03 - Call to Arms

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  It soon became clear Rieger had called the situation correctly. Having briefly adopted a more subtle approach in their siege of the mill, the goblins swiftly reverted to type. They launched a full frontal assault again, attacking from all sides at once and, this time, combining the use of scaling ladders with a simultaneous assault by battering ram on the front gates.

  “Well, if at first you don’t succeed,” Rieger said as hordes of goblins emerged from the forest and the enemy strategy was made clear. “Try again.”

  Dieter was calm as he watched the night goblins approach the mill, but still he found it almost extraordinary that the other men around him could greet an attack of such magnitude with so limited a show of emotion. The goblins had overwhelming numbers on their side, even if the walls and other defences of the mill gave the Scarlets and their allies the advantage. Everywhere he looked it was as though they were surrounded by a sea of goblins. The mill was an island in a broiling green ocean filled with hate and malice.

  Yet, despite the situation, Gerhardt and the others seemed almost indifferent to danger. Dieter supposed it was a matter of experience. Each of these men had been a soldier for at least a decade, with years of hard campaigning and bloody, desperate fights behind them.

  War made men different, Dieter was learning. When he thought about it, he found it hard to imagine what manner of man he would be in ten years’ time.

  Assuming he survived that long, of course. At the moment, ten years seemed a very distant prospect.

  “Get ready,” Gerhardt said. “We’ve already repulsed them the last time they used ladders. We need to do it again, prevent them from getting a foothold on the walls. Above all else, we need to stop them from thinking they are making progress. We want them to think it’s hopeless and lose confidence. With so many numbers behind them, it’s the only way we’ll beat them.”

  The battle mirrored the events of the goblins’ first attack. The handgunners opened fire, doing their best to winnow the enemy numbers before they could reach the walls. Then, the Scarlets dropped rocks and stones on the goblins’ heads.

  When the greenskins pushed their ladders up against the walls, the mill’s defenders fought them off. Even as he joined in the fight, however, Dieter noticed a difference in the enemy’s manner. At times, during the first attack, it had seemed as if the goblins almost expected defeat. They had given up relatively easily, fleeing after their initial attempts to climb the wall were repelled.

  This time, the goblin army seemed more determined. When the first wave of attackers failed to gain a foothold on the wall with their ladders, they were swiftly replaced by a second wave of goblins using exactly the same tactics. Then, when the second wave was defeated, a third wave of goblins appeared equipped with more ladders.

  Throughout it all, the attack did not falter. It was as though the goblins had acquired new grit and determination from an unknown source.

  To Dieter, it felt as if hours had passed. The Scarlets had exhausted their supply of rocks and stones, just as the handgunners had exhausted their supply of powder and shot. Bit by bit, the successive waves of goblins had begun to encroach on the territory of the mill until it was as though the enemy were permanently camped at the foot of the walls. It was no longer possible to differentiate between the different waves of the enemy assault. Instead, the assault had become one, long, drawn-out struggle. The worst of it was, little by little, it felt as though the Scarlets were being slowly overwhelmed.

  Refusing to retreat despite suffering appalling losses, the goblins continued their assault. Over time, the ramparts at the top of the walls became awash with struggling bodies as the human defenders and their goblin opponents fought in savage hand-to-hand combat.

  It was the hardest, most bloody fighting Dieter had ever known. No sooner did he strike down one goblin than another quickly appeared to take its place. The Scarlets had suffered their own losses, and as men fell from the ramparts other men rushed up from the courtyard to take their place.

  Despite the fact they were unable to repulse the goblin attack, Dieter felt the mill’s defenders were holding their own. For their part, despite the protracted fight, the goblins had not managed to take the exterior walls. As long as Dieter and the other men on the ramparts could maintain that situation there was every chance that goblin morale would eventually crumble and the battle would be won.

  Still, for the moment, mere seemed no end in sight. The goblins did not want for numbers. Even as Dieter killed yet another enemy, he felt gripped by a bone-numbing weariness. He was breathing hard, pushed to the edge of exhaustion by the endless bloodstained grind of the battle. He knew the other men around him must have felt a similar tiredness. The fight had gone on so long, time seemed to have lost all meaning.

