Hammer and Bolter 22

by Christian Dunn

  Erhardt watched him retreat to his books, and then looked back at the commander. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  Toft groaned, then scratched at the belt that Prolmann had tied around his arm so violently that Erhardt was worried he might dislodge it. Gently, he caught the commander’s hand and put it over his chest, then filled a tin cup with water and brought it to Toft’s lips. The cold draught seemed to refocus the commander a little.

  ‘One of your men broke formation, Anton.’

  Erhardt nodded. ‘Gottswain. He’s a good man. I served with him in Ubersreik.’

  ‘I had him arrested.’

  ‘That could be a problem. He’s a hero to the men. You would surely be dead if he hadn’t come after you.’

  ‘Every Greatsword is a hero before he joins us.’ Toft tried to shift to a more dignified position, but after a moment the pain became too great and he collapsed back onto the table. Though his words were pained he spoke clearly. ‘As their commander you must suppress the very qualities that brought them to greatness and instead wield them as a cohesive unit. Gottswain has shown that he cannot be suppressed, and so he must be excised.’

  Erhardt hesitated. ‘You sound like the good doktor. Gottswain is hard to control, to be sure, but his skill with a blade, backed up by his enormous frame, is too great an asset to the Empire to simply cast aside. There is no man I’d rather have fighting by my side than Kord Gottswain.’

  Toft’s eyes were closed, and for a moment Erhardt worried he had slipped into unconsciousness. When the commander finally spoke, it was so softly that Erhardt had to lean in to make out the words.

  ‘One man does not a regiment make.’

  Prolmann returned with the knife. He offered Toft a folded leather strap to bite down on, which the commander refused. ‘If we wait any longer,’ said the doctor urgently, ‘the stink of Chaos will get into your wounds and they will suppurate.’

  ‘Erhardt,’ said Toft as Prolmann lined up his blade, ‘you’re in command until we return to Altdorf and someone more suitable can be found.’

  Someone more suitable? Erhardt knew the men, knew the regiment – he was Toft’s natural successor. Had Gottswain just cost him his commission?

  Prolmann indicated that he should hold down the commander’s legs. Reluctantly, Erhardt set his doubts aside and did his best. After the procedure was done, he gathered his helmet and left Toft unconscious on Prolmann’s table.

  Gottswain sat in a rusting cage in a hastily-built shack of untrimmed logs. Erhardt nodded to the guards who stood at attention on either side of the low entrance then, helmet tucked loosely under one arm, ducked his head and entered.

  The big Nordlander still wore his under-armour, but his hands had been bound together with thick strips of rawhide. His face was a mask of dirt and blood that extended all the way to his shaven head. He looked up when Erhardt entered, his features only partially lit by the torchlight that seeped through holes in the cut birch. He sneered, then kicked his legs out before him and crossed his arms as well as he could with his wrists bound, miming a relaxed position. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Try that act on someone else, Kord,’ said Erhardt. ‘I don’t have the patience for it.’ He thrust a small unstoppered leather canteen through the bars.

  Gottswain eyed the vessel suspiciously, then shrugged and dropped the bravado. He took the canteen, sniffed it, and then took a swig.

  ‘Good grog. What is it?’

  ‘The general’s own.’ Erhardt stepped away from the bars and crossed his arms. ‘The old wolf tapped his personal vintage to celebrate. This victory is as much yours as his, so I thought you deserved your share.’

  Gottswain nodded and took another pull, swigging it against his teeth and gums before swallowing with an appreciative smack of his lips. ‘What about the boss?’

  Erhardt studied Gottswain in the dim light. One man does not a regiment make. This one man had done what the regiment couldn’t – rescued the commander from a fate worse than death.

  ‘Commander Toft survived, thanks to you. That beastman broke his arm in four places, but he’s under the care of Doktor Prolmann.’

  Gottswain balanced the canteen on the bench beside him, then leaned back uncomfortably and whistled through his teeth, glancing up at the corners of his cage. ‘So I’m a hero then?’

  ‘Toft ordered your incarceration from his sick bed. You broke formation. If Hesberger and his men hadn’t arrived at precisely the right moment, the Dark Gods would be sipping our blood right now.’

