected sunlight. None of them paused, but they all looked down to see the
magnificent curve of the river: the orchards that lined the banks and the dark
brown patch of Helmstrumburg, its tiled roofs gleaming in the morning light.

The halberdiers kept a fast pace all morning, making Eugen
and Theodor hurry to keep up with them.

“Captain, would you slow your men down?” Eugen called but
Sigmund took no notice.

“Captain, sir!” Eugen called again and his aristocratic tone
made Sigmund’s teeth grind. Gunter cast a sideways glance at Sigmund, but
Sigmund did not make any sign. It seemed to Gunter that he might have even
lengthened his pace a little. “I must protest!” Eugen called, but then he
realised how far behind he’d fallen and broke into a trot to catch up.

The last stretch of the road led through orchards. Under the
apple trees, chickens were picking though the grass. Edmunt called forward to
Osric.

“Do you think the burgomeister would miss one of those
birds?”

Osric didn’t even bother to respond, but Baltzer did. As the
unit drummer Baltzer always stood in the front rank. He and Osric had both been
in the burgomeister’s town watch before enlisting. The burgomeister would give
them all the chickens they wanted if they did what he said. “I didn’t think you
were one to accept payment from the burgomeister!” Baltzer called and Edmunt
laughed the comment off.

“It’d take more than chickens!” he laughed, but although a
few of them smiled, they all knew that it paid to do what the burgomeister
asked.

As the walls of Helmstrumburg came into view the packs on the
halberdiers’ backs seemed lighter, their footfall was longer. Helmstrumburg had
been walled with stone hundreds of years ago, but since then the settlement had
overgrown the walls along the western bank. Around the new town there was an
earthen rampart, topped with a nine foot timber palisade.

“Look smart!” Sigmund called and the usual traffic of farmers
and idlers stepped aside to watch the Ragged Company march through the gates.

Holmgar and Richel—a couple of Vostig’s handgunners—stood
sentry at the gate. They stood to attention as the halberdiers marched up, but
as Osric passed, Richel muttered: “You scruffy bunch of bastards!”

Osric’s jaw tensed. He would box that idiot’s ears when he
came back to the barracks.

Despite his patched uniform, Osric puffed out his chest. He
winked at a pretty blonde girl who turned and giggled with her friend. But they
were pointing at Gaston. With long blond moustaches, pale blue eyes and high
cheekbones, he looked good in the worst of uniforms.

Osric’s cheeks paled when he realised. Baltzer sniggered and
Osric gave him a sharp glare.

The two files of halberdiers marched through the new town,
and passed through the old stone wall, which sprouted ferns and grass from the
ancient stonework. Sigmund stopped at the marketplace. “You two! Come with me!”
he ordered, gesturing to the two merchants. The two men obviously weren’t used
to being spoken to like this and their faces darkened with anger, but Sigmund
paid them no attention. “The rest of you, back to barracks! Get some rest. No
drills till the afternoon. Parade at two!”

The men started to march off.

“Elias!” Sigmund called. “Get that cut seen to!”

“Sergeant Gunter!” Sigmund said and Gunter turned back for a
moment. “Make sure he does.”

“How much further?” Eugen asked after they’d been going for
five minutes. The shorter man had been limping since they’d entered town.

Not used to walking, Sigmund thought. “Not far,” he said.

Eugen tried to hurry the captain along, but Sigmund kept a
constant marching pace, and turned onto the docks.

The cobbles here were strewn with rotting scraps of food and
rubbish. Men shouted and bargained as sacks and barrels of grain, ale, meat,
furs and wood were loaded onto the barges in exchange for metal pots, fine
clothes, cheap knives and arrow heads, and a few precious barrels of
blackpowder.

The harbour was a hundred feet long, with a thirty-foot stone
pier thrusting out into river, protecting the boats from flood or floating
debris. The long jetties were lined with barges and sail boats that plied up and
down the Stir and the Reik. One boat had red-striped sails and a high prow and
poop-deck, such as the men of Marienburg used to sail along the coats of
Bretonnia.

“You trade with the men of Marienburg,” Theodor noted.

“The burgomeister will trade with anyone,” Sigmund said.

The three men started to push through the bustle. In the
middle of the pushing crowds the stink of stale sweat was overpowering.

“Ho, Sigmund!”

One of the labourers, a man with a sweat-stained shirt and a
pot belly, pushed through the crowd.

“Frantz!” Sigmund laughed.

Frantz nodded towards the two Reiklanders. “Who are these
two?”

Eugen tried to overhear the men’s conversation, but Sigmund’s
Talabheim accent thickened and it was hard to make the words out. “Beastmen,” he
heard, “patrols” and then he heard the word “burgomeister” and at that the
labourer’s face darkened and he turned to appraise the two outlanders, then spat
into the ground at his feet.

Eugen put his perfumed handkerchief to his nose and cleared
his throat loudly. The stink of sweat and rotting fruit was unbearable.

“Please!” Eugen said, but Sigmund refused to be either
intimidated or hurried. When he had finished talking to the labourer he turned
to the two merchants.

“Please, follow me.”

The guild hall stood at the east end of the docks. It acted
as both centre of power and fortification: designed to be able to withstand the
mob and act as courthouse and seat of government. It was built of hard red brick
and was four storeys high. In the centre of the building was a paved courtyard,
around which the outside walls rose up without windows until the second floor.
The windows held glass, but they were narrow and high and were bared with black
rods of iron.

On the river side of the guild hall were loop-holes for
handguns. A pair of cannon had once sat atop the building, until the
burgomeister had sold them. Or so the rumours went.

The doorway of the guild was guarded by a couple of town
watchmen. They wore white ribbons tied about their arms and carried long wooden
batons at their belts.

Seeing Sigmund approach, one of them slouched over to the
entrance and called inside.

Roderick, the watch commander, appeared at the doorway. He
had taken over command of the town watch when Osric had enlisted. He was a tall
handsome man, but there was a cruel glint in his blue eyes. Sigmund had no
reason to disbelieve the rumours about Roderick: that he’d stabbed a rival
merchant to death when he tried to replace the burgomeister. Of course, no one
was arrested for the murder and no one talked about it anymore. Not in public
anyway.

“Captain Jorg,” Roderick smiled without warmth. “How can we
help you?”

“I have important matters to discuss with the burgomeister.”

“Who are these two?”

“Messenger boys.”

Eugen bristled at the contempt with which Sigmund referred to
them.

Roderick smiled and bowed a little. “Greetings, gentlemen.
Please follow me.”

Sigmund pushed past the watch man. “I’ll see them in.”

The outer door opened into a central courtyard. On the other
side, a heavy oak door opened into the guild hall.

Sigmund strode across the courtyard into the guild hall,
where the burgomeister was sitting, at the end of a long oak table, talking with
a scribe.

“Captain Jorg,” the burgomeister said without any hint of
emotion. He was a tall thin man, his bony hands folded on the table in front of
him. His fingers were covered with gold rings set with all kinds of coloured
stones. Around his neck hung a gold chain of his office. “What news from the
hills?”

“Not good, lord burgomeister. The rumours are true. Beastmen
are banding together and they are coming lower than we have ever seen before.
Osman Heinz’s house was destroyed, and—”

“Osman Heinz? There are a hundred men who would have burnt
his house with pleasure.”

“It was beastmen,” Sigmund said. The memory of what he’d seen
there made him shudder.

“So you tell me,” the burgomeister said. “But that is just
your opinion. I have other matters to take into account. Anyway, who are these
people?”

“Your captain was kind enough to help us when we were
attacked,” Eugen intervened.