03 - Call to Arms

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  Perhaps the enemy’s blood was up, or the wolf riders miscalculated the number of soldiers charging towards them. Either way, instead of fleeing, the goblins continued pursuing the handgunners even after the Scarlets broke from cover.

  Meanwhile, seeing the Scarlets appear from the forest to charge to their aid, the handgunners began to angle their run toward their fellow Hochlanders and safety. Here and there, a man paused to fire a snap shot toward the pursuing wolf riders, but for the most part the handgunners sprinted through the field, hoping to reach the Scarlets before the enemy caught up with them.

  Some of the men did not make it. As the goblins closed on them, their wolfish mounts pounced on fleeing men, snapping jaws hamstringing their prey and leaving them open for the kill. Others were shot down in their tracks by goblin arrows. By the time the Scarlets closed to melee range with the enemy, as many as a third of the handgunners were already dead or wounded.

  Outraged to see their fellow Hochlanders fall before they could get close enough to save them, the Scarlets tore into the wolf riders with a savage ferocity. Goblins were pulled from their saddles and cut to pieces, their wolves brought down by dozens of flashing blades.

  It was over quickly. Realising they were heavily outnumbered, the surviving wolf riders turned and ran.

  Some of the handgunners fired their weapons, bringing down their targets, but the wolf riders quickly escaped while their enemies on foot could only curse after them.

  In the aftermath, the field seemed almost preternaturally quiet. The two groups of soldiers regarded each other warily. Much of the crop around them had either been torn from its roots or trampled to the ground by the brief intensity of the fighting. In places, the ground and the golden wheat were stained red with blood.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Bohlen demanded, breaking the silence. He gazed back and forth among the faces of the handgunners, waiting to see which of them answered.

  “I am.”

  A tall, rangy figure strode forward. He was clad in the same uniform as the rest of his fellows, but in place of a handgun he carried the greater length of a Hochland long rifle. Staring at the newcomer, Dieter thought he had the look of a huntsman about him. He had a hawkish nose that put Dieter in mind of a bird of prey, but it was more than that. The man’s grey eyes had a fixed and distant quality to them, as though he was accustomed to seeing the world from over the sights of a gun.

  “At least, I suppose I am,” the man shrugged, but from him it did not appear a gesture which indicated any degree of weakness or uncertainty. “Our captain and all our sergeants are dead. I guess most everyone is dead when you come to it. I’m Markus Brucker. Marksman. I shoot things.”

  He smiled in greeting, but Bohlen ignored it.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing—entering the field without scouting it first?” the sergeant asked angrily. “You walked right into the wolf riders’ trap. You do realise, if it wasn’t for the fact we were here to save you, all your men would be dead by now.”

  “I realise it,” Brucker responded. “And I am grateful. We all are. As for entering the field… I counselled caution, but the others were so hungry they decided to go into the field and to hell with the consequences. As I say, I’m a marksman. I shoot things. I’m not a sergeant. I don’t have what it takes to command a group of men. It’s part of the reason I’m glad you’re here.”

  “All right. We’ll leave it there, then. For now.”

  As quickly as it began, the storm of Bohlen’s anger had abated. He looked at the scene around them as though considering his options.

  “Help them with their wounded,” Bohlen said, gesturing his men forward. “I want us ready to get under way again as quickly as possible. All of us—that’s handgunners and Scarlets. Anyone who’s not helping the wounded can take a couple of minutes to gather up as much grain as they can. But, after that, we’re leaving. We can’t afford to hang about gleaning food. The goblins that escaped are bound to bring back reinforcements. I want us to be long gone from the area by the time they get here.”

  “You didn’t tell me what your regiment is called?” Bohlen turned back to Brucker as the men around them hurried to their tasks.

  “The Hergig Long Gunners,” Brucker replied. He glanced at the men around him. In all, perhaps twenty of the handgunners had survived. “Not much of a regiment anymore, of course. And, in case you’re wondering, we’re short of lead balls and black powder, not to mention food and water. We’re short of pretty much everything it takes to survive.”

