CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

Farmer Spennsweich had driven by moonlight, all the while praying fervently for Taal to shield him and his family. When dawn came it seemed that the god of the forest had heard their pleas. The mare was foaming at the mouth, her flanks were dripping with sweat, but they were only two miles north of Helmstrumburg. Farmer Spennsweich flicked the reins and drove the mare onwards. He knew he wouldn’t feel safe until they were inside the town walls.

 

Roderick was on duty on the west gate, on the Altdorf Road, when he saw the cart came clattering down the road, piled up with possessions and frightened children. He put his hand out to stop it. The last thing the town needed was frightened country folk spreading panic and rumours in town.

“What’s your business here?” he demanded.

Gruff Spennsweich was white with fear. He pointed up to the forests on the hills. “Look! Can’t you see the smoke!”

Roderick refused to be alarmed. It was probably some hayrick that had caught fire. He cleared his throat and spoke with mock politeness. “What is your name, good sir?”

“Gruff Spennsweich.”

“Well, Gruff Spennsweich,” Roderick said, putting his hands inside the tails of his blue velvet coat and resting them on his hips. “I don’t know what rumours and scaremongering have led you to bring your family into town, but I assure you it is safe to return home and your honourable occupation! Is spring not the time to sow your crops?”

Roderick expected the man to doff his cap and give in to good sense, but the farmer refused to back down.

“The whole village of Struhelflossen has been butchered! We saw it with our own eyes!” he said. All his daughters and the two farm hands nodded mute agreement, but Roderick was not to be dissuaded and refused to let them in.

“There is no room for rumour-mongers in town!” he snapped and took the horse’s bridle to turn it away from the gate, but Gruff flicked the reins and drove the horse straight at the officer.

Roderick leapt to the side and the four watchmen at the gate jumped up, grabbed the horse, and manhandled the burly old farmer off his wagon. Valina tried to pull the watchmen off, but her screams were ignored and she turned to Roderick for help, who was dusting his coat down.

“In Helmstrumburg we have laws,” he spat when his watchmen had finished with Farmer Spennsweich and left him lying outside the walls, next to the wheels of his cart. “I suggest you remember that!”

 

The burgomeister sent word that all refugees were to be denied entrance into the town and ordered to return home, but within the hour there were already fifteen carts outside the west gate, and at least as many more at the east and north gates.

Roderick climbed up onto the gatehouse and held out his arms for silence. Gruff and the other farmers shook their fists at him. Roderick’s face reddened in anger. He gestured to his badge of office as if that would still their protests.

“Good people!” Roderick started. “I implore you to ignore the rumours and superstition that have driven you from your homes! If we are to flee in the face of the smallest threats, then how can we hope to build a prosperous and wealthy community?”

The people booed and the Roderick opened his hands and tried to quieten them down.

“Why blame me for your plight? If you have not been protected then you should take your complaints to the barracks and Captain Jorg!”

The jeering relented for a moment as another target of their anger was presented. “I assure you it is safe to return home!” Roderick said earnestly—then a fresh lump of horse manure flew up and splattered against his blue coat. At the same moment a stone hit the man next to him and within seconds there was a hail of missiles flying through the air. The farmers surged up to the wall, hurling stones and abuse, but the gates were shut and instead of offering them shelter, the city walls left them locked out.

 

At the Jorg family mill, Andres Jorg got up early to see his wife and son to town. The upper slopes of Galten Hill all, the way across to The Old Bald Man were shrouded in smoke.

“Please come with us!” his wife begged one last time, but he shook his head and scowled. He refused to flee before beastmen.

His wife wiped the tears from her cheeks and Andres helped him up onto the cart, and nodded to his son. Look after your mother, the nod said.

His mill-hands stood behind him, watching the cart head down the slope and over the bridge towards town. Their master was the most famous soldier for fifty miles. He had served the count’s father himself in his personal bodyguard. They would stay as long as their master did. Andres spat and then turned towards his men, and gave them a look as if they were soldiers waiting for orders.

“Right men! Back to work!”

 

The wheel of the watermill turned all morning. Andres stumped under the rafters, listening to the hypnotic sound of the water splashing through the mill mechanism. The huge grind stone turned slowly and ponderously: one man fed grain into the hole in the centre, coming out from the outside edges in a fine white powder.