  Yet, abruptly, Dieter found he was reminded of time’s passing. As he smashed the hilt of his sword into the face of the goblin nearest him, Dieter caught a glimpse of a gathering redness in the eastern sky.

  Risking a momentary glance to confirm it, he realised the sun was beginning to rise. The dawn was coming and, with it, the prospect of victory. Remembering Brucker’s words earlier, Dieter found he hoped the marksman had been right when he said night goblins preferred not to fight in the day.

  For better or worse, he supposed he would soon know whether Brucker had been correct. The marksman was right beside him, forced to fight hand-to-hand with the rest of the wall guards against the goblins when his ammunition had given out. Dieter was almost tempted to call out to him, to draw his attention to the sunrise, but the close press of the enemy around them left little room for any thoughts of bravado.

  Either way, they would quickly know the answer.

  Then, just as Dieter had begun to convince himself the goblin attack might indeed be faltering, he saw a new horror, a terrifying sight that would remain in his nightmares until the day he died.

  A dark and massive shape suddenly emerged from the forest while the goblins around it screamed out in shrieks of joy and wonder.

  It was a scorpion, but a giant example of that insect, far larger than any animal Dieter had ever seen in his life before. It was hard to judge, but it looked to be at least fifteen paces long, with a body that was five paces wide— not counting the reach of its claws. It was enormous and horrifying, a busy writhing insect thing, the very appearance of which was enough to create a sick feeling in the pit of Dieter’s stomach. Abruptly, he realised there was a reason bugs were normally small—it was a mercy, the work of benevolent gods, intended to preserve the human mind from ever understanding just what manner of loathsome horror each insect represented.

  “Sigmar protect us,” Brucker whispered beside him. The marksman made the sign of the hammer as though he hoped it might ward off the monster. “I had heard tales that such things existed, but I never thought it possible…”

  The giant scorpion had a rider. A night goblin warlord sat on the creature’s back, his squat form swathed in a black robe, chainmail armour and a weird assortment of metal oddments and bones that Dieter could only assume was meant to be some kind of regalia.

  Watching the warlord prodding his mount forward while the night goblins around them cheered, Dieter realised the battle for the mill was swiftly heading for a climax. His hopes that goblin morale might collapse now looked forlorn. Buoyed by the appearance of their chieftain and his “pet”, the goblin army redoubled their efforts.

  It no longer mattered whether it was day or night, whether the sun rose or set. The Scarlets and their allies had fought the good fight, but it looked to be in vain.

  Death, in the form of a giant insect with snapping claws and an arching venom-laden tail, was sweeping toward them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FOOLISH HEROICS

  “Stand fast!” Sergeant Bohlen’s voice roared out over the ramparts. “Stand fast the 3rd! Stand fast for Hochland! Stand fast the Scarlets!”

  “Stand fast!” Gerhardt yelled. “Stand fast the Scarlets!”

  The c
ry was taken up all around the mill walls and the courtyard. As men struggled to hold back the goblin tide pressing ever more keenly upon them, they joined in the general chorus. The regimental battle cry rang out over the scene of battle. From grizzled veteran to rawest recruit, the words came out.

  “Stand fast the 3rd! Stand fast for Hochland! Stand fast the Scarlets!”

  Even the handgunners contributed their voices. In the push and pull of battle, amid the sound of screams and the smell of fresh blood, earlier allegiances were forgotten. Today, they were all Scarlets. Facing death, they were united.

  But even as the words rang out proudly and strong, there was an element of uncertainty hidden within them. A seed of doubt that had taken root in each and every heart at the appearance of the giant scorpion and its master.

  “Sweet Sigmar, look at the size of it,” Hoist said. “If that’s the bug, I wouldn’t want to see the man whose boot heel is big enough to crush it.”

  His witticism, such as it was, fell on deaf ears. On the ramparts around him, men and goblins were too lost in their individual life-or-death struggles to pay much attention.

