Chapter Twelve

 

 

It took them four days to reach the edge of the forest. Four days of sweat and exhaustion and terror. Four days of empty bellies and burning muscles and sleepless nights. Four days in which the fire had played cat and mouse with them.

And during these four days Erikson lost a further half a dozen men.

The three who had been caught beneath the falling stone had been the first to go, dying in the night in fits of screaming agony that seemed to bear no relation to their physical wounds. A couple more had fallen too far back. By the time Erikson had realised and returned for them they had been devoured by the fire. Their bodies had been as black as burned pork in the glowing embers. One man had fallen in a stream they had fled across, cracking his head open on a stone before drowning, and another had simply vanished.

All in all, Erikson told himself as they finally emerged from the forest, it could have been worse. At least he still had Sergeant Alter, and young Dolf. And Porter, of course. The man seemed to be as indestructible as he was cheerful. Even now, he was whistling over an open fire, heating stones upon which to bake the company’s flatbread.

“I’m looking forward to this,” Erikson told him. “It feels like a lifetime since we had any kind of meal.”

“Won’t be much of one I’m afraid, captain,” Porter told him as he turned to a leather bucket in which he mixed the dough of flour, salt and water. “We don’t even have any lard left to go with the bread. And there’ll be no gruel until we get another cauldron.”

“We’ll replenish our stocks when we get back to Nalderstein,” Erikson reassured him.

“In the meantime,” a voice behind him said, “find a spit for these.”

Erikson turned to find that Freimann had materialised behind him with his usual stealth. He carried half a dozen game birds, and Porter seized them eagerly.

“Thank you very much, sir,” he said. “I always did say you were a scholar.”

“Where the hell have your lot been?” Erikson asked him. “You disappeared as soon as we were clear of the tree line.”

“We’ve been busy,” Freimann told him with a carefree smile. “Doesn’t it feel nice to be back out in the open?”

“Yes,” Erikson had to agree. “It does. I’ve never seen a place as close as that damned forest. I feel like I’ve spent the last week underground.”

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Freimann told him. “By the way, the rest of your men seem to have made it out, too. Most of them, anyway. We found their spoor.”

“That’s fantastic news,” he said, and slapped the rifleman on the shoulder. “I was worried that they might have been caught by the enemy.”

“Yes, it’s odd.” Freimann’s forehead creased. “I thought they would have been too. The forest is usually swarming at this time of year.”

Erikson chose to ignore the callous disregard Freimann showed for his men. After all, his company had survived, there was hot food on the way and they were finally in the clean warmth of a sunlit field.

“So why aren’t they swarming now?” he asked. “Could they have fled from the fire?”

“No, the fire didn’t start until a day after I sent the wounded off. They must be somewhere else. And Sigmar help whoever else is there.”

“Well, at least it’s not our problem. Porter, get somebody to help you with those birds. I’m hungry enough to eat them raw.”

Nobody noticed Hofstadter. Four days ago he had slipped back into the column without anybody even noticing he had gone. Now he sat hunched over the weight of his pendant, leaning forwards so that his head rested in his hands.

The company were so exhausted that this was hardly unusual. What was unusual was the look of animal hunger that crossed his face at the mention of raw meat, and the rope of drool that spilled out from between his bared teeth. But if anybody noticed, they didn’t give it another thought.

 

* * *

 

“Wake, up.” The voice was low but insistent. “Erikson, wake up!”

Erikson rolled out of his dew-soaked blanket and stood up, buckling on his sword belt even before he was properly awake. He blinked sleep out of his eyes and, in the chill of predawn, recognised Freimann. The man was wide-eyed in the darkness.

“What is it?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the men who were sleeping around him. Sigmar knew, they needed as much rest as they could get.

“It’s Nalderstein,” Freimann said. “We can’t return there.”

“Why not?” Erikson asked. “I thought we were set to reach it this afternoon.”

“Tell the captain, Hendrick,” Freimann said, and another rifleman loomed up from the darkness.

“Me and Mihael reconnoitred the area yesterday,” the man said, his voice as soft as the wind which rustled through the wheat that grew around them. “I found the town in precisely the location we had calculated, but by the time I’d closed to within two miles I could see the extent to which it had been invested.”

“Invested?” Erikson snapped. “You mean besieged, I take it. By whom?”

