CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

The sun set through the haze of smoke like a ruddy ball of blood.

Andres let the dogs out for the night, then he shut the house door and sat down. The remaining four mill-hands watched as he poured himself a cup of kirsch and began to recount stories of past battles.

The first battle he fought was against the Count of Ostland. The Talabec army was outnumbered two to one, and they had lined up on the upper slopes of a broad hill: infantry in the centre and cavalry on the wings. He told how the Ostlanders had crossed the ford and lined up with the river at their backs. They’d looked garish and extravagantly dressed in their fine uniforms and feathers. They were so close that he could make out the gilt touches on the armour of the Ostland pistoliers who had pushed up to test the Talabecland right wing.

For a number of hours the armies traded cannon and musket shot. The Ostland cavalry swept the Talabec right from the field and then the Ostland infantry had struck up their marching tunes and advanced.

His memories were blurred from then. While the Ostland cavalry was looting their baggage train, the Talabec cavalry had broken the Ostland right and fallen upon the Ostland rear, which had panicked and fled. It seemed like half an hour had gone by—but when the battle ended the sun was setting and hours must have passed. How they had drunk that night!

He told them of another time when he had faced a rabble of revolting peasants from south-west Talabecland. They had formed themselves into a mock army: shoe lasts or buckets atop their banner poles. They gave themselves grand titles such as the Grand Army of Rustic Unity or the Brothers of Branbeck. They had hired the help of Tilean mercenaries and the Tilean pikemen were the only ones who put up a fight. They repulsed three attacks from the halberdiers and handgunner columns before the greatswords were sent in. Andres looked up at his zweihänder and laughed as he remembered how they had cut through the thicket of pike shafts and then closed in on the startled Tileans and set to in a ferocious hand to hand struggle. The Tileans fought well, but they were surrounded and beaten and after an hour their leader limped out from their lines to surrender.

Andres spat. The fleeing peasants had looted the mercenaries’ camp during the fighting and the next day the Tileans joined in the hunt. They hung hundreds of rebels, he remembered. Taught those men a lesson they would never forget.

As the night went on and Andres drank more his memories turned maudlin. As common as the victories were battles that neither side won outright. The time his best friend, fellow Helmstrumburger, Johann Kilmar, was killed. The last story was the one in which he lost the lower half of his leg: not to an enemy’s sword, but to the surgeon’s knife and saw. There had been nothing to still the pain as the surgeon made a neat cut through the flesh, and then took his saw to the living bone. Not even a drop of kirsch, Andres thought with a sigh and poured himself another cup.

The men listened silently. Andres realised how young and naive they were. Soldiering aged a man quickly, if he lived.

“Now, bed!” Andres said and the men lay down on the makeshift beds of sacks and old rugs from the mill. “Sleep well! I’ll keep watch tonight.”

The men shuffled until they were comfortable, then went to sleep. Andres sipped his cup slowly. Outside the wind had picked up and the drafts made the candle flames flicker back and forth.

Every once in a while one of the mill-hands turned in his sleep. Andres finished his cup. He took the bottle tipped it up again, the last drops dribbled out into the cup.

His supply of Averland kirsch was out in the woodshed. He pushed himself up, unbolted the door and braced himself to the outside chill. There were packs of clouds racing over the sky. He turned towards the hills, to see if there were any more fires. If there were, they were hidden by the landscape, but he thought he saw a torch a little down the hill, through a patch of trees.

Andres stumped down the slope towards the mill to get a better view. It looked like a bonfire. There was another fire to the east just a hundred yards away.

One of the dogs started barking frantically.

Just the breeze he told himself, but he shivered, stopped and looked over his shoulder. There was something on the slope by the river. The barking stopped in a whimper, then there was the sound of flesh being hacked. Andres called out the dog’s name but there was no answer. A figure crossed in front of one of the fires.

Andres saw another figure pass in front of the fire and recognised the silhouette: it was a beastman!

