Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  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 Hoffman 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 ban
k. 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.’

  ‘Daemons, you mean,’ Lothar said, snickering.

  Hoffman whirled on him. ‘No. Organised bandit activity,’ he said through gritted teeth. He looked back at Goetz. ‘My men are not equipped for–’

  ‘They have supplies and weapons. Good enough, I should think,’ Lothar said.

  ‘For your illiterate band of half-savages, possibly. But my men are soldiers,’ Hoffman shot back.

  ‘Under my command,’ Goetz said quietly. ‘As are the foresters.’ The two men fell silent, looking at him. It was a tense moment, and not the first such. He looked at Lothar. ‘Can you catch them?’

  Lothar spat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we go. Lothar, find that trail. If these raiders have captives, they’re likely moving slow. Meaning we can catch them. And when we do…’ Goetz clenched a fist. ‘Middenland be damned.’

  Lothar gave a snarl and Hoffman banged a fist against his breastplate. As the dark of the night wore into the fiery orange of morning the party moved across the Talabec.

  The bridge was old and sturdy. Dwarf-work, it was said, with vast blocks of smooth stone bestriding the waters. There were several like it, the length of the Talabec and on the Stir. Goetz had always admired them, admired the craftsmanship that went into them. Part of him wished that he could have built bridges instead of learning the art of the blade. He thought perhaps bridge builders had happier lives, on the whole.

  The river was deceptively calm as it flowed beneath the bridge. Goetz knew that it could spring from docile placidity to roaring viciousness in moments. The Talabec brought trade, but it also brought death.

  Most thought that was a fair swap. Goetz wasn’t sure, but then he wasn’t a merchant. His father was, and a fine one, but a trade in trade had never been Goetz’s fate.

  They left the bridge behind and moved slowly into the trees, on foot. Hoffman’s troops, all thirty of them, formed into two ranks, halberdiers and crossbowmen clad in cuirasses and greaves that clanked and clattered softly as they marched in disciplined formation. Lothar’s foresters ranged ahead, fifteen shadowy shapes threading through the close-set trees like ghosts.

  The foresters were hard to figure out. Goetz knew that they weren’t truly soldiers, being more in the manner of thief-takers or road-wardens. It made them hard to trust. There was no guarantee that they would stay in a fight, rather than simply fading away. And he was down two men, to boot.

  They had sent the woman back to Werder, the closest town, along with two of Hoffman’s men. She’d ridden off on Goetz’s horse, something which had brought a pang to Goetz, and he briefly wished he’d kept his mount. The Order normally fought mounted, but in situations like these Knights were expected to fight on foot so as to be more effective. Too, a lone man on a horse was easy to pick off. The flesh between Goetz’s shoulder blades crawled at the thought.

  He didn’t fear death, as such. But he was afraid of dying badly. Of being unable to fight back against his death. Arrows were a bad way to die. Then, in his darker moments, he thought that perhaps there was no good way to die, regardless of what the Order taught.

  The pace was slow, but steady. Occasionally one of the foresters would drift back to report, but not often. Goetz took the lead, mindful of the honour of the Order. The Drakwald didn’t seem to care about either his honour or the men he was in charge of, however.

  Overgrown roots rose like the humps of sea-serpents through the dark soil and the trees became bloated and massive the further away from the farm they drew. Unconsciously, the militia clustered together, their previously pristine order decaying into a stumbling mass of men. Nervous murmurs rippled through the ranks as the sunlight was strangled to the merest drizzle by the thick branches that spread overhead.

  Hoffman stilled his men with a look. Goetz stopped and turned. The men were sweating and listless, as if the trees were sucking the life out of them. Some of that was exhaustion – the militia wasn’t used to being pushed this hard, having mostly performed only garrison duties – the rest was what? Fear? Nervousness, maybe.

  The Drakwald had a well-deserved reputation, even outside the borders of Middenland. It had inspired more than one nightmare in the children of Talabheim. Why should the children of Volgen, living far closer as they did, be any different? Birds croaked and cawed to each other in the trees, and several times Goetz had caught himself wondering whether or not those cries meant something other than the obvious. He forced himself to release the hilt of his sword as he caught the looks he was getting.

  ‘No need to be nervous, Sir Hector,’ Hoffman murmured.