The others sacked it up and piled the sacks against the far wall. All the men were dusted with flour. Even Andres had started to take on the ghostly white; he brushed the flour from his shoulders and went back outside, for the tenth time that morning.

The smoke from the high forest fires crept steadily downhill.

What was that son of his up to, skulking in town when raiders were terrorising the higher settlements? If only he had his leg back. If only he were Marshal of Helmstrumburg. He would march out and destroy those cursed goat-men!

 

The morning was well underway when the halberdiers clambered out of the White Rose and lined up on the dock-side. The scene around them was one of pure panic. People streamed from the town and there was a terrible crush on the docks as they tried to find safe passage away from Helmstrumburg. Fighting erupted over another boat and Sigmund barked an order and drew up his men in rank, Osric’s men at the front, Gunter’s men behind, Edmunt standing with the colours of the Helmstrumburg Halberdiers hanging from the banner pole.

The mob shrank into itself, but pushed from behind by terrified people the crowd surged forward again.

“Back!” Sigmund shouted to the terrified people, but they were too frightened to listen. “Back to your homes!”

“So we can be torn apart by beastmen?” one man shouted, but Sigmund could not see who.

“I am the Marshal of Helmstrumburg!” he shouted, trying to find a way through to the people in the mob. “This morning we killed sixty beastmen!”

People jeered him and someone shouted something about refugees being shut out of town to stop the truth spreading about the numbers of beastmen.

“You may have killed sixty but there are hundreds more!” another voice shouted.

Sigmund saw the man who spoke and addressed him by name. “Master Ekker! I thought you were a man who held his head up with pride—not abandoned ship at the first sign of trouble!”

The man stopped. Sigmund pointed to another man. “Gurge Svenson! I would never have thought you would be here—with this rabble!”

The mob paused for a moment and lost it coherency. Sigmund seized the opportunity. “My men are the match for any beastmen! Does the town not have strong walls? What is there to fear? Why leave all that you have here to be wandering beggars in a foreign land? Go back to your homes. If there is any news, you will be informed!”

The mob dissolved into clumps, but many people saw the sense of what he was saying and began to drift back to their homes.

Sigmund set Osric’s men on guard until he could send relief from the barracks, then left Gunter and Vostig in charge of taking the men and the dead back to the barracks. When all was set, Sigmund straightened his uniform, cleaned his face and hands then pushed his way through the crowds to the guild hall. There were more and more people hurrying over the cobbles, sacks and bags on their backs containing all that they could carry with them. There was a number of rich tradesmen and artisans who had servants or ponies to carry crates—or coins no doubt—but all their progress was slowed by the people who were making their way back home, for there were no more boats to be had for blood nor money.

Sigmund shook his head. There was no point in telling them to return home. When they saw that all the boats were full or had left then they would leave. There was no choice.

Sigmund hurried up the steps of the guild hall. There were four town watchmen at the door. They looked as nervous as everyone else, truncheons in their hands. They stood well back in the doorway, as if the crowds of frightened people might turn on them. When they saw Sigmund stride up the steps relief washed over their faces.

“Captain Sigmund!” said one of the men. “We heard you had fled!”

“Who told you that?” Sigmund demanded.

The man shook under Sigmund’s glare. “Why—Master Roderick,”

“My men were fighting,” he snapped. “Tell Master Roderick that the Helmstrumburg Halberdiers killed sixty beastmen last night!”

The men nodded fearfully, and Sigmund strode inside and pushed the door to the burgomeister’s hall open. The room was empty except for the burgomeister and a smartly dressed merchant. They were standing by the tall windows, peering down into the river that ran along the side of the guild hall, deep in conversation.

The merchant turned and Sigmund was surprised to see it was Eugen, the Reiklander he had rescued three nights earlier.

The two men seemed just as surprised to see Sigmund as he was to see them.

“I see you have returned,” the burgomeister said. “Although you seem to have forgotten to knock before you enter my chambers.”

Sigmund could not believe what he was hearing. “Sir,” he said, holding back his impatience. “I do not believe you understand that Helmstrumburg is in terrible danger. My men killed sixty beastmen last night and yet there are a hundred more fires burning in the hills.”

“Please captain—I have heard enough of this scaremongering this morning!”

“If you cared to step outside these four walls then you would see that those fires span from Galten Hill all the way across to The Old Bald Man! Do you think they will ravage the land and then return to their caves, like obedient school-children? No—they are making their way here! For what reason I cannot guess, but one thing is certain. The numbers of the beastmen must surely outnumber my men ten to one. Unless we take urgent action I am certain that the town will be overwhelmed!”