Andres rushed back up the slope. He could hear the panting breaths of his pursuers as they gained on him. The doorway seemed impossibly far away—but he reached it just ahead of them and slammed the door shut and threw the bolts.

“Up men! Up!” Andres roared.

A body crashed against the door. And another. The mill-hands scrambled from their make-shift beds and reached for weapons: a club, a kitchen knife, two of them grabbed pitchforks as Andres yanked his greatsword from the mantelpiece. One of the shutters on the other side of the room exploded in splinters of wood. A horned head thrust through the hole, and the creature roared.

The beastman started to drag itself through the smashed shutters. The mill-hands panicked.

“Fight, lads!” Andres bellowed. He pointed towards the rack of kitchen knives and the men with pitchforks scrambled to arm themselves with something less cumbersome.

Andres brought his sword down onto the beastman and cut it clean in half, the upper body falling in through the window with a great gout of gore.

For a few minutes there was a terrible stand-off. Any beastmen that tried to clamber inside were dealt with savage ruthlessness—but there was no way Andres and his men could escape.

From the sounds on the kitchen roof, it seemed that a number of beastmen climbed up there and were beginning to smash and tear away the tiles. At the same time it sounded as if they had found something to ram the door. The planks began to shudder and crack as holes began to appear in the kitchen roof. Andres smelled smoke, and the brief glimmer of hope that they could hold out was gone. This was a trap from which he would never escape. They would all burn.

A fell bravery came over Andres. He would soon be in the Halls of Morr, and he would see his long-dead brothers again: and with him he would take a heap of beastmen heads.

A beastman dropped through the rain of the kitchen roof. It bellowed as it fell onto the floor, but Andres caught it with an upper-cut in the ribs, and the power of his blade tore through the ribs, and splattered the wall with shreds of lung and blood.

A second beastman hesitated to follow the fate of the first, and Andres threw back the bolts on the doorway. “Come and meet me!” he bellowed and three beastmen charged inside as another dropped onto the kitchen table. They would all die together.

 

When night fell, Baltzer and Osric slipped out of the barracks and made their way along the eastern wall, looking for the hut that had been described to them. Osric had a lantern in his hand, but it was hooded so as to allow them to move stealthily.

“What did that note say?” Osric hissed and Baltzer repeated it verbatim.

“A ramshackle shack. Within which you will find something of great value for Helmstrumburg.”

Osric nodded and they made their way along the wall. The round water tower, which marked the spot where wall and river met, loomed over them. They could see a couple of spearmen sentries in the tower, but they were looking out of town.

The two men crept forward and in the crook of the shed, where a large crack in the base of the water tower had begun to inch its way up the tower, there indeed was the “ramshackle shack.”

A rat skittered by and Osric jumped. “I hate those things,” he hissed, but he could see Baltzer laughing and pointed at the door. “Right—you open that thing!”

Baltzer felt for a lock, but there was none. He pulled the doors open and there was a familiar smell that made him smile.

“Blackpowder!” he grinned and Osric stepped forward to see for himself.

Four firkins of blackpowder. From his time as officer of the watch, Osric knew all the smugglers in town. Knew who would be looking to shift something as valuable as blackpowder. Just one of these beauties would make them a handsome profit. All they had to do was to get through this chaos alive!

 

* * *

 

Sigmund dreamed he was in a room full of flames and screaming voices. The sounds of running footsteps startled him from his sleep and he sat up in his bed. His lamp was still burning, but the flame was weak and the oil was almost out. He realised he must have fallen asleep without meaning to, and hadn’t turned it out. He shook his head to clear his head.

He felt a terrible sense of imminent danger. He stood up and threw back his door. There was a wind blowing and someone was running past.

“Ho there!” Sigmund shouted.

The man stopped.

“What news?”

“Sir! There are fires just outside town.”

“Which way?”

“To the east,” the man said. “Along the Kemperbad Road.”

“How far?”

“About three miles.”

