EPILOGUE

Four days after the battle of Helmstrumburg, the knights from the Valkenburg Kommondaria rode out of town with the Kemperbad Pistoliers and the long train of squires.

The town stank of blackpowder and smoke still hung over the rooftops. Most of the new town had been burnt down; the blackened stumps of rafters and beams were stark against the skyline as people picked their way through the rubble, looking for food or for the bodies of their brothers or mothers or children.

The beastman bodies had been piled up in the moat and burnt: the land reconsecrated by the priests of Sigmar.

Sigmund’s chest and shoulders were bruised black and blue—the hand prints of the beastlord neatly printed into his skin. The cut on his thigh was healing well. There were new patches on his uniform.

He saluted as Marshal von Dvornsak rode past and followed his men out along the Altdorf Road.

If it hadn’t been for the knights, the town would have been lost. Sigmund knew that, but he disliked being indebted to another soldier twice—even if it was the handsome old marshal.

Sigmund stood on the steps of the Crooked Dwarf then ducked back inside the tavern, sat down at the table with Edmunt, and put his feet up on the table.

He had lost thirty-three halberdiers including Gunter, eight handgunners, thirty-four spearmen, including Hanz and Stephan. He had chosen a bright young man called Verner to be their sergeant now. He was liked by his men, and seemed to have a good head for leadership. He had certainly earned their respect in the battle and had rallied a band of thirty men in the street fighting. As far as Sigmund was concerned, there was no better test for a man.

There was a clatter of hooves in the marketplace and Sigmund pulled his hat down over his face.

“One of the pistoliers has probably forgotten a feather,” Edmunt said.

Sigmund took a sip of his beer. Josh brought a new barrel up the stairs. Guthrie was polishing the tankards. Unfortunately he had lost most of his regulars, but if you ignored the bandages and the missing faces, you could almost forget that there had even been a battle.

They heard a horse stop outside the Crooked Dwarf. There were footsteps outside as someone came up the stairs to the inn. The door opened and a uniformed man came inside.

Sigmund pulled his hat down over his face. He couldn’t bear to talk to one of the pompous Kemperbaders.

“Captain Jorg?” someone said in a Talabheim accent.

Sigmund pushed his hat back and looked up at the new arrival. He was smartly dressed, with pistols at his waist and a sword at his belt—but he was not one of the men from Kemperbad.

Sigmund nodded.

“I have a message for you!”

Sigmund took the scroll and tore it open. It was from Landsmarshal Pesl.

“Your relief has been sent to Helmstrumburg. You are commanded to move with all possible haste to Fort Wilhelm on the Upper Talabec.”

At the bottom was a subscript: “Andres Jorg sends his warm greetings.”

So his father was alive, after all. Sigmund put the message down and let out a long sigh.

“New orders?”

“Yes,” Sigmund replied.

“Do we have time for another drink?”

“Just one,” Sigmund said.

He had floated all the way from Helmstrumburg, but an eddy brought the man ashore on the mud flats outside Altdorf.

The man barely had the strength to crawl a little way up the bank, before passing out again and lying there—his once-fine clothes stained and drenched beyond recognition.

In the afternoon Old Mother Scultzen made her way to the mud flats to see what she might find. There were often a few beached fish that the herons had left, or perhaps a piece of wood that she could dry out and burn. But today she saw the body of a man lying with his feet in the gently lapping water. She hitched up her skirts and moved closed.

“Now then?” she said. “What have we here?”

The man let out a whimper.

“What’s that?” Old Mother Scultzen said. “You’ll have to speak up! I’m a bit deaf in that ear!”

“Help me!” the man repeated, louder this time and Old Mother Scultzen shuffled closer. “I’ve been robbed!”

She backed off in fear, but Eugen held up his hand. “I have rich… relatives who will reward you well!”

Old Mother Scultzen shuffled forward and saw the quality of the clothes he was wearing. Maybe he did have family who would pay for his safety? She shuffled another step forward, and peered down at the dishevelled figure.

The man feebly tugged a ring off his fingers and held it out towards her. She snatched the ring and bit it to make sure it was real before she decided to help him. She would get men from the village to help carry the man back to her hut. She knew just the thing that would cure him: fish head broth! And then she would see about the relatives.

“Wait there!” she shouted at the prostrate man. Eugen shut his eyes and nodded, lacking the energy to move his legs out of the water. There was nowhere else he could go.

Scanning, formatting and
proofing by Flandrel,
additional formatting and
proofing by Undead.