‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Come on, all of you!’
White bodies advanced on all sides. Claws, screaming, blood, ichor. Goedendag stood at the top of a mound of naked, bound bodies, bathed in blood, and he fought like a daemon himself. But there were too many of them. The sheer weight of numbers began to overwhelm him.
And then he heard a shout. There, in the distance, he saw Telramund, armour half broken, bathed in blood and ichor. And behind him, Fastlinger, and then Franosch.
The shout came again.
‘The humans are clear.’
Tired though he was, Goedendag smiled.
‘Now,’ he said, holstering his chainsword, ‘Now it is time for meltaguns!’
The Iron Knights looked at the bodies of the fallen. Goedendag and Franosch watched the shrinking remnants of the closing portal.
‘Anything?’ asked Goedendag.
Franosch shook his head.
‘Sorry. Nothing.’ He wiped his forehead, removing a splash of blood. ‘Did it occur to you that the daemon could be lying?’
Goedendag looked thoughtful.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It knew too much.’
‘Then the Iron Brethren exist somewhere in the warp. The story is true.’
‘Perhaps…’ He place a warning hand on Franosch’s arm. Kelra, the Imperial Guardswoman had entered the room.
‘So, Goedendag,’ she said, ‘you succeeded. The tower is secure. The civilians are safe. Thank you.’
‘We don’t do this for gratitude,’ said Goedendag. ‘Don your helmets, brothers. It’s time to leave.’
‘But–’ called Kelra.
‘Thank you, sister,’ said Goedendag. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
The First Duty
Joshua Reynolds
‘What is the first duty, young Goetz?’
‘To go where we are needed, hochmeister,’ Hector Goetz had said promptly. Goetz was a young man, tall and broad in all the right places with the pale, fair features of the Talabheim aristocracy. His hair was shorn close to the scalp, as was proper for one of his station, and his wrists and shoulders were thick with muscle. It had been only three short weeks since he’d won his spurs in his final test – a bloody melee with a band of orcs in the hills near Talabheim.
‘And what is the second?’
‘To do what must be done!’ Goetz had replied, crashing a fist against the embossed twin-tailed comet on his brightly polished cuirass.
And the hochmeister had smiled sadly. Goetz hadn’t realised why at the time.
Now, however, he was beginning to understand.
Armour the colour of brass reflected the light of the burning mill as the horse reared, steel-shod hooves lashing out to connect with brutish skulls. A man howled as a sword sheared through his raised arm, sending both his blade and the hand that wielded it flying off into the smoke. Another warrior staggered as the sword whipped around to chop through its shield and into the skull beyond.
Hector Goetz grunted and ripped his sword free with a surge of muscle as his horse spun, bugling a challenge to the stallion charging to meet them. Goetz, eyes narrowed within his helm, set his horse into motion to meet this newest threat. The rider, a pale-skinned, spade-bearded brute, gave a guttural cry as he swung his heavy, chopping blade wildly.
Goetz twisted to the side as the horses crashed against one another and swung his shield between himself and his opponent’s weapon. As the blade chunked into the surface of the shield, Goetz shifted, pushing the sword away and his opponent off balance. His own blade met the bared surface of the man’s neck in a spray of blood. The head toppled, jaws still champing. Goetz grabbed the reins and turned the horse.
With a rending crash, the mill wheel collapsed into the Talabec, taking part of the mill with it. His attention diverted, the young knight barely managed to avoid the stroke of the axe that was aimed at his hip.
Goetz threw himself from his saddle, crashing to the ground with a clatter. Rolling to his feet, he stumbled back as the axe chopped towards him.
It was a crude thing, battered and beaten into a rough approximation of shape. Despite its crudity it was still dangerous and Goetz bent backwards as it looped past his visor. Its wielder wore the stink of death like a cloak, and his grunt of effort as he regained his balance was bestial.
He swung the axe up again and brought it crashing down on Goetz’s shield. The ill-treated blade shivered and splintered, and Goetz swept it aside without thought as he drove his sword point-first into the man’s belly. The man folded up over the blade and dropped, screaming.
Goetz wrenched his weapon free and stepped back, fighting a surge of nausea as his opponent thrashed on the ground.
‘Sir Hector, look out!’