Three miles would set it at his family’s mill. Sigmund had forgotten his father. Damn! Something told him that the dream and the fires were connected. He ran to the room where the sergeants slept, but there was no time to raise his men. He considered taking a boat, but there was no way to go upstream. He had to do something—but there was no way he could explain this to his sergeants. The fires and the stones and the knowledge of his ancestry were somehow linked, of that he was sure.

Sigmund paused for a moment then turned and sprinted to the stables. There were a couple of old horses kept here for pulling the barrack’s supply carts. He dragged an old cavalry saddle off a rack, and brushed off the cobwebs. He selected one of the horses, threw a blanket over its back, then saddled and bridled it.

The horse stamped a front hoof, uncomfortable at the almost forgotten feel of a saddle, but Sigmund led it out of the stables and into the dark drill yard. He mounted and spurred the horse out of the barrack gates and into the quiet streets. The horse’s hooves were loud on the cobble stones.

“Open the gates!” he shouted and the spearmen hurried to obey, despite their confusion.

Sigmund spurred the horse out along the Kemperbad Road. The horse whinnied as it started to trot. Here and there, when there was a break in the trees, he caught glimpses of the flames. It looked as if the mill building was on fire, and he could make out flames on the east side of the house.

Sigmund felt the wind sweep his hair back from his face. He spurred the horse on, felt the old horse begin to remember its days as a cavalry mount—and stretch its stride. The nightmare stayed with him as the horse galloped on: he had a strong premonition that there was some sinister link between the stones and the beastmen and the attack on the mill: but what it was exactly, he had no idea.

 

The Jorg family mill was set atop a long ridge, two and a half miles along the Kemperbad Road, that lifted it above the surrounding forests and water-meadows and made it clearly visible from the east gate.

The news that the mill was on fire spread through town like the plague. The bells of the Chapel of Sigmar began to ring and in the Crooked Dwarf inn, Guthrie Black sat up in alarm.

He had no idea if this meant that the beastmen were attacking.

“losh!” he called and the young lad sat up from the mattress where all Guthrie’s sons slept.

“I have to go out,” Guthrie said, but his stomach felt hollow as he pulled on his boots and fastened his belt around his expansive waist. It was easy to decide to join the free companies in the light of day: but now, at night, when the bells were ringing, it was a different matter entirely.

“If something happens to me then you will have to look after the inn and the other boys.”

Josh nodded. He leant against the doorframe and then pushed off and walked towards the only parent he had ever known. Josh put his arms around Guthrie’s waist, and Guthrie put his arms around the boy—overcome by the sudden display of emotion.

Neither of them wanted Guthrie to go, but the bells were ringing frantically.

Guthrie felt strange as he descended the staircase, thinking it might be for the last time. He stopped in his bar for a moment and had a good look round. He didn’t know what he was doing with a sword at his waist, going to fight like this. He was a barman not a soldier. But there were things that a man could not run from. And this was one, he thought as he unbolted the front door and let himself out. He had not asked the beastmen to come—but they had come regardless and, he told himself as he closed the inn door behind him, he would fight.

 

Flames licked up the side of the house, and smoke swirled under the rafters and billowed inside.

Andres wiped the tears from his eyes and rested the zweihänder on his shoulder to get a moment’s rest, coughing with the smoke and the sudden exertion. At least the smoke affected the beastmen as much as the men.

To his left one of the mill-hands, a boy from Burhens called Gunner, was keeping the beastmen at bay with a table leg. As far as he knew, the other mill-hands were dead.

“Keep them back!” Andres shouted, and he felt that he was a young man again, back to back with his brothers. His forehead dripped seat, his arms ached and he had not realised how unfit he had become. He prepared himself for more exertion, braced his wooden foot, and caught a small beastman on the arm, shattering the bone. A beastman tried to duck in under the swing, but Gunner drove it back and Andres recovered his balance. He was about to thank Gunner when he saw the young lad double over and stagger forward.

Flames were leaping up the inside of the walls, and they lapped along the rafters. The noise was deafening and the heat became stifling. Andres coughed and swung his sword blindly into the smoke. On the third swing he caught something. There was a satisfying roar of pain. Andres pushed the tumbled kitchen table out of his way and backed across the living room.

