03 - Call to Arms

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  “Hoist!” Dieter called out, hoping to at last rouse the sleeping man in the cart. “Help me! I need you, dammit!”

  His words brought no response. Risking a quick glance to see if there was anyone else nearby who might help him, Dieter was disappointed to find there was no one close enough for him to call to. All along the trail, dozens of men were engaged in their own individual battles, each too busy trying to survive to help or even notice him. To Dieter, it felt like he might as well have been the last man in the world. In the middle of battle, surrounded by bloodshed, he had never felt so alone.

  Desperately, Dieter took a gamble. Trying to read the rhythm of the beastman’s attacks, he timed it to the gap between axe strokes and leapt forward, thrusting his sword out with all his strength. Making a target of the creature’s throat he thrust diagonally upward, praying the unexpectedness of the attack would give him an opening.

  It worked. The beastman tried to defend itself with its shield, but before it could close the gap Dieter’s sword struck home. The blade stabbed through the bottom of the monster’s chin, spearing up through the tongue and palate into the brain. Briefly, the beastman stood transfixed, a look less of pain than of surprise on its face. The eyes went blank. Like a puppet cut free of its strings, the monster collapsed, pulling Dieter’s sword after it.

  Feeling naked without his blade, Dieter bent forward and tried to remove his sword from the dead beastman. It was wedged fast. Afraid the blade might snap if he tugged too violently, Dieter wriggled it from side to side, trying to work the weapon free.

  Suddenly, he heard another roar, close at hand. Looking up, he saw a second gor emerge from the forest and start to stride purposefully down the trail toward him. It was even more monstrous than the first, its mutated body bearing a third arm jutting freakishly from the top of its shoulder as a sign of some dark god’s favour. Two of the creature’s hands held axes, the third held a spear. As it moved closer, it opened its mouth, uncoiling a length of barbed, leprous tongue dripping poison like the tail of some hellish insect.

  Despairing of freeing his sword in time, Dieter pulled a knife from his belt and backed away. Compared to the beastman’s arsenal, it seemed a pitiful weapon: a single-edged blade with a cloth-bound handle, made more for skinning rabbits and cutting twine than killing enemies. It was all he had.

  “Hoist!” Dieter called out again, more in hope than expectation. “Where are you? I need help!”

  Careful to keep one eye on the approaching monster, Dieter cast about for a better weapon. His gaze alighted on the axe belonging to the gor he had just killed. It was a massive thing with a broad, heavy blade—a two-handed weapon by human standards, although the beastman had wielded it in one. Dieter had never wielded an axe against anything more dangerous than a tree trunk, but it had to give him a better chance than the knife.

  The beastman came closer. Making a show of its dexterity, it simultaneously tossed its two axes from one hand to the other so they crossed past each other in flight. The monster seemed to be taunting him, daring him to make a dive for the weapon of its comrade. The fallen axe was barely a few feet away, agonisingly close. Calculating the odds, Dieter decided his only chance was to leave it to the last possible instant, dive for the axe and hope for the best.

  The beastman extended its tongue further. Glistening with venom, the appendage whipped and snapped in the air as though it had a mind of its own. Dieter felt like a rabbit watching the dance of a snake, waiting for the strike.

  Abruptly, the tongue stiffened. It shot back into the beastman’s mouth as the creature opened its jaws wide and screamed in pain. To Dieter’s surprise, the monster’s weapons dropped from nerveless hands. It fell to its knees, eyes wondering how it could have been brought so low. It pitched forward, face down into the dirt.

  “Well? Are you going to get your sword? There’s plenty more beasts where that one came from.”

  It was Hoist. He was standing behind the fallen beastman, its blood fresh on the blade of his sword. With the layer of white flour dusted over Hoist’s face, he looked faintly ridiculous—although, at that moment, Dieter was overjoyed to see him no matter what he looked like.

  Scrambling to follow Hoist’s advice, Dieter hurried to get his sword. Having retrieved it, he found Hoist following close behind him.