Eugen put his hand out to the burgomeister and the master of the city stepped back, as if this was not a matter for him to be concerned with.

“I do not think the town needs your hysterical rumours,” Eugen spoke slowly.

Sigmund tried to look past him to the burgomeister. “Sir! We should raise free companies at once!”

The burgomeister seemed hesitant. He glanced towards Eugen and the Reiklander stepped back and gave the burgomeister a barely perceptible shake of his head.

“The town cannot afford such expenditure!” the burgomeister said.

Sigmund could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Sir—have you stepped outside these walls to look for yourself?”

The burgomeister did not reply.

Sigmund stepped forward. “People are saying that the country refugees have been locked out of the town? Why have they not been let in?”

“I will not be spoken to by a mere sell-sword!” the burgomeister snapped. “I run Helmstrumburg, Captain Jorg, and I will not have cowards and beggars littering my town!”

Sigmund shook his head, but held back his frustration. “Sir—I beg you to come and look for yourself!”

“In my own time,” the burgomeister snapped and turned his back.

Sigmund slammed his palm onto the table and glared at the lord of the town. “Master burgomeister—your position is given to you by the Elector Count of Talabecland. It is your job to govern in his name. It is your job to protect the people! I insist that you call for all men who can bear arms! There is an army of beastmen in the hills and if we do not mobilise all who can fight then we will surely be overwhelmed!”

Sigmund was about to mention the standing stones that he’d found when he caught a slight shake of the head that Eugen gave to the burgomeister and felt his skin prickle. What games were these men playing? He had no intention of bringing them up now. He took a deep breath. “Sir! If you deigned to look out from this hall then you would see that the whole of Helmstrumburg is in a state of near riot. Even though you are convinced that there is nothing to fear, then perhaps you would share that sentiment with the townsfolk.”

“Captain Jorg, I do not know what has possessed you. Am I to jump each time a rat farts? The people live on rumours! I can scarcely credit that you expect me to concern myself with each panic that grips the fools! I can hardly believe that you are so giddy as to be swayed by them—or is this a case of you promoting these fears?”

Sigmund bristled at the implication. “I returned to the docks this morning to find the area in a state of near riot. The town watch are too frightened to go onto the streets. I have stationed a company of men on the docks to restore order.”

“Good. When the rabble have returned home then please return your men to their barracks. I am sure they need a good rest.”

Sigmund bowed politely. “If you’ll excuse me, I am tired. I will return to barracks. If the situation changes then I am at your command!”

Sigmund shut the door behind him, but instead of leaving, he hurried down the stairs to the stone vaults, where Maximillian, the town treasurer worked in the inner vault. The stone walls arched over his head, the walls glistened with river-damp. Between the thick columns that supported the ceiling was set his desk, made from slabs of Talabheim oak. There were ledgers spread all around him, and a number of candles cast puddles of flickering yellow light over their intricately-inscribed pages, tithes received and monies spent. When the treasurer heard footsteps on the stone stairs he dipped his quill in the ink pot and finished the line he was inscribing then sighed and looked up.

“Maximillian!” Sigmund whispered, and the man looked up from the vellum page he was working on and gave a weak smile.

“Captain Jorg!” he said, and then in a voice that betrayed no sense of irony. “This is a pleasant surprise. Please tell me that you have lost no more men?”

Sigmund had no intention of wasting time. “I need your help finding out a piece of information,” he said.

Maximillian laughed for a moment—a dry, humourless laugh. “I don’t know if I can help. All I do is add and subtract all day.”

Sigmund smiled, but his heart was racing. If the burgomeister had any idea that he was still in the building then he was sure he would hunt him down, and he needed to be discreet.

Sigmund wasn’t in a mood to play games. “I need to find out about that burial mound south of town.”

“Where that fire was last night?” Maximillian said and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Yes,” Sigmund said.

“Come now, Captain Jorg, don’t play the fool with your old friend Maximillian. I saw that fire last night. And I heard the boats sailing out of the harbour in the middle of the night. This morning I hear that you have fled the town, but now you come back, and if I have heard true then there are fourteen of the count’s soldiers dead this morning. That makes fifty-two pennies, if I am not mistaken. I have already written it in this column, here. See!” Maximillian smiled. “Now what is you want to know?”