  Even as he said it, Hoist knew he was whistling in the dark. It was his nature to try and deflect the seriousness of any situation with humour. Looking at the spectacle of the scorpion advancing on the mill, however, he found it difficult to think of anything that was actually funny.

  A goblin charged screaming toward him brandishing a heavy, cleaver-like blade. Hoist deflected its blow with his shield, then stabbed his sword deep into its chest. A second goblin followed it, and a third. Hoist made short work of them, cutting one down with a sword slash to the throat while he smashed his shield into the face of the other.

  “Any more for any more?” he shouted at no one in particular. “I’m just getting started, you ugly runty bastards!”

  He had no idea whether the goblins could even understand him, but it felt good to give voice to his frustration. Right now, Hoist felt like screaming his anger loud enough to deafen every living thing within twenty paces. He wanted to curse the gods, to damn them all as bastards, and to hell with the consequences.

  It had looked like they were winning, that was the fact which frustrated him. Only five minutes earlier, Hoist had been confident of victory. Dawn’s rosy fingers had begun to light up the sky to the east, while the goblin horde had not made any progress in trying to drive the mill’s defenders back from the walls. In such circumstances, he had been sure it was only a matter of time before the goblins’ morale failed and they turned to run.

  Then, the scorpion had appeared and ruined everything.

  Even with the goblin warlord riding on its back, it was clear the monster was at best only half-tamed. As it lumbered its way through the thronging goblins, it paused here and there to grab a struggling greenskin with its claws and toss it into its mouth. The goblins around it did not seem to greet this behaviour with shock, as though they expected nothing less of the creature and its appetites.

  Unencumbered by any of the limitations faced by the goblins, the thing advanced on the mill wall and simply climbed over it, sweeping the men in front of it from the ramparts with its claws. Moving past the wall, the insect monstrosity advanced in the courtyard. All but immune to the attacks of the puny soldiers who scurried around it, it laid waste to its enemies with its claws and tail while the goblin warlord on its back egged it on.

  Meanwhile, goblins had begun to surge through the gap in the Hochlanders’ defence caused by the scorpion’s attack. Although the men to the west and east of the breach tried their best to stem the flow of invaders, their efforts seemed hopeless. Despite hours of fighting, of blood and sweat, the defence of the mill lay within moments of collapse.

  It will take a miracle to save us now, Hoist thought to himself as he lashed out with his sword and downed another goblin. He had never really considered the prospect until that instant, but suddenly it occurred to him that these could well be the last seconds of his life.

  He resolved to meet his death in the same way he had lived his life. He would go down fighting, vowing to spit in the eye of whichever goblin finally struck the fatal blow and killed him.

  If there was one small comfort, it occurred to him, it was that he would die with so many old friends around him. Gerhardt, Rieger, even Sergeant Bohlen: he had known them all for years and counted each one of them as kings and princes— in spirit, if not in title. Like Hoist, they would fight until the last.

  Sadly, not all men were made of the same, stern stuff. From the corner of his eye, Hoist saw Dieter Lanz suddenly turn and flee the ramparts. Appalled, Hoist came to the obvious conclusion: the Scarlets’ newest recruit evidently had a hidden yellow streak.

  Given that he was already too busy fighting for his life, Hoist did not try to stop Dieter’s flight. The sight of it filled him with sorrow, however. He had thought the young recruit had the stuff to be a fine soldier, but it seemed he was mistaken. He understood it, naturally enough. Fear could become any man’s master, especially when he was a young blood, unused to the blood, violence and sheer madness of close quarter battle. Any man could break, Hoist understood that, but it didn’t mean he had to forgive it. He would accept almost any flaw in a comrade, but cowardice was the one inexcusable sin in a soldier. To make matters worse, in his panic, Dieter appeared to have completely lost all sense of direction.

  Instead of running away from the scorpion, he was running towards it.

  Dieter landed on the flagstones of the courtyard and was running toward the scorpion before he even had a chance to question what he was doing.