  “We’ll make a stand here,” Hoist said. “Some of the guards seem to be making a good fist of fighting off the beastmen near the head of the caravan, but we’re too far away from them to get there. They’d run us down before we took a dozen steps.”

  As Hoist talked, Dieter became uncomfortably aware of movement in the trees nearby. Something was watching them.

  “You see them?” Hoist asked, spotting the direction of his gaze. “A beast herd. They held back to let their champions have a go at you. I take it those three dead ungors are yours as well? That piece of work is probably what attracted the champions’ attention. Anyway, now they’re dead, the rest of the herd won’t mess about. There’ll be no more single combat. They’ll rush us in one mass, try to take us through weight of numbers.”

  The movement intensified. Dieter saw a number of beastmen emerge from among the trees. They were of the smaller kind, the ones Hoist called “ungors”. Watching the enemy gather, Dieter was struck by how much he and Hoist were outnumbered.

  “We fight back to back,” Hoist told him. “That way, we cover each other. I’ve seen your sword-work, lad, and it’s fine. But this isn’t the time for fancy moves. This is war, not fencing. A beast comes at you, you kill it. You keep things hard, fast and simple. You don’t worry about the next beast, or the one after that. They’ll come at you in their own good time, and you’ll get them then. You understand me?”

  “I understand,” Dieter answered.

  “Right then, let’s get to business.” Turning his back so he and Dieter faced in opposite directions, Hoist called out in a loud voice to the beastmen. “What are you waiting for, you bastards? We killed your champions. Come get what they got.”

  The enemy hardly seemed to need the encouragement. Having gathered their forces in sufficient quantity to counteract the nervousness they felt at facing the men who had defeated their champions, the beastmen charged toward Dieter and Hoist. In the long seconds as they waited for the ungors to reach them, Dieter felt a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He counted more than a dozen of the enemy, even as yet more ungors emerged from the forest to join the attack. Looking from face to face of the creatures charging towards him, Dieter saw a succession of features all set in the same general lines of savagery, rage and hate. He wondered how he and Hoist could ever hope to hold them back.

  Then, the enemy was upon them and the time for misgivings was past.

  As before, one beastman ran ahead of its fellows, more eager for the kill. Dieter met it with cold steel, deflecting its spear thrust with his open hand as he jabbed the point of his blade deep into its chest. The next beastman followed hot on the heels of the first. Dieter parried its attack with his sword, responding with a swift riposte that left his enemy clutching a wound in its throat. The third one Dieter unbalanced with a skilful feint, before disembowelling it with a flash of his blade. He snatched the dying beastman’s shield as it fell, experimentally testing its weight as he prepared to face his next opponent.

  “Don’t get cocky,” Hoist growled from behind him. “Keep it simple.”

  In battle, Hoist was a revelation. For weeks, Dieter had only known him as his snoring companion on the dull journey northward. Now, in his element, Hoist was like a tiger. Where Dieter was a fencer, Hoist was a street fighter. He made war a matter of brutal practicality. He fought with sword, shield, elbow and knees: Dieter didn’t doubt the other man would be willing to use his teeth if that was what it took to kill an enemy.

  From the corner of his vision, he saw Hoist head butt an ungor, striking with the brow of his helmet to smash the creature between the eyes. As that beastman fell, he lashed out at another, striking wit
h his shield rim at its throat before finishing it with a quick stab of his sword. In his own way, he was as relentless and purposeful as any back-alley brawler. He made sure when he hit someone, they did not get up.

  Despite the two men’s best efforts, the position was hopeless. Even as he dispatched another beastman with a thrust of his sword, Dieter realised they were only delaying the inevitable. There were too many beastmen. For every one they killed, another moved forward to take its place. Already, he and Hoist were being hemmed in, forced to fight in the ever-decreasing space afforded by the press of beastmen around them. Soon, they would be overwhelmed.

  Relief when it came was sudden and unexpected. Dieter heard a voice cry out.

  “Forward! Forward the 3rd! Forward for Hochland!”