“Are there any old records about that burial mound?” Sigmund said.

Maximillian pushed his chair back and stood up. He took the candle and moved deeper into the dark vaults, his keys jangling at his waist. As he moved forward into the dark chambers, Sigmund’s breath began to steam in front of his face. He had the feeling of many vaulted chambers to either side, and remembered with a shiver how it was rumoured that the burgomeister had imprisoned a few notable enemies here, locked up in one of the many rooms, and left to die in the pitch black.

Sigmund looked back over his shoulder and saw the desk, with its flickering candles thirty feet behind, and the dimly illuminated staircase that led back to daylight. Maximillian stopped and Sigmund could see that he had paused at a heavy oaken door.

“This room contains all the old records,” Maximillian said. He took a set of keys from his belt and chose a large brass key, worn with many years of use, blackened with age, slipped it into the lock and turned. “After you!” he said.

Sigmund stepped inside and remembered the men who were rumoured to have been locked up here. He turned in a moment’s panic but Maximillian had shuffled inside after him. The scribe held up his candle and illuminated a low-ceilinged room whose walls were covered by wooden racks. Arranged in niches there were hundreds of tomes, scrolls and thick scraps of vellum, some of them so old that they were deep in dust, their edges worn smooth with years of thumbing.

Sigmund peered at the spines, but most of the books were worn and the lettering was indistinct. One caught his eye: an ancient copy of The Life of Sigmar. It was almost impossible to believe that Sigmar had once been a man—a soldier—like him who had carved eternal glory for himself by saving his people. Sigmund felt the same responsibility for Helmstrumburg, and for a moment he feared failing.

Maximillian held up the candle and in one of the top niches they saw a huge tome with gilt fittings.

“The Life of Johann Helmstrum!” Maximillian said.

Sigmund pulled a chest over to the wall and stood on top of it to get the tome. There was a cloud of dust as he pulled it down. It was heavier than he had imagined, but the leaves were leather, not paper, and the book ends were made of wood bound with leather and gilt set with semi precious stones.

He hurried out of the room and Maximillian followed him out and locked the door after them. Sigmund put the book down on top of the ledger that Maximillian had been working on, and slowly opened the pages. The writing was of a style that was difficult to read, with fantastically illuminated letters—incomprehensible to Sigmund.

Maximillian began to read hesitantly, his finger following the arcane lettering and language. “Herein is told the life of the most illustrious and noble Johann Helmstrum, First Grand Theogonist, Friend to our Precious Lord Sigmar, and Hammer of the Beasts…”

“Find out what it says about the tomb,” Sigmund said. Maximillian carefully turned the pages, but the story was still talking about the first Grand Theogonist’s childhood.

He opened the book half way.

“The Lord Sigmar said unto Johann…”

Maximillian turned the thick pages two at a time. Legends said that it was after the death of Sigmar that Johann led the crusade to clear the Stir River Valley.

It took half an hour to find the chapter they wanted. It told how the Grand Theogonist killed the great beastman warlord in a great battle at the very centre of the beastmen’s sacred land—which was marked by a circle of stones. The narrator told how the stones were shattered with fire and water.

There was no description of the stones, but surely they were the same. Sigmund shivered. There was some power in those stones that remained after two thousand years.

“Over their ruins holy water was sprinkled and then the warriors who had fallen in the battle were laid there. Chief amongst them was Ortulf and Vranulf Jorg, who were the bravest among warriors.”

It took Sigmund a moment, then he frowned and put his finger to read the names again. “Ortulf and Vranulf Jorg…?”

There was only one family of Jorgs in Helmstrumburg. Could it be that this was his ancestor?

Sigmund hardly dared to believe that the blood of heroes flowed in his veins, and quickly shut the book and thrust it into Maximillian’s hands. The knowledge of this possibility gave him a sudden rush of confidence. The stones had to be the reason that the beastmen were attacking. He couldn’t be sure yet, but he had a hunch and clapped Maximillian on the back. “I think you have helped to save the town of Helmstrumburg!” Sigmund said. Maximillian seemed confused, but Sigmund was gone, running up the stairs and out of the burgomeister’s hall, and out into the streets.

 

When Sigmund returned to the barracks, Gaston and Edmunt were leading a team of men towards the Garden of Morr on Altdorf Street, where there was a small chapel and an old priest.