He stumbled on a dead body and saw Josen, his throat torn out, a bloody kitchen knife still clutched in his hand and then a beastman leapt the kitchen table and drove straight at him.

Andres executed the creature and then swung the greatsword in a wide arc, driving the beastmen back over the fallen chairs. Outside there was a inarticulate scream of agony. The voice was unmistakably human.

Maybe his men were not all dead, after all.

His sword felt light and easy in his hand. He laughed as he slashed out and felt the blade strike home. One of the beastmen dropped its spear and lowered its head to gore him, but he twisted his wrist so that the sword was vertical and stabbed it through the back of the neck. An untrained man might have aimed for the spine, but Andres aimed well to the side—where the arteries connected neck and head and opened them up in a spray of blood that made the other beasts snort with bloodlust—even though it was one of their own.

No goat-beast was going to take him alive, Andres thought, and stabbed another foul creature in the windpipe.

The smoke was almost impenetrable, and the heat in the main room was unbearable. Andres crouched low under the smoke and backed into his bedroom, hearing the snorts and grunts as the beastmen followed.

Andres kicked a chair out of the way and backed into a corner, the greatsword stretched in front of him. There was a moment’s pause before the beastmen dared to step into the room and Andres wiped the sweat from his forehead and his hands, then braced himself, his greatsword thirsty for more blood.

He had chosen, and here—unseen and unremembered—would be where he would die.

 

* * *

 

On the eastern wall of Helmstrumburg a crowd gathered to watch Andres Jorg’s mill burn. The flames reached a hundred feet into the air, lighting the waters of the Stir with a thousand tiny sparks.

Hengle joined the crowd then ran through the streets back to the marketplace. He slipped on the cobblestones and scrambled up the steps and up the narrow staircase to the back room he shared with his mother.

“The mill’s burning!” he said.

“And your father?”

Hengle didn’t know. “No one has seen him,” he said.

“What about Gunner and the others?”

Hengle shook his head. His mother bit back her tears, determined not to cry. Andres would have escaped, she told herself, even though she doubted the truth of the words. He wouldn’t have stayed to fight, would he, she asked herself—even though, in her heart, she knew the answer. He would die rather than let beastmen drive him from his mill.

 

Sigmund rode hard along the Kemperbad Road, foam splattering down the horse’s flanks as he drove it on. Half a mile from town there was a low defile to the left, and on the right a patch of trees grew close to the road. As Sigmund approached, five beastmen ran out of the copse, attempting to intercept him. He used the ends of the reins to swat the flanks of his mount. They outpaced the beastmen, but behind him a crude horn sounded and Sigmund felt trapped, as if the alarm had been sounded and the whole forest would now be ready for him.

As he passed through a dense patch of forest the bank where his father’s mill stood came into view. It was clearly visible in the darkness, flames reaching a hundred feet into the night air.

A hundred yards off he drew his horse to a halt. Both the mill and the house were ablaze: flames leaping hundreds of feet into the air. Sigmund could see figures outside—horned figures—illuminated by the conflagration running away from the heat. He could feel the warmth on his cheek: it bathed the forests with a ruddy light. Roof timbers crashed down in the house. The mill wheel kept slowly revolving as the rest of the building began to collapse.

There was no way anything was still alive in there. His father must be dead, Sigmund realised—but there was no lime to grieve. His mount seemed ready to collapse with exhaustion and it snorted with alarm at the scent of smoke. Sigmund looked away from the flames into the dark shade of the trees. He was sure that he saw two horned figures detach themselves from the shadows and start silently towards him. The horse stamped with alarm and Sigmund turned it round. He’d never trained in fighting from horseback, but to dismount would be suicide in the forests at night. He felt the nag stumble in the darkness and cursed the creature’s age. He had pushed it too hard. If it died here he would never make it back to Helmstrumburg. The horse pulled down on the reins as if it was trying to lie down. Sigmund suspected that if it fell then it would never stand again. He had to keep the creature moving.