  “Then, it’s a good thing we found you. For you, I mean. We may not have lead balls, but we’ve got the other kind—the kind it really takes to survive when everything is against you.”

  Bohlen fixed the man with a steely gaze.

  “Welcome, Markus Brucker, marksman. Welcome to the Scarlets.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  UNDER THE STARS

  “Join the Count’s army and you are set for life,” Hoist said, making no effort to hide his foul humour. “That’s what the recruiting sergeant told me, all those years ago when he came to our town. Join the Count’s army and freeze to death would be more like it. Join the army and eat a meal of raw wheat. Sleep under the stars without a blanket or camp fire. Wait for the greenskins to come and kill you. You can bet the recruiting sergeant forgot to mention any of those things in his speech.”

  “And, no doubt, you are planning your vengeance?” Rieger asked sarcastically. “Any minute now, you’ll tell us you remember the man’s face. If you ever see him again, you’ll kick his arse from here to Hergig and back again, stopping only to have lunch at a favoured hostelry while you leave him tied to a hitching post, out in the rain. That’s the way you usually end it when you, launch into one of your diatribes on the Count’s recruiters and their lack of truthfulness.”

  “Hmm, maybe; it depends,” Hoist said doubtfully. “What’s a diatribe?”

  “A long, bitter speech criticising something or someone.”

  “Really? So that’s what this is, then? Ah, the value of an education. The next time you’re in Hergig, you should remember to thank whichever brothel keeper taught you that one.”

  “It wasn’t a brothel keeper,” Rieger told him. “It was a priest. Although, frankly, given the old man’s morals, it was difficult to tell the difference at times.”

  “Shut up the pair of you,” Gerhardt interrupted. “Or at least quieten it down. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  They were lying out beneath the stars. In the summers of his childhood, when the weather had been hot and humid, Dieter had sometimes climbed to the roof of the mill where he lived with Helmut Schau and his family, to sleep there and escape the heat.

  There had been no such imperative operating on this night. In common with the rest of the men in the regiment, whether they complained of it or not, Dieter was cold. He was shivering. In an effort to conserve warmth, he rolled his body into a ball under his cloak and tried to wriggle himself into a comfortable position on the cold, hard ground. It made very little difference.

  Two nights had passed since their encounter with the handgunners at the wheat field. Markus Brucker and his men had joined the Scarlets in their journey southwards, but their presence did not account for the fact the last two nights had been the most miserable Dieter had ever known. At least, not directly.

  Having been unable to stop most of the wolf riders from escaping after the skirmish in the wheat field, the Scarlets and their handgunner allies had been forced into an even more desperate situation than they had been before.

  Wary of attracting the attention of any new scouts the greenskins might have sent out to hunt them down, they could no longer risk lighting a fire at night to either cook their food or warm their bodies. In its place, on each of the last two nights, the soldiers had been forced to bed down in the forest after a meal of uncooked grain. Without blankets or tents to shield them from the cold it had been a miserable experience.

  If there
was one bright spot in the otherwise gloomy situation, it was that it was not yet winter. The autumn nights might be chilly, but Dieter would not have liked to camp out later in the year. The winters in Hochland could be notoriously harsh, the northern winds bringing down heavy snows from Kislev and the Middle Mountains.

  All in all, he supposed things could have been worse. Still, he knew better than to try and share that particular insight with his comrades. If his time among the Scarlets had taught him nothing else, it was that all foot soldiers were inveterate complainers. Granted, given recent events, they had plenty of reasons for a sour disposition, but Dieter suspected some among his fellow soldiers would have complained even if they had a roof over their heads and warm food in their bellies.

  “You are wrong, Rieger,” Hoist said, continuing the discussion, though more quietly out of respect for the others. “There’s no way I’d kick the bastard’s arse from here to Hergig. It would involve too much walking, and Sigmar knows I’ve had enough of that ever since I joined the damn army. I was actually thinking, if I ever meet that recruiter again, I’d tie him behind a pair of wild horses and let them drag him to death. Or, maybe, I throw him into a latrine pit with some rabid rats and see who comes out alive. Of course, then I’d need to find some rats, or wild horses for that matter. Perhaps I’d just kick him in the balls. It’s not as permanent. But it is a more immediate solution, and it requires less effort.”