  Gottswain headbutted the iron bars in frustration and began to speak, but Erhardt cut him off.

  ‘We’re not mercenaries, Kord. We each guard the man on our left. If you break formation, he dies.’

  Gottswain stared hard at Erhardt through the bars. For a moment, it looked like the words were penetrating that thick skull. At last he swore. ‘Prolmann’s a butcher. He’ll lose that arm then, won’t he?’

  ‘Already has,’ Erhardt sighed. He tossed a set of keys through the bars.

  Gottswain stared at them before picking them up. ‘You’re in command then?’

  Erhardt considered the question for a moment. He fingered the straps of his vambrace, feeling the hard leather under his fingers. It always gave him a comforting feeling, that sensation. Dwarf-forged plate armour might protect a Greatsword in combat, but it was nothing without the web of leather that held it together.

  ‘For now. Let’s get back to our camp. This place makes me nervous.’

  Gottswain closed the door behind him and tossed Erhardt the keys. ‘The hero of Ubersreik? Scared of a few iron bars?’

  Erhardt shuddered. ‘They remind me of the Sigmar-be-damned witch hunters.’

  Gottswain blinked at the curse, and then shrugged it off. ‘Don’t let them hear you say that, or you’ll be seeing more than the inside of the stockade.’

  The company boy met them on the outskirts of the neatly ordered square of tents that was the Carroburg camp. His arms and hands were stained red, and for a moment Erhardt thought young Bert had been wounded.

  ‘It’s just dye, sir,’ the boy grinned. ‘New uniforms from the capital haven’t bled out yet.’

  Bert ran a hand through his hair, absently painting red streaks through it. A double line of laundry hung near a boiling cauldron that had been set in the remains of the cook fire. As far as Erhardt knew, Toft’s Carroburgs were one of the few units who washed their uniforms regularly. At first, the policy had drawn the attentions of the witch hunters, but the unit lost far fewer men to disease than any other. That had gotten General Schalbourg’s attention, and Erhardt believed the practice would soon spread to other units.

  ‘Need help with your armour, sir?’ asked Bert. ‘Yours is with the quartermaster, Herr Gottswain.’

  ‘Have it sent to my tent please, Bert,’ said Gottswain. The boy nodded then dashed away down a nearby row of tents. Gottswain turned to Erhardt. ‘A good lad, him.’

  ‘I think he’s just pleased to work for the Carroburgs. His father is a blacksmith from my village and heard that I’d made the regiment. He paid a scribe what must have been a fortune to write me a letter begging to get Bert assigned to the unit. I was impressed by his sacrifice and I’ve been looking out for the boy ever since.’

  A distant horn-call cut through the air. Gottswain looked up, ears pricked. The sound was coming from the direction they’d just come. ‘They’re sounding the attack? There’s no enemy left to fight.’

  ‘They seem to think there is,’ said Erhardt grimly. He set off in a run, shouting back over his shoulder. ‘Get the men!’

  Erhardt got to the scene of the commotion just in time to see a giant creature slam into Doktor Prolmann’s tent, tearing it from its moorings. For one almost comical moment the canvas seemed to move of its own volition as the beast within was blinded. Then, with a horrendous tearing sound, it burst free, knocking aside two terrified swordsmen.

  Erhardt could barely see the beast as it mov
ed past the flickering torches. An eerie purple glow emanated from two points within its hulking form, points that seemed to move at random so that its gaze fell first one way, than another.

  A trio of halberdiers charged the beast, sinking their weapons deep into its side. A hideous roar bellowed out of some hidden mouth, then the creature shrugged off the blows and was upon them, tearing the men to pieces.

  ‘Where did that monster come from?’ asked a voice beside him. It was Gottswain. He wore only his under-armour padding, but held a zweihander easily across his shoulder.

  Erhardt wondered the same thing. Had the creature torn its way through half the army to get to the surgeons’ tents? It made no sense. Surely the alarm would have been raised long before now.

  ‘Where are the men?’

  ‘Mostly drunk,’ Gottswain confessed with a shrug. ‘We’ll have to do this on our own.’