Goetz ducked as a hammer pummelled the air inches away from the back of his skull. He reversed his blade and stabbed it back into his attacker. The man wailed and slid off the blade as Goetz turned. Breathing shallowly, he looked around. ‘Thank you, Captain Hoffman,’ he said.
‘Think nothing of it, Sir Hector.’ Dressed in the crimson and gold finery of an officer in the Talabecland militia, now smudged and fouled with soot, Captain Hoffman leaned on his sword and spat. ‘All dead, curse the luck.’
‘All–’ Goetz pushed up his visor and looked around. Bodies lay scattered everywhere around the burning mill. ‘No! No!’ he said. Then, more quietly, ‘Too late.’ He stabbed his sword into the dirt to clean it. ‘Again, too late.’ He looked at the other man. ‘Call your men together, Captain Hoffman. We need to put this fire out and check for–’
‘Let it burn,’ a rough voice interjected. Goetz turned. A man clad in the tanned leathers and rough pelts of a forester gestured towards the fire with his blood-stained hatchet. ‘Let it burn. There won’t be any survivors and no sense wasting the effort. Not when we could be putting it to better uses.’
‘You don’t know that!’ Hoffman snarled, wiping sweat and soot off of his brow. He looked at Goetz. ‘Sir Hector, we have to at least try!’
Goetz hesitated but then regretfully shook his head as he looked at the crumbling mill. ‘No. No, Lothar is correct. Let it burn out.’ He spat, trying to clear his mouth of the taste of smoke. ‘They’re all dead.’
Just like last time. Just like every time. Every person they had come to save, every person in every isolated mill and farmstead between the river and Volgen. ‘It was just wishful thinking, I suppose.’
He forced himself to breathe and planted his sword point first into the ground. Prayer wasn’t something he was normally comfortable with, being from the aristocracy. He knelt and bowed his head, murmuring a swift prayer to Myrmidia, the patron-goddess of the Order of the Blazing Sun. It seemed fitting that he ask the Goddess of Battle to take in the souls of those slain in such a manner. Six times he had done such, and this time made him feel no better than the first.
If anything, he felt worse.
A shadow fell over him, and he broke off and looked up at Lothar. Yellow, square teeth surfaced in a mocking grin from beneath the man’s thick beard. ‘Begging your pardon, sir knight, but when you’re finished, there’s doings afoot.’
Goetz rose stiffly, armour creaking. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Something you ought to see,’ the forester said, crooking a finger. ‘Since you’re here and all and in charge, so you are.’
Goetz sheathed his sword with a touch more force than was necessary and, squashing the flare of indignation that the man’s impertinent tone had brought up, followed him. The hochmeister had warned him that the foresters were an unruly lot, and impatient with rank.
Not at all like the stiffly formal militiamen that had accompanied Goetz from Volgen. Captain Hoffman was a stickler for the rules and formalities that he likely had little enough opportunity to use in a town like Volgen. Goetz joined Lothar and the captain in examining the body of one of the men he’d killed.
‘First time we’ve been able to catch the devils at their work,’ Hoffman sai
d. ‘Too bad we didn’t get them alive.’
‘They’ll talk all the same,’ Lothar said, dropping easily to his haunches.
The contorted body was well-illuminated by the light of the flames. He wore cast-off leathers and rags of chainmail that had proven more decorative than protective in the end. Lothar grunted and used the blade of his hatchet to rip open the man’s filthy tunic. He grimaced at what was revealed and made a sign in the air.
‘Witch’s mark,’ he said, looking up at Goetz. ‘Sure as I’m alive.’
‘A tattoo,’ Hoffman said, slapping his leather gloves into his palm. ‘A bit of peasant crudity. It proves nothing.’
‘It proves what we’ve been saying is all,’ Lothar said, cramming his helmet back on his head. ‘Even a lack-wit townie like you should be able to see that. These men are devil-spawn!’
‘Insulting a superior officer?’ Hoffman said, his eyes narrowing. ‘A man can get the lash for that.’
‘True. But who would you get to wield it?’ Lothar said, grinning in an unfriendly fashion. The two men had been at each other’s throats since they’d set out from Volgen. The foresters were nominally under the command of the local militia commander, but in reality they were completely autonomous. They functioned as scouts most of the time, but rarely responded when the Imperial Levy was called, unless it was a case like this. Most local authorities turned a blind eye – the foresters were far too useful, given that Talabecland was mostly forest and hills.