Sigmund called to Edmunt. The woodsman stopped and he rested his hands on the pick. Sigmund waited until the men had moved off before he spoke. “Those merchants we saved…”

“The Reiklanders?”

Sigmund nodded. “Did anything strike you as strange about them?”

Edmunt thought, but he shook his head.

“I think they have some control over the burgomeister,” Sigmund said. “What, I have no idea—but I am sure he has abandoned the town to its fate.”

“What are you going to do?” Edmunt asked.

Sigmund may have only been a captain, but he was the only person in a position to save the town. “Bring the sergeants to my room. I have a plan.”

 

All morning the smoke continued to plume into the sky, a constant reminder of the gathering danger. The numbers of people locked outside the walls of Helmstrumburg grew steadily, until it seemed an army was camped at the walls: an army of the desperate and the terrified. But the burgomeister had spoken. The town watchmen looked to Roderick and he bristled inside his blue velvet jacket and set his jaw firmly. Orders had been given. The refugees must return home.

In the Jorg family mill, the mill-hands worked hard, but even though they had promised to stay with their master, as the fires came further down the mountain, and the procession of terrified country-folk hurried past, their morning resolution began to fade.

They were not paid to risk their lives like this.

After a lunch of fresh bread, cheese and salami sausage, the men did not get up to leave. Andres heard the silence and looked up and found the men staring at him. He stared at them in turn as if they were deserters. Their faces reddened. Andres took a bottle of kirsch and poured himself another cup, drank it down.

“What is it?” he demanded.

The men shuffled uncomfortably. None of them wanted to say what had been agreed among them.

“Speak up!”

“We want to go to town,” one of the men said nervously, “lust for a day or so. Until the danger has passed. We heard that there was a fight on the other side of town last night. Eighty beastmen were killed. It’s said that there are free companies being raised.”

“Free companies!” Andres laughed and put his hands on the tabletop and pushed himself up. “Apprentices, greybeards and fat-guts! Do you think free companies will do anything to stop the goat-men?”

The men didn’t know what to say.

“Flee if you will—I’ll not stop you! I will not call you cowards, but I tell you those beasts will never dare come here to the riverside. And if they do,” Andres stumped across to pull the zweihänder down. “If those beasts dare come to this mill then we will meet them with cold steel!”

Two of the men left immediately, but the other four stayed on, their resolution shored up by Andres’ conviction. If their master said it was safe then they would not leave him.

 

As the town bells rung three in the afternoon, Theodor wrote a message on a piece of paper and summoned Josh to his room.

“Take this to Captain Sigmund at the barracks!” he ordered and flipped the boy a penny for his trouble.

At the same time the barrack gates swung open and two units of ten spearmen marched out. They wore steel caps, cuirboili breastplates and carried their weapons in their hands. Behind them were ten halberdiers, led by Edmunt. There was a grim purpose about the three units, and people stepped well back to let them pass.

Hanz led one squad, Stephan, a scar-faced young Vorrsheimer led another, and Edmunt led the last. Hanz’s men set off towards the east gate, Edmunt the north and Stephan to the west gate.

 

At the east gate the town watchmen watched Hanz’s spearmen approach, but the soldiers did not smile or nod. Hanz marched up to the four watchmen standing at the bottom of the gate. Without speaking the spearmen rushed the guards and wrestled the batons from their hands. The town watchmen were too surprised to speak or protest as they were pushed flat against the wall, cold knife blades held up against their throats.

 

At the west gate Stephan’s men took the gate in a similar way, without violence, but as Edmunt approached the north gate a man stepped out from the guardroom and stared at their approach.

“Welcome Edmunt,” Roderick smiled. “How can we help you?”

Edmunt halted his men just in front of the blue-jacketed officer of the watch. Roderick smiled coldly. His men stood behind him, their batons ready.

“We’re taking control of this gate,” Edmunt told him.

Roderick started to protest, but the halberdiers shoved his men back and soon they were up against the wall, the points of the halberds sticking into their chests.

Roderick told his men to drop their batons.

“Thank you,” Edmunt smiled, “for your peaceful cooperation.”

 

When the gatehouses had been secured, the soldiers lifted the heavy oak crossbars from the iron braces and drew the bolts that held the gates in place.