  Goetz glanced at him. ‘Knights do not get nervous,’ he said stiffly. ‘We merely anticipate the worst.’

  Hoffman smiled. ‘You’re a bit young to be a knight, if you’ll pardon the familiarity.’

  Goetz chuckled. ‘My father saw to it that I started my training early. My brother… disappointed his expectations, and the honour of the family had to be considered.’ Goetz fell silent, realizing that he’d said more than he intended.

  His brother Caspar had been pledged to the Order, but had refused the honour in the most vociferous terms possible. Caspar had been headstrong and single-minded, much like their father, and his obsessions had taken precedence over familial obligations.

  ‘Goetz is not a common Talabecland name,’ Hoffman said, changing the subject.

  ‘My family came from Solland originally,’ Goetz said, rubbing the comet on his cuirass. ‘Before the – ah.’ He made a gesture.

  ‘Yes,’ Hoffman said. Solland’s sad fate was well known, and many great families of Talabecland, Ostermark and Wissenland could trace their origins to that doomed province, their ancestors having fled the orcish invasion that ravaged the province beyond recovery.

  Mention of Solland brought Caspar to the forefront of Goetz’s thoughts once more. Even as a child, his older brother had been obsessed with the history of Solland, even going so far as to joining a hare-brained expedition to find the lost Solland Crown, despite his father’s protests. Caspar and his expedition had vanished in the maelstrom of the recent northern invasion. Goetz shook his head, banishing the dark thoughts.

  ‘I wanted to be an artisan. Or a scribe,’ Goetz said. Hoffman raised his eyebrows and Goetz nodded at the unspoken question. ‘Oh yes. I excelled in the arts of engineering. My tutors saw a great future for me, and the Order’s engineers agreed, though the exact nature of my future projects differed. Instead of bridges and walls, I’ll now construct devices to demolish such structures.’ The last bit was said sadly. Goetz shook himself. ‘Funny how things work out, in the end.’

  ‘Speaking of funny,’ Hoffman said and leaned close. ‘I haven’t seen those damned foresters in awhile.’

  ‘Then you weren’t looking close enough,’ Lothar grunted, slipping out from between the trees. He whipped off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Have you found the trail?’ Goetz said, fighting to keep the eagerness out of his voice. ‘Have you found them?’

  ‘In and out,’ Lothar said. ‘Comes and goes. The forest – bah. They’ve got them some woodcraft, sure enough.’

  ‘Better than yours?’

  Lothar grinned. ‘No one is better than us.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you found them yet?’ Hoffman snapped. ‘They can’t have gone far, and we’ve been at this for hours! If anyone no
ticed us coming over the river–’

  ‘Hunts like this can take days,’ Lothar said mildly. His eyes hardened. ‘And the more noise you make, the harder it is, so it is.’

  ‘You’re blaming me?’ Hoffman said incredulously.

  ‘I – hsst.’ Lothar raised a hand. He cocked his head.

  ‘What?’ Goetz said, looking at Hoffman.

  ‘Hear that?’ Lothar said, turning. He made a sound like a bird call. It was answered from deeper within the trees. Goetz’s nape prickled. He heard it now. It was a bone-deep sensation, echoing from everywhere and nowhere. He had felt it before, but dismissed it as the background noise of the forest, or perhaps the echo of the river.

  ‘What is that?’ Hoffman said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lothar said. He looked at Goetz. ‘We’ve been hearing it off and on since we came into the woods.’ His face was grim.

  ‘And you’re just thinking now to inform us?’ Hoffman spat. ‘Have you been leading us in circles all of this time?’ He swung an arm out. ‘My men are exhausted. They’ve been marching all day!’ Hoffman frowned. ‘Or is that what you intended?’

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’ Lothar said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

  ‘I’ve heard the stories of what the Taalists got up to before the light of Sigmar was brought to these regions. Worse than the worshippers of the Wolf-God! Burn any men alive in wooden cages lately?’ Hoffman said, fingering the pommel of his sword.

  ‘No. Are you volunteering?’ Lothar said, clutching his medallion.

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you savage?’ Hoffman said. ‘I know what you foresters get up to, you know. You’re half-bandit yourselves, helping yourself to the odd merchant’s goods! Oh yes, I have those reports memorised!’