Regardless, it was a constant point of friction with Hoffman. ‘There’s no need to bother Sir Hector with your suspicions,’ Hoffman said harshly, his face pinched and disapproving. ‘Get your men back here.’
‘Why?’ Lothar snorted.
‘Why, to bury the dead of course!’ Hoffman said incredulously.
‘A waste of time. The rest of them can’t have gone far! Not if these–’ He waved a hand at the dead men, ‘–were still here!’
‘Far enough,’ Goetz murmured, glancing over his shoulder and casting a glare at the dark stretch of forest that loomed just beyond the wide trade-bridge that connected the mill to the far shore. Running beneath it, the River Talabec marked the boundary of Talabecland.
The others had followed his gaze. Lothar unconsciously made a gesture that Goetz recognised as the sign of Taal. Goetz frowned. While the Empire had a state religion, the old faiths lingered here on the fringes. Being himself a worshipper of one of those faiths, Goetz said nothing. Hoffman, however, had no such compunctions.
‘Taalist filth,’ the militia commander said when he caught sight of the forester’s gesture.
‘No, they’re the filth,’ Lothar said, jerking a thumb at the body.
‘Trust one to know another,’ Hoffman spat. ‘For all I know, you’re in with these–’
‘Enough,’ Goetz interjected sharply. He’d been playing mediator between the two since they’d left Volgen and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. ‘Enough. Hoffman is correct. It is our duty to see to the bodies.’
Lothar snorted insolently. ‘Begging your pardon then, sir knight, and I’ll gather my men.’ Without waiting for a reply, Lothar stumped off. Hoffman grunted.
‘The impertinence of the man.’ He looked at Goetz. ‘Pardon my familiarity, sir knight, but that man is a–’
‘Yes. But good at his job, I’m told,’ Goetz said. ‘And these are no ordinary brigands, captain.’
‘The foresters see devils in every shadow,’ Hoffman said dismissively. He turned away and began bellowing orders to his men.
‘Maybe,’ Goetz said. He reached up and touched the stylised twin-tailed comet on his breastplate, a gesture he’d found comfort in since his days as a novice in the Order.
In truth, Goetz didn’t feel much different now, despite winning his spurs. He was a Knight according to the hochmeister and according to the Order’s laws, but he didn’t feel like one. Not truly, not in the way he’d hoped. He wasn’t really sure what he’d expected – a new sense of competence, perhaps. Wisdom, maybe. Instead, things seemed even more complex than when he’d been a novice, and him no more able to figure out the what and the where of it all.
‘We go where we are needed and do what must be done,’ he said to himself as he knelt beside the body, examining the man and the mark that Lothar had been so interested in. The mark wasn’t a tattoo, Hoffman’s assertions to the contrary. Instead it was a gouge in the flesh. A brand, and a fairly recent one. Ragged scratches in the flesh that seemed to undulate as Goetz looked at them closely. He blinked and looked away, unable to fully grasp the shape of it.
A Chaos mark, sure enough. Though of what variety he could not say. Nor, in truth, did he wish to know. That it was what it was, was enough for him. It defined his enemy.
He turned and looked at the river again. On the other side of it was Middenland. And the Drakwald.
A slight shudder ran through him as he contemplated the dark trees. As a breeze caught the distant branches, they seemed to reach for him.
‘Sir Knight!’
Goetz looked up as Lothar hurried forward. The forester waved a hand. ‘Come! We found a survivor!’
Goetz sprang to his feet as quickly as his armour would allow and hurried after the forester. Excitement hummed through him. They had never found a survivor before. Indeed, this was the first time they had even come to grips with any of the foe.
Hoffman hurried after him, face drawn. ‘An evening for firsts,’ he murmured.
‘My thoughts exactly, captain.’
The survivor proved to be a woman. Middle-aged, with wild hair and blank features. Her hands and feet were bloody and she was covered in newly-blossomed bruises and black filth. She sat hunched on the ground, hands dangling over her knees, body pressed up against the rough wood of the outhouse.