  It was for the best this way, he supposed. His decision to charge the scorpion and try to kill it was born of a moment’s mad impulse. He had seen the creature climb over the mill wall as though the wall was not even there. He had seen it slaughter the men guarding the wall with ease. He had seen it skitter across the courtyard, its tail rising and falling in a series of deadly arcs, its claws grabbing men and crushing them, pausing only to feed the occasional sundered body into its mouth.

  He had seen the creature and he had felt a rising sense of terror and despair. Its very presence had seemed to enliven the goblin army with a new sense of energy and purpose. They followed in the scorpion’s wake, surging onto the walls and into the courtyard as they tracked the creature’s trail of destruction. Realising the Hochlanders’ dogged defence of the mill was on the verge of collapse, Dieter had been provoked to take action. Admittedly, the fact he was not entirely sure what that action would be was possibly a defect of his decision, but he hoped to come up with something before he came within range of the scorpion’s claws.

  Abruptly, an idea occurred to him. In the cold light of day he was sure it would seem like madness, but at that instant any kind of plan was better than nothing.

  Angling his path as he ran through the courtyard, he headed for the mill stream that emerged from underneath the exterior wall and travelled across the courtyard until it ran underneath the spars of the massive mill wheel set at the side of the mill house.

  The stream was deep and fast flowing. Casting aside his shield, helmet and breastplate as he ran, Dieter jumped into the stream and swam across it. He was taking a risk, he knew. The current was strong, and if he lost control it could easily drag him into the mill wheel where he would likely either drown or be crushed by the turning wheel.

  Fortunately, he was able to make the swim. Emerging from the other side of the stream, his sword still gripped in his hand, he ran toward the scorpion.

  As he charged toward the creature he briefly wondered how he would attract its attention, but it quickly became clear it would not be an issue. Perhaps it was the fact Dieter was the only man in the courtyard running towards it rather than fleeing, but the scorpion immediately fixated on him as he moved closer. The monster’s black eyes swivelled to regard him, while—sure of its superiority—the goblin on its back grinned down at Dieter with a smug, malevolent smile.

  Wary of ge
tting too close, Dieter came skidding to a halt. Then, turning to run away, he was pleased as he glanced over his shoulder to see the scorpion had decided to give chase.

  Hoping the creature’s goblin rider would not be intelligent enough to guess his plan, Dieter sprinted over to the mill house. Coming to a halt in front of the enormous brick housing that sheltered the mill wheel, Dieter watched the scorpion charge toward him.

  He waited, muttering a prayer to Sigmar under his breath. If the scorpion decided to attack him with his claws, or if Dieter failed to time it correctly, the whole business would be over quickly—and, with it, any chance of defeating the goblins.

  The size of the creature was extraordinary. As the scorpion loomed over him, Dieter felt like a character from a childish nursery rhyme confronting a giant. He raised his sword in a threatening gesture, inwardly aware that the blade must seem no larger than a needle to the eyes of the monster.

  Lifting the bulbous stinger at the end of its tail high above its head, the scorpion made ready to strike. To Dieter, the moment seemed frozen. Seeing a tell-tale quiver run along the creature’s tail, he dived out of the way as the scorpion’s sting flashed through the air and smashed through the stonework of the housing wall behind him.

  The creature hissed in what he could only guess was the sound of disappointment. It lashed out again, its tail striking the housing at several points along its base as Dieter rolled desperately along the ground to elude it.

  Hissing even more furiously the scorpion lifted its tail to strike once more, but the damage was already done. With an awful wrenching noise, the housing collapsed, spilling an avalanche of falling bricks, splintered timbers and the entire weight of the tilting mill wheel onto the scorpion and its goblin rider.

  Dieter saw the creature crushed beneath a rain of stone. Then, something struck him hard in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. He felt the breath whoosh from his lungs as a heavy weight pressed down on him. Realising he could no longer breathe, he began to panic, his view of the scene around him— and whatever it was that weighed so heavily on his torso—was obscured by the clouds of dust raised by the collapsing housing.