Sigmund spurred the horse towards the creatures—their horned heads becoming visible as he got closer. Their eyes were fierce and their crude lips were curled with ferocious snarls. The nearest had long fangs that overlapped the bottom lip, the other’s teeth were blunt and yellowed, standing out in irregular angles from enflamed red gums. Both had fetid breath that Sigmund smelled as he rode past, parrying desperately.

There was nothing he could do here. It was stupid and dangerous for him to come out at all. His father was dead. But there were thousands of people in Helmstrumburg who needed him. Sigmund cursed his rashness and spurred his horse forward. There was nothing more he could do to help his father. His duty was with the town and his men.

 

Osric and Baltzer took a barrel each and hefted them onto their shoulders.

“Where are we going to put these things?” Baltzer hissed.

Osric thought for a moment. “I know the perfect place!” he grinned and set off towards the centre of town.

 

There was a crash as the roof of the main room fell in. Scorching air blasted into the bedroom, and with it came a thick chocking smoke.

Andres choked and tried to blink away the stinging tears in his eyes. There was a pile of dead beastmen at his feet, but he was almost spent.

“Come on spawn of the Dark Gods!” Andres Jorg spat as he heard the unmistakable tap of hoofed feet move towards him.

There was another crash as the kitchen roof collapsed. It wouldn’t be long until the bedroom was an inferno too. Hooves tapped on the floorboards as the beastmen inched forward. A thrust caught Andres on the thigh and he gasped with pain and swung the greatsword—but his arms were now so weak that there was no strength in the blow and it did little more than stun one of the attackers.

Andres threw the greatsword away and drew his short sword. It felt light as he parried another spear thrust and another. But this was an impossible battle. Another jab caught him on the arm and he dropped the sword.

This was it. The beastmen dropped their spears, took out long knives and moved in for the kill. There was a moment before Andres realised what the beastmen intended and he promised himself that they would never take him alive.

In the confined space there was a thunderous explosion and one of the beastmen’s head exploded in a shower of brains and skull fragments.

Andres ducked and there was a flash and another explosion—but this time he could see what had caused it. A silver pistol appeared from the smoke and rested against the temple of his last attacker. The beastman paused—confused that there should be anything behind it—then the trigger was pulled and the round shot exploded from the other side of the creature’s head in a shower of gore and imbedded itself in the wall.

“Here!” a voice shouted, but Andres had collapsed onto the floor and all he saw was a hand. He felt himself being dragged up from the floor then tipped through an open window, onto the slope at the back of the house.

Andres sucked in lungfuls of air—and then he saw his saviour, a tall, thick man, with two pistol holsters at his waist and a few singe marks on his fine jacket.

“Take this!” the man said. He took the cutlass from his waist and handed it to Andres—then he fumbled to reload his pistols.

Andres shoved himself up. The wind was blowing the flames and smoke away from the bedroom towards town, and Andres understood why it had taken so long for the flames to spread to the bedroom. His head was clearing with each breath of clean air. He felt the cutlass for balance for a moment before more horned shapes appeared through the smoke. A pistol shot felled one and Andres disembowelled the other.

“Run!” the man said, leading the way away from the house and Andres stumped along on his peg leg with the speed of a two-legged man. His saviour fumbled with his pistols, but he did not have time to reload before a huge maddened beast charged down the slope.

The man threw a pistol into its face and it distracted the animal long enough for Andres to hobble up and dispatch the creature with a well-aimed slash across the throat.

They kept hurrying down the slope behind the mill and towards the sluice that fed the water mill. The beastmen seemed so maddened with blood-lust that they had forgotten the purpose of their attack. Andres and the man hurried out of the circle of light around the blazing mill and along the path of the water sluice.

There were two horses tethered to a tree and the man untied the reins of one and thrust them towards Andres. It was a long time since Andres had ridden a horse, but he set his good foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up, managing to fit his peg into the other.