When all was done, the soldiers pushed on the gates and they swung open easily on the massive iron hinges. The refugees panicked, fearful that the gates might be shut at any moment. Some left all their belongings outside, others hitched their horses to their carts and lashed at them with their whips. The carts lurched forward as the whips cracked. They pushed and shoved, and now each family fought the others in their desperation—until the soldiers came out and organised the people into orderly queues.

 

At the same time that the gates were being taken over, Osric took twelve men and marched to the marketplace. They found Fat Gulpen, the town crier, in the Crooked Dwarf. There was a cloud of pipe smoke in the air, a few old drinkers were sitting with their steins, and Josh, Guthrie’s young lad, was carrying a platter of beef stew out to the town crier, whose rotund form was squeezed into the red velvet jacket that marked his office. His chins pressed up against the high collar as he turned to glare at Osric. There was a long-standing animosity between the two men that dated back to Osric’s time as officer of the watch.

“Gulpen!” Osric said.

Fat Gulpen took a long swig of his stein and refused to look up.

Osric took the piece of paper that Sigmund had given him and slammed it on the table in front of him.

Fat Gulpen wiped the foam from his upper lip and glanced towards it, and started to read. It took a few seconds.

“You want me to read this?” he said.

Osric nodded.

“Now?”

Osric put his thumbs in his sword belt and smiled.

“Yes, now,” he said.

 

As soon as Roderick was out of sight of the halberdiers at the north gate he slowed down, but kept walking quickly, looking over his shoulder.

The streets were full of nervous people, hurrying back and forth in their panic. Roderick passed a couple of town watchmen and ordered them to gather all his men and meet him back in the marketplace in half an hour.

Roderick kept hurrying along until he reached the docks, where the guild hall stood. He was relieved to see that there were no soldiers standing on the steps of the hall, and nodded to his men as he hurried inside.

Roderick crossed the inner courtyard and hurried up the steps to the burgomeister’s chambers. He knocked and then tried the handle, but the door was locked. Roderick knocked again. He could hear voices inside.

“Lord burgomeister!” Roderick shouted.

“Wait outside!” the shout came back, but the burgomeister’s voice sounded strange.

Roderick stepped back from the door and waited. He had a strong feeling that something was not right. When at last the door opened it was not the burgomeister who came to see him to ask him what he wanted, but the Reikland merchant that Sigmund had brought in a few days earlier.

“Yes?” Eugen snapped.

“I need to talk to the burgomeister,” Roderick began. “The soldiers have broken his official decree and opened the town gates!”

Eugen frowned. “And this is the news with which you disturb your master?”

Roderick opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.

Eugen shut the door again, and Roderick stepped back in shock. He hurried out to the steps of the guild hall.

“You two,” Roderick said, to the guards. “Wait here! You two come with me.”

And then they hurried towards the marketplace.

 

Sigmund arrived in the marketplace in time to see Fat Gulpen come out of the Crooked Dwarf, ringing his bell as he made his way to the centre of the marketplace.

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” he called. “Hear ye! Hear ye!”

A crowd gathered, desperate for news of relief or reinforcements.

“All men of fighting age are asked to join in free companies for the protection of Helmstrumburg! Assemble at the barracks for free companies!”

There was an excited buzz as Fat Gulpen rang his bell again.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Free companies to assemble at the barracks!”

 

It was some time after lunch when the door to the burgomeister’s office opened and Eugen stalked out. He ignored the watchmen on the door and strode through the streets to the market.

People were running back and forth. He could smell their fear and the scent made him smile. They would all have reason to fear soon enough.

In the marketplace there were a number of crude banners raised on poles, acting as rallying points for the young men of Helmstrumburg. The inn signs had been nailed to the end of long poles and the regulars of each establishment were coming together, ready to march to the barracks to be given weapons.

The Crooked Dwarf sign had been nailed to a pole, and Guthrie was there handing out free ale to all who enlisted. There was also a band of men at the White Unicorn, and another at the Drayman’s Rest.

Free companies! Eugen snorted with derision. It was too late to try and dam the flood that was coming. They would all be washed away in a river of blood.

He hurried up the steps and ducked inside the Crooked Dwarf. The bar was unnaturally empty. Eugen hurried across it and took the steps two at a time. He turned right down the corridor and opened the door to their room.

Theodor was sitting on the bed, waiting. He had the window open and was watching the commotion in the market square with interest.

“The fools are too late!” Eugen said with obvious delight.

“Have you heard?” Theodor said. “There were a hundred beastmen killed last night at the sacred site!”