  “So speaks a great philosopher,” Rieger yawned tiredly. “What about you, Dieter? Admittedly, you actually sought out army life, rather than being tricked into it by a recruiter. Do you regret joining the army now? Well? You’re very quiet. Orc got your tongue?”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Dieter said. “I was looking at the moon. At Mannslieb.”

  “The moon?” Hoist grunted. “What about it? It’s still there, isn’t it?”

  Their interest piqued, Hoist and Rieger joined Dieter in looking up at the heavens.

  There was no sign of the second moon, Morrslieb, in the night sky. Instead, its brother Mannslieb held the heavens to itself. The moon was full. It hung in the inky blackness of the northern sky, broad and beaming, its light brilliant and white.

  “Yes, it’s still there,” Hoist snorted. “I know you’re a country boy, Dieter. But really, there’s not that much of interest to be seen in old Mannslieb is there? Or are you about to tell us you’ve read our futures in the movements of the celestial bodies? If so, I hope it involves some warm food, good beer and women of easy virtue. Ideally, sooner rather than later. At least for the food and beer, anyway. It’s so cold out tonight, if a woman came by—no matter what the state of her virtue—I’m not sure there’d be much I could do about it.”

  “Actually, I was just struck by how bright the moon is tonight,” Dieter said. “It’s the first moon after the autumn equinox—Mittherbst has been and gone. I guess that makes it the hunter’s moon.”

  “Hunter’s moon?” Rieger’s voice sounded a quizzical note. “I’m not sure it’s an expression I’ve heard before.”

  “It’s what people call the first full moon after Mittherbst. The brightest full moon of Mannslieb always comes just before Mittherbst. They call it harvest moon because it’s the signal to begin harvesting the crops from the fields. The moon after Mittherbst is called hunter’s moon. It’s the second brightest moon of the year. By then, the crops are all harvested and put away for winter. In the country, the men of the village make use of their time to go hunting. Wild game is abundant in autumn, and the light of the moon gives them plenty of light to hunt by at night.”

  “Hunter’s moon, eh?” Rieger said. “I can’t say I like the sound of it. It seems too ironic, given our current situation.”

  “Ironic?” Dieter was perplexed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, you’ve just told us this is the time of year for hunting,” Rieger replied. “You said the bright moon makes it easier to hunt by night. The irony of your words didn’t occur to you? Right now, we are the ones being hunted, Dieter. We are the prey. If your hunter’s moon is going to help anyone, it will help the greenskins who are pursuing us.”

  “Oh…” Briefly, Dieter was silent. “I hadn’t really thought of it like that.”

  “Yes, well, no harm done,” Rieger shrugged. “A word to the wise, though. I wouldn’t go sharing the fact with any other men in the regiment. The situation is dire enough, without you telling them things are worse than they think. I’d keep your own counsel on the moon and what it means. Anyway, get some sleep. I know it’s cold, and the ground is hard. But we’ll be off again tomorrow at dawn. Better to get some rest while we can.”

  He couldn’t sleep. At least, not then.

  Eventually, despairing of the cold, Dieter decided to get up and walk around in the hope the movement would get the blood flowing and bring some warmth back to his limbs. Bundling his cloak around him against the chill night air, he stood up and picked his way through the sleeping bodies of his comrades.

  Nodding in greeting to the men on sentry duty as he passed them, Dieter decided to use the fact he was awake to check on Kuranski.

  The injured soldier’s condition had grown worse over the last two days. No one discussed it aloud, but the general consensus was the man was dying. The wound on his leg had turned gangrenous. The best efforts of the man’s comrades to keep the wound clean and regularly change his dressings had achieved little effect. Increasingly, it looked like the amputation of his leg was Kuranski’s only hope for survival. None among the Scarlets possessed the necessary skill to perform such an operation—at least not with any realistic chance of success. They all knew therefore, before it came to hacking off Kuranski’s leg, the man would have to be as good as dead already and lacking any other option.