The man leapt into the saddle and moved his horse between Andres and the mill.

“Ride!” the man shouted. “If you stay close to the river you should be safe. Do not head into the hills!”

Andres’ horse shied for a moment, but he wrestled the creature back under control and brought it round next to the man’s.

“Go!” the man shouted. “Please go! There’s no time to explain! This is too important! Ride to Talabheim! Ask for Hoffman! The Black Goat inn in Talabheim!”

The stranger seized the bridle of Andres’ horse and turned its head away from the blazing buildings and out over the dark meadow towards the road.

“Go!” he shouted. “Just go!”

Andres kicked his peg leg into the flank of his mount and it jumped forward, eager to be away from the flames. He paused for a moment and turned to watch the mill collapse in a shower of sparks. It was a beautiful sight, but best of all, he was still alive.

 

As Sigmund drove his exhausted horse back to the city, he could see a crowd of people standing on the eastern wall. The gates opened as he approached, and a mob of forty armed men surged forward with a great roar—led by Squire Becker’s Helmstrumburg Guard, with spears and shields, as he had promised, and at the front the squire himself with an inherited breastplate, brass buckler and rapier.

Sigmund almost smiled at the sight of the pompous aristocrat and his motley band of soldiers, but he was exhausted by shock and grief and, worst of all, failure.

“Captain Jorg!” Squire Becker said. He was a short plump man, who seemed more suited to horseback hunts than armed service. “I have assembled my men. Let’s march forth and punish these filthy animals!”

Sigmund glared down at him. He had wanted glory as much as any man, but glory would not save the people of Helmstrumburg. And the care of the whole town was his responsibility as captain of the army here.

“Squire Becker,” he spoke in a cold and clear voice. “You will take your men back to town and await my orders. There is an army of beastmen in the hills, and we will need each man we have. I will not have you sally out and waste a single life—not even your own!”

The squire opened his mouth to argue but Sigmund cut him off. “Do I make myself clear?”

Squire Becker’s cheeks reddened. He was not used to being spoken to like this. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Good!” Sigmund said, and kicked his horse through the deflated crowd. There will be enough time to fight, Sigmund knew. And then Squire Becker and his rabble could have all the glory they wanted.

 

Sigmund’s horse was too exhausted to carry him back to the barracks. He had to dismount and lead it slowly back through the streets, and as he went he felt the eyes of all the people on him. Riding out had been the stupidest thing he could ever had done. He was Captain Jorg of the Talabecland army. The army was his family. He had responsibilities to the whole town.

But however much he told himself this, Sigmund couldn’t help thinking that he might have been able to save his father. He imagined his father’s screams as he was flayed alive—and had to struggle to fight back a wrenching sob.

When Sigmund reached the barracks he could see from the men’s faces that they had heard what had happened, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak to them.

He led the horse back to the stables, took off the saddle and rubbed it down. He washed the smell of horse sweat from his hands and crossed the yard to the barracks.

Sigmund fell onto his bed, kicked off his boots and then pulled the sheets over his head and bit back his grief.

 

The flames at the mill burned all night. People were still standing on the city walls as Sigmund’s men came home, watching the spectacle.

Dawn came early and only a thin trickle of smoke climbed into the sky. The sentries on the walls looked for flames in the hills, but the air was clear. Not a single fire burned—but the very absence of flames was ominous. The forests and hills: for so long home to so many of them had become suddenly evil and threatening. No one knew what the forests held: but all were clear—whatever it was it was now very close.

In the barracks Sigmund had barely slept. The whole night had been a torment. If he had not gotten so angry with his father he might have persuaded him to come to town. If he had not been so busy with the free companies he might have sent men out to bring his father home. Not only had his father died, but also the six men at the mill. All of their deaths weighed upon him.

And on top of all his worries, there were the beastmen moving inexorably towards town. When the dawn reveille sounded, Sigmund was glad to roll out of bed and dress for parade. Anything was better than being alone with the endless and revolving list of “what ifs”. There was work to be done, and he was in charge.