“Of course I heard!” Eugen spat. “But this will not stop our plans. They disobeyed the orders. None were to come near the town until tonight. For their impatience they will never see Helmstrumburg burn!”

“Do you think that there will there still be enough?”

Eugen laughed at his acolyte’s naivety. “There are more beastmen in the woods than there are people in Helmstrumburg! Each one of them is bound to this task by a force stronger than force—hatred! They have waited so long for revenge. Nothing will stop that now!

“Now,” Eugen said after a deep breath. “We have important business to attend to.”

 

Helmstrumburg was full or frenetic activity all that afternoon. As soon as they heard that free companies were being raised, men hurried to fetch whatever weapons they had. In the Crooked Dwarf band, there were a number of old soldiers who bantered back and forth as if they were still in the count’s pay, drew their sword and gave their sword arms another feel of the weight of their swords.

There were farm lads who had kitchen knives strapped to their belts, and pitchforks or blacksmith’s hammers in their hands. Whatever weapons they could find they brought with them, and they stood feeling responsible and nervous, looking at the other men’s faces, thinking that they would soon be fighting shoulder to shoulder with these men.

Josh had been to the barracks but Captain Jorg was not there. He had waited for a while and then he had got caught up in all the excitement and had almost forgotten the note he had been paid to take. When he returned to the barracks there were a couple of soldiers on duty.

“What, boy?” Baltzer demanded.

“I have a note, sir!” Josh said. “For Captain Jorg.”

“He’s busy.”

Josh looked frustrated. Guthrie would be wanting him back at the Crooked Dwarf. He took out the note and held it in his hands, unsure what to do. “It’s from the Reiklander merchants,” he said, as if that might gain him entrance. “For Captain )org especial.”

Baltzer smiled. “Is it now? Then you give it to me and I’ll make sure it reaches him!”

 

Eugen and Theodor made their way through the streets to the western gate, where Stephan’s men were still on duty. As they walked up to the gate two spearmen stopped them.

“You cannot go out,” they said.

“Why?” Eugen said innocently.

The soldiers laughed. “Have you seen what is happening?” They gestured to the long plumes of black smoke that now reached as high as the clouds.

“My mother is frail, she lives just a little way up the river,” Eugen said. “We will fetch her and then come back. I assure you we have no intention of putting our own lives in danger.”

The soldiers relented and Eugen and Theodor hurried along the Kemperbad Road. The mill was a few miles outside of the west gate. They came off the road a little way before it and spied out the land. There was a boat at the mill, loading up with grain. They could see the men carrying sacks down to the waterside and stacking them inside.

A one-legged man stepped out of the mill.

“That’s him!” Eugen whispered with relish.

 

Sigmund was busy all afternoon meeting the self-appointed captains of the free companies. Of all his men, only he and Gaston were able to read and write to any standard, so Gaston sat and recorded all the information about the various bands.

At times Gaston was barely able to keep his eyes open as he dipped the quill into the ink and scratched it across the page.

Each company’s name was listed, with the name of their captain and the number of men they led.

The Crooked Dwarf Volunteers. Guthrie Black. Thirty-four brave men.

The Guild of Blacksmith’s Hammerers. Strong-arm Benjamin. Twenty brave souls.

The Old Unbreakables. Blik Short (retired marshal). Fifteen former soldiers. Each man bears his old armour and equipment.

Squire Becker’s Helmstrumburg Guard. Squire Becker. Shields and spears. Twenty men (not including Squire Becker).

As evening began to fall, Sigmund thanked all the remaining men and sent them away.

“Get some sleep, men!” he told them. “If anything happens then we will notify you!”

The men left reluctantly, heading either to their homes or rented rooms, or went to the bars and shared a stein or two, while they laughed about how they would send the beastmen back to their forests.

 

When all the volunteers had left, Sigmund let out a long sigh. He had not slept for two days, and the frenetic activity of the day had left him utterly exhausted.

He lay back on his bed, and put his feet up. He should go and see his mother, he thought. He shut his eyes, thinking that he would just rest them for five minutes—but he fell deeply asleep.

 

* * *

 

As Morrslieb rose, the guards looked out from the walls, and wondered how long until the beastmen swept down from the forests.

And then in the darkness a fire appeared—and another!

Soon a circle of fire was burning. A ring of torches that encircled the Jorg family mill.