  The beast bellowed again and lumbered towards the line of stretchers. Those wounded who could rise under their own strength had already fled the area, leaving those who couldn’t to fend for themselves.

  ‘Where’s your armour?’ Erhardt demanded.

  Gottswain spat. ‘I didn’t have time to put it on. You needed my help.’

  ‘How long do you think you can last against that beast without armour? I can at least slow it down long enough for you to return with reinforcements.’ Erhardt drew his blade. ‘Go. That’s an order.’

  Gottswain’s eyes glittered darkly, but he disappeared into the darkness. Erhardt breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been worried that Gottswain was going to disobey yet another order, except this time his disobedience would probably have proven fatal.

  The creature moved towards the stretchers in a kind of tumbling roll. Screams cut through the night as it moved amongst the wounded. Hoping he wasn’t too late, Erhardt charged the beast. Purplish eyes reoriented to track this new threat, but it was too late. Erhardt leaped on top of an overturned crate, then at the beast itself, swinging his zweihander in an overhead arc. Flesh parted before his blade and dark blood squirted across his breastplate. The creature roared and its bulk shifted. Instead of turning to face him, it simply reoriented those two glowing points of purplish light until the orbs glared at the small man who’d hurt it.

  Morrslieb, the Chaos Moon, emerged from behind the rainclouds and the camp was illuminated by its sickly green light. For a brief second, Erhardt saw the beast as a twisted mass of flesh and bone. The foetid smell of offal and viscera was almost overwhelming but, taking advantage of the light, he shifted his grip on his zweihander and put his weight behind a thrust. His blade struck something solid, and dark blood poured down the length of the steel. Overcoming his disgust, Erhardt twisted his sword, then put his shoulder behind the blow to try and stab even deeper.

  Heedless of the pain, the beast impaled itself further on Erhardt’s weapon. Its bulk slammed into him with enormous force and he fought to maintain his grip on his sword. Something tore at his helmet and he could hear metal scream as the visor bent and distorted under the beast’s weight. His boots dug furrows in the muddy earth as he was borne back. Terror welled up in him at the realisation that he would soon be crushed beneath its weight.

  From somewhere behind him a score of thundercracks echoed in the night and Erhardt felt the passage of hot lead close by. A voice that might have belonged to Gottswain bellowed, ‘Hold your fire, by Sigmar! You’ll kill the commander!’

  He felt the beast shudder, once twice. Light shifted and danced around Erhardt as dozens of sword blows drove the creature back. Its grip on his blade weakened and then broke, but Erhardt was unrelenting. He thrust deeper, trying to hit something vital. Screams sounded out all around him, some from the creature, and some from the swordsmen who fought it.

  Suddenly, its bulk shifted again and Erhardt felt it pull away. He could see now that a score of pistoliers had formed up in double ranks and were pouring lead shot into it as fast as they could reload. Greatswords, Gottswain at their head, had begun streaming out of gaps between the tents, and though the beast was enormous, it couldn’t fight so many. With a moan, it reared backwards, those glowing purple eyes playing across its surface, looking from the pistoliers to the Greatswords, and back again. Finally, it twisted away and fled through the tents with frightening speed.

  ‘After it, men!’ cried Erhardt. Though the camp was on high alert, there was still the possibility, however remote, that it could break free and disappear into hills. Erhardt could not let that happen.

  Ignoring the possibility of an ambush, he ran after the creature, catching sight of it moving between the tents and terrified camp followers. While Erhardt was forced to avoid the laundry lines and cook fires, somehow it passed right over them without slowing, without any loss of momentum. It wasn’t long before Erhardt lost sight of it and had to rely on the cries of alarm its passage provoked to track it. Soon even these disappeared.

  He came upon a group of soldiers who were just pulling themselves out of their bedrolls and grabbing up their weapons.

  ‘Which way did it go?’ he shouted at them, breathlessly.

  ‘Which way did what go?’ asked a dumbstruck pikeman. He’d seen Erhardt’s gore-covered armour and clearly recognised him as one of the legendary Carroburgs.