  A trumpet sounded nearby, signalling a charge. Other voices joined it. Almost before Dieter could work out what was happening, the mass of beastmen around them dissipated as the creatures fled. He saw a group of swordsmen come charging from the forest, clad in the same grey and red uniforms as Hoist.

  Dieter’s heart caught in his mouth as he realised their identity. They were the Scarlets. Seeing them in the flesh brought to mind the childish dreams of his younger years, when he had idled his days at the mill looking forward to the time when he would come of age and could become a soldier.

  The Scarlets attacked with controlled ferocity, cutting through the beastmen like a scythe. As they swept the enemy before them, Dieter heard the same battle cry repeated, taken up by the chorus of dozens of voices.

  “Forward the 3rd! Forward for Hochland!”

  Before he knew what he was doing, he had taken up the cry himself. With Hoist beside him, Dieter joined the Scarlets in pursuing the fleeing beastmen. The finesse he had used earlier in fighting the enemy was gone. Caught up in the moment, he lashed out at the beastmen as they ran. With the battle turned in the caravan’s favour, he was eager for vengeance. He fought without thought of strategy or tactics. His sword rose and fell, lost in a haze of blood.

  Too soon, there were no more enemies left to fight. As the last of the beastmen fled from the trail into the forest, Dieter made to follow them.

  Hoist stopped him. The big man stepped in front of Dieter, sword sheathed and his hand held out in a warding gesture.

  “Leave them. We’d be fools to chase them through the forest and the beastmen know it. The woods are theirs. Anyway, they’ve been put to flight. It’s over, lad. Cool your fires.”

  Coming back to his senses, Dieter realised he was breathing heavily. Sheathing his own sword, he glanced down at the thick wooden shield he had taken from one of the dead beastmen. In the aftermath of battle, it seemed an unclean thing, carved with strange and sickening runes. He threw it away.

  Wiping at the sweat staining his face, he turned to inspect the men and carts of the caravan. It was difficult to judge from where he was standing, but he gathered more had survived than he would have expected. He supposed the victuallers and their guards were hardy men, accustomed to the threat of ambush on lonely roads.

  He looked toward the cart he and Hoist had been riding in. Otto was still in the same place, pinned to his seat, the haft of the beastman spear jutting from his chest.

  “Aye, it’s a shame,” Hoist said, following the direction of Dieter’s gaze. “He seemed an all right sort. But, that’s war for you. You never know when you’ll get it. All you can hope is that your comrades give you a good send-off. With that in mind…”

  Having apparently decided a suitable period of mourning had passed, Hoist began to move toward the cart.

  “You have to be sharp about these things,” he called over his shoulder. “If we wait too long, the other victuallers will have picked the cart clean. Otto had some good wine and food. And, besides, I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted.”

  Vaguely appalled by other man’s behaviour, even though he could recognise its practical bent, Dieter watched as Hoist jumped into the back of the cart and disappeared under the canvas as he started tossing out items. Soon, a heap of provisions lay on the ground.

  “You there!” a voice called out from behind Dieter. “Don’t you know that looting is a crime?”

  “Personally, I’d say it’s only a crime if you get caught,” Hoist replied, smiling as his face peeked out, still covered in flour, from under the canvas. “And that’s hardly likely with useless bastards like you serving as sentries.”

  “Is that right?” the voice asked. “Well, in that case, I have an observation. You, sir, are a damnable, pox-ridden cur. Your mother, assuming any woman would admit to that offence, was a harlot with carnal knowledge of every dung-seller, ratcatcher and body snatcher in the Greater Hergig area. Also, your face appears to be covered with a light dusting of flour, making you appear even more of an idiot than you already are. I call you out. As does my colleague.”

  Turning, Dieter saw two soldiers approaching in the uniform of the Scarlets. The first, evidently the one who had spoken, was a dark-haired man of medium height, with a hawkish nose and quick, grey eyes. His blond-haired comrade was taller and thinner, with an ascetic, intense air about him that seemed to sit uneasily with his profession. If it were not for his uniform, Dieter might have taken the second man for a scribe or a priest.