‘My men found her inside,’ Lothar said as Goetz and Hoffman came up. ‘She was hiding in the jakes. She’s a bit ripe.’
Goetz looked down at the woman. Her eyes were unfocused and staring at nothing in particular. A stab of pity cut through him and he dropped to one knee. Carefully, he reached for her. Her scream, when it came, was unexpected, and he nearly fell in surprise.
The scream faded into whimpers as she huddled away from him and pressed her face to the wood. Her bloody fingers clawed at the outhouse and Goetz lunged for her. ‘Help me!’ he snapped. ‘Grab her arms!’
Lothar and Hoffman started forward, but the woman gave a sobbing howl and flung herself into Goetz’s arms. He rocked back, eyes wide. She clung to him with terrified strength and he arose awkwardly, one arm around her.
‘I – what do we–’ Goetz began.
‘Give her a smack,’ Lothar said harshly. ‘It’s the only way we’ll get anything worthwhile out of her.’
‘She’s been through a great deal,’ Hoffman said. ‘A sympathetic hand might do better than the rude shake a forester’s woman gets.’
Lothar glared at the other man, but nodded stiffly. Hoffman crouched beside the woman and began to murmur to her, softly stroking her hair. Just as Lothar began to grumble impatiently, one of his men signalled him.
‘Lothar! Tracks!’ Lothar looked at Goetz, who looked at Hoffman.
‘I’ll take her,’ Hoffman said softly. Goetz gratefully peeled the woman off and turned her towards the other man. Then he followed Lothar, who was already hurrying towards his men. The forester who’d called them, a young man with coiling scars on both cheeks, squatted and tapped his fingertips against the ash-coated grass. ‘Hoof-prints, looks like. And feet.’
‘Not big enough for horses,’ Lothar muttered, dropping to his haunches. ‘And something else. Shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘Home-made. Too small for a man, likely a woman.’ He traced a mark and looked up at Goetz. ‘See?’
‘Yes?’ Goetz said, though he didn’t really. ‘Meaning?’
Lothar looked at the other forester, then back at Goetz. ‘Means more survivors than just her,’ he said, jerking his chin at Hoff
man and the woman. He locked eyes with Goetz. ‘Means we might also have been wrong before.’
‘You mean survivors from the other attacks?’
‘I mean that this might not have been a pillaging expedition,’ Lothar said flatly, clutching his medallion. The other foresters murmured and Goetz swallowed. ‘We have to follow them.’
He looked back at the woman, and then the body of the man he’d killed. ‘They were looking for her, weren’t they?’ he said.
‘Most likely. If she broke away…’ Lothar tapped the ground with his fingers. ‘These hoof-prints, though, are a puzzlement.’
‘Scrub ponies perhaps,’ Hoffman said, striding up. The militia commander sniffed. ‘Hardly expect bandits to be riding warhorses, now can we?’ He looked at Goetz. ‘My men are making the woman comfortable. If we can get her back to Volgen, perhaps–’
‘Not horses of any stripe, I don’t think,’ Lothar interrupted, rising. ‘Wrong shape.’
‘Oh? And you’re an expert on horseflesh then? Stolen many, have we?’ Hoffman said.
‘Enough to know these aren’t horse-tracks,’ Lothar said, glaring at the other man. His gaze swivelled to Goetz.
‘What are they?’ the knight said.
‘Beast-kin.’
Hoffman snorted. ‘Preposterous. They’ve never come this far south.’
‘The tracks go over the river. Our missing folk went with them.’
Goetz looked at the trees on the opposite bank. The Drakwald wasn’t simply a collection of trees, like the Great Forest. It was home to nightmares: men with the heads of beasts, witches and heretics. A prickle of latent childhood fear caressed his spine and he brushed it aside. ‘Then we will go after them.’
‘Sir Hector, I must protest,’ Hoffman said. ‘We are a Talabecland Levy. We’ll be out of our jurisdiction!’
‘Only if they catch us,’ Lothar said.
‘And if they do, I’ll make sure you’re the first up the gallows-stairs,’ Hoffman said. ‘We should return to Garndorf or Werder and send an official inquiry. The Middenlanders have experience with this sort of thing.’
Hammer and Bolter 6 Page 3