  Erhardt stared into the darkness in frustration. How could a beast of that size have eluded him? He turned back to the pikeman. ‘Gather your men and search the periphery of the camp.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he replied as Erhardt turned and jogged back the way he’d come. ‘But pray, what are we searching for?’

  Erhardt cursed and then listened for more shouts of alarm, but though the camp was filled with bellowing sergeants and the rattle of weapons, he could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that sounded like men repelling an attack at any rate.

  Gottswain emerged from the darkness ahead of him, sword drawn. ‘Where did it go?’

  Erhardt grimaced in frustration. ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t that far ahead of me, but it just disappeared.’

  Gottswain’s jawline hardened. ‘We’re still close to the centre of camp. It can’t have escaped.’

  Erhardt craned his neck, trying to see between the tents. It was as if the Ruinous Powers had reached down from the heavens and swept the beast into some hidden realm of Chaos. ‘We do a full sweep of the camp,’ he said. ‘It can’t have gone far.’

  ‘Erhardt. Commander Erhardt.’ The voice that called through the crowd of soldiers sounded gravelly and strained, as if its owner were in some pain. Erhardt was in the middle of a swarm of men, issuing orders to search the camp in groups of half a dozen soldiers – no tent was to be left undisturbed, no stone unturned. Even through the throng, Erhardt could guess at the identity of the man who called for him, simply by the way the others grew quiet. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his face, but he was well armed: the hilt of an enamelled longsword jutted out from his belt, and two pistols hung from a leather cord around his neck. The twin-tailed comet on his breastplate only confirmed Erhardt’s suspicions.

  ‘Knight Templar Keller,’ he said, struggling to mask his distaste. ‘You’ve run out of little old ladies to burn at the stake in Kemperbad, then?’

  ‘Is that an impious tone I hear in your voice?’ asked Keller sharply. He had no need to push his way through the crowd of soldiers – they simply melted away before him, finding other, more important things to do, or remembering urgent appointments elsewhere. ‘I hear that you had contact with a creature of Chaos today. Extended contact.’

  The threat was ill-disguised, but they both knew it was relatively toothless. The Carroburgs had turned the tide of the battle earlier in the day, and Erhardt himself had charged the beast that had attacked the camp by night while others were running for their lives. ‘You are aware that the creature escaped, are you not?’ he said scornfully. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your customary position at the rear of the army?’

  ‘Yes, I am aware that you failed to captu
re it,’ Keller snapped. Dawn was beginning to break over the hills to the east, and his breath misted the air. He removed his gloves, tucking them under one arm, and looked around at the clutter of broken stretchers and collapsed tents. ‘Eisenschalz,’ he called over his shoulder to a blond-haired lieutenant. ‘Seal off this area. Gather all the witnesses and put them to the question.’

  Erhardt felt himself redden. ‘Seal off the area? How can my men conduct an effective search if they can’t leave the area without your permission?’

  ‘I’ve been told that the beast disappeared without a trace in the centre of the camp.’

  One of Keller’s aides brought him a steaming cup of tea, which the witch hunter cupped in his hands for warmth before blowing upon its surface. When he spoke again, it was almost absently, as if he addressed the mug and Erhardt simply overheard. ‘How can such a thing occur without the aid of seditious and traitorous Chaos worshippers within our ranks?’

  ‘It was dark,’ said Erhardt defensively, ‘and it had already killed most of the soldiers in the area.’ To tell the truth, he wondered the same thing himself. A creature that large could only have found a limited number of places to hide. A search of the wagons was ongoing, but had been so far fruitless – limited by the fact that he was reluctant to commit to smaller search parties for fear that the beast would pick them off one by one.

  ‘Nevertheless, rooting out Chaos worshippers is within my jurisdiction,’ said Keller. He took a sip of tea, grimaced in disgust, and then poured it onto the ground. He handed the cup back to Eisenschalz with a look that threatened untold misery if he were ever again given such an inferior offering, and then turned back to Erhardt. ‘You are relieved of command.’

  Erhardt bristled. He had fought the northmen to a standstill and, in the same night, risked his life against a beast of Chaos. Now this witch hunter thought he could simply swoop in and take over?

  ‘What does General Schalbourg have to say about this?’ he demanded.