  “Call me out, you say?” Hoist jumped out of the wagon, landing beside his pile of stolen goods. “The two of you? I accept the challenge. Do you want me to fight you one after the other, or both at once? Frankly, given the fact you look like a pair of pus-dribbling simpletons, I can’t imagine it’d make any difference.”

  His grin widening, Hoist advanced and embraced the men, first one, and then the other.

  “Gerhardt! Rieger! It’s good to see you. So, the orcs haven’t killed you? What news of the war?”

  “Slow going,” the dark man shrugged. “We haven’t seen any greenskins yet, though if you listen to rumours they’ve been laying waste to settlements all across the frontier. So far, the only action we’ve seen is against beastmen like the ones that attacked your caravan. Naturally, of course, that’s all because of the orcs.”

  “How could that be?” Dieter asked him. “Beastmen and orcs don’t work together.”

  He regretted speaking almost immediately. Until then, the two new arrivals had ignored him, but now they turned to regard him with dispassionate eyes. Although he did his best to maintain his composure, Dieter felt distinctly uneasy under their scrutiny.

  “Who’s this?” the dark one asked Hoist. “It’s not like you to pick up waifs and strays on the road, Hoist.”

  “Not unless they’re female,” the blond man offered, speaking for the first time.

  “Indeed,” the dark man nodded. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Dieter. “What about it, boy? You’ve got the bright-eyed, eager look of a would-be recruit about you. Have you come to make war on Hochland’s enemies? Or are you just lost in the woods, like the rest of us?”

  “My name is Dieter Lanz,” Dieter said, refusing to be intimidated. “I have come to join the Scarlets.”

  “Really?” The dark man turned away to look at Hoist. “Where’d you find him? Is he some illegitimate son that you fathered on a doxy, come to track you down? Or a creditor, perhaps? There’s a few of them who’d be willing to follow you all the way to the Chaos Wastes if they thought it’d make you pay what you owe. Certainly, he can’t be a soldier.”

  “Ah, leave the lad alone, Gerhardt,” Hoist said. “He did all right. Granted, he asks stupid questions, but he pretty much does what you tell him. And he’s a dab hand with a sword.”

  “In that case, he’d better come with us.” The dark-haired one, Gerhardt, turned toward Dieter. “To answer your question, the orc advance has forced some of the beastmen tribes to flee their territory like animals running from a forest fire. That’s why these beastmen here attacked your caravan—the orcs have driven them away from their usual hunting ground, so they’re hungry. Any more questions?”

  “Uh… no…” Die
ter found himself almost squirming at the intensity of the other man’s gaze. At the same time, he wondered at the ferocity of the orcs that they could send terrifying monsters like the beastmen scurrying before them like frightened rats.

  “Good.” Gerhardt turned away. “Well, come on then. We haven’t got all day. We will escort this caravan back to our encampment, then you can see Captain Harkner, our regimental commander. If you want to be a Scarlet, boy, he’s the man you need to impress.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  NIGHT IN CAMP

  Dusk was falling by the time they reached the Empire encampment. Having left behind a detachment of men to build pyres to burn the beastmen’s bodies, the Scarlets had transferred the human dead to the back of one of the carts and escorted the caravan back to the camp without delay. Despite the poor quality of the roadway, they made good time and the journey passed without further incident.

  By then, Hoist had introduced Dieter to several of his comrades. The blond, thin one was named Rieger, Dieter learned, while the dark-haired one called Gerhardt turned out to be the de facto leader of the group of soldiers who had saved the caravan. The Scarlets had been posted to patrol the camp’s outer perimeter, hence their timely rescue. The forest landscape was misleading, but it turned out the caravan had actually been much closer to the camp when the beastmen attacked than Dieter expected.

  The army was camped in a wide clearing by the side of a babbling forest stream. Dieter caught his first sight of the encampment as the descending sun turned red as it reached the horizon. Given the company Dieter was keeping, it gave the scene an appropriately scarlet cast.