  In the meantime, his comrades took turns caring for him. To Dieter, it seemed to speak well of the Scarlets, and the sense of brotherhood between them, that they were willing to do so much for one of their wounded fellows. Ready to do his bit, he decided he would offer to replace whichever of the Scarlets was currently nursing Kuranski. It seemed the least he could do: since he could not sleep himself, it made sense that another man was able to sleep in his stead.

  The Scarlets had placed Kuranski on the southern side of their makeshift encampment, within the shelter of an old oak whose bulk would serve to hold off the worst of the weather if it rained. Using the bright moonlight to guide him, Dieter headed for the oak.

  As he came within sight of it, he saw Kuranski lying in the shadow of the tree. The dark shape of a man was crouched beside him, leaning over the sleeping figure. Thinking it was one of his comrades on nursemaid duty, ministering to Kuranski’s wounds, Dieter called out softly to him.

  “Hallo. It’s Dieter. I thought I’d relieve you for a while, let you get some sleep.”

  The nursemaid started at the sound of Dieter’s voice. Startled, the man turned to look back over his shoulder.

  It was Krug. He had a guilty expression on his face, as though he had been discovered unexpectedly in the midst of a crime. In the moonlight, Dieter saw that Krug had a balled-up piece of cloth in his hand. He had been holding it over Kuranski’s face, pressing it down over the unconscious man’s mouth.

  Horrified, Dieter realised he had caught Krug in the middle of trying to choke Kuranski. Drawing his sword, he charged over and tried to kick Krug away from the wounded man. But Krug was faster. Darting out of the way of Dieter’s kick, he dropped the cloth and drew his own sword.

  The two men faced each other, steel glinting in the moonlight.

  “You were trying to murder him!” Dieter accused Krug, appalled. “You bastard!”

  Krug’s only response was a venomous smile. Provoked beyond endurance, Dieter stepped forward and slashed out with his sword. Krug parried the blow, the sound of clashing steel seeming almost deafening amid the silence of the sleeping camp.

  “So, what of it?” Krug sneered at him, his voice barely above a whispe
r. “What use is he? He’s like a lame animal, country boy. You’d kill a dog after it went lame, wouldn’t you? I was just doing Kuranski the same favour. He was slowing us up anyway.”

  “I think you do it because you like it,” Dieter said angrily. “You’re a monster.”

  “And you’re a fool.” Krug’s smile widened. “You know, you should really be more careful of your flank if you want to be a soldier, country boy.”

  Suddenly, Krug snapped a glance over Dieter’s shoulder and called out as if speaking to someone standing there.

  “Well? You have a knife, Febel. Use it. Stick the bastard.”

  It was a trick, but Dieter was wise to it. Even as Krug suddenly charged forward, hoping his words had unsettled his opponent, Dieter was ready for him. Among Helmut Schau’s many lessons, he had taught Dieter to make maximum use of his hearing and peripheral vision to keep aware of his surroundings.

  “Remember, a battle goes on all around you,” Helmut had said. “It’s not just the enemy you are facing you have to worry about. There’s also the enemy behind you, and the one to your flanks. Keep your ears open, use your eyes fully, don’t let yourself become too focused on the man standing in front of you. Stay aware of all that’s going on around you. Do that, and after a while it’s like you’ve got a sixth sense. You won’t have to ask yourself if there’s a man behind you. You’ll know when he’s there, or you’ll know when he isn’t.”

  As ever, Dieter always tried to put Helmut’s good advice into practice. He did not need to glance behind him to know there was no one standing there ready to ambush him.

  As Krug charged forward, Dieter raised his blade to parry the clumsy thrust of the other man’s sword. Taking inspiration from a manoeuvre he had seen Hoist use in battle, he let Krug’s momentum bring them face to face. Then, as their swords locked and Krug struggled to free his blade, Dieter head-butted his opponent across the bridge of his nose.