“By the enemy,” the scout replied simply. “We estimate a force of three to four hundred, including some larger beasts, although the proximity of the forest makes any realistic estimate difficult. After due consideration we advanced further, using the prevailing wind and the wheat that surrounds the town as cover. We got to within perhaps half a dozen bow shots before a change in the wind forced us to retreat, covering our tracks as we did so.”

“And did you see anybody in the town?” Erikson asked.

“We did see a human presence behind the stockade,” the scout said. “Although we couldn’t detect any regimental standards or uniforms. They could well have been the remnants of your own company.”

“Not that that makes any difference,” Freimann interjected. “If four hundred of the enemy are visible, we can count on at least another two in ambush. You did well to get so close, Hendrick.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hendrick said. “Although we did have to do a bit of garrotting on the way back out.”

Erikson was no longer listening. During the last few weeks, the economic imperatives of his situation had receded, replaced with the day-to-day business of keeping the company united and alive. Now, suddenly, he was reminded of why he was here, risking life and limb in a war which had nothing to do with him.

“We will have to get them out,” he decided. Although he had been speaking half to himself, Freimann didn’t hesitate with his contradiction.

“We are not going anywhere near that place,” he said. “There is nothing we can do anyway.”

“We have to,” Erikson said. “I can’t afford to lose half the company. Not already. I need another month’s bonus just to recoup my original investment.”

Freimann’s sickle of a smile was as cruel as Morrslieb’s.

“I see,” he said. “I applaud your lack of sentimentality, captain, but your financial losses are your own affair.”

“It’s not just that,” Erikson snapped guiltily. “These are my men. I can’t just leave them.”

“You have to,” Freimann said. “Think of it like any farmer would. His cattle may be his livelihood, but he would hardly throw his life away defending them.”

“That,” Erikson said, “would depend on the farmer. And anyway, I have no intention of dying.”

“Ha!” Freimann’s bark of laughter rang out across the camp. He seemed genuinely amused. “Then how will you free them?”

“I’ll break through and help them to withstand the siege.” Erikson decided. “You, meanwhile, will tell the baron that we have lured a few hundred of the enemy out into the open for him. Do you think he’ll come for them?”

Freimann shrugged.

“Maybe. The biggest problem with these damned things usually is getting them out into the open.”

“Good,” Erikson said.

“Wait, I said usually. This year, they seem to have… changed. They aren’t behaving as they usually do. And I don’t know if the baron will even have the men to send out here. And even if he does, what will you live on until they arrive?”

“We’ll manage,” Erikson said.

Freimann sighed.

“This is all nonsense,” he said. “There is no way you would be able to break through the enemy’s lines and reach the town. My lads are artists in stealth. Hunters from birth. But your gaggle of thugs? No offence, but they’re about as stealthy as a pig with its nuts caught in a meat grinder. They won’t get within a mile before they’re spotted.”

“No offence taken,” Erikson said. “But there must be a way. There must be.”

The men stood in a thoughtful silence and watched the sun rising into a blue summer sky. As it did so the breeze picked up, rustling through the high, dry stalks of the wheat which covered the land in an endless sea of husk and straw.

 

This had been the most glorious summer Kathgor could remember. It was not just that he had finally fought his way to the leadership of his herd. Nor was it the sweet torrent of blood that had flowed ever since, a heady, maddening draft that had thickened his fur and bulked up his muscle.

No, it was something more than that. Somehow the world, even outside the fastness of the forest, had begun to beat in time with his own pulse. The rhythms of nature throbbed through the land like the greatest war dram, and the warmth of the earth beneath his hooves nurtured him and his herd even as they repaid it by destroying the shackles to which humanity bound it.

Such a shackle lay before them now. It was a maddening blasphemy of straight lines and dead wood. Even the land around the town had been broken and tamed, the forest cleared and replaced with a sickening, endless uniformity of wheat.

But no matter. The new power which surged through the land had given him the strength to wait until his lord Gulkroth, the terrible and the divine, had sent him enough reinforcements to take the town. And so Kathgor, as patient as the hawks that hovered above the wheat, had waited.

This morning, he had been rewarded. Another hundred had arrived, thick-pelted and armed with mighty axes. There was no scent of submission about their leader, a giant called Hruul who stood eight feet tall. Fortunately there was no scent of challenge either. Kathgor was glad of it. The beast would be a great ally in the slaughter to come.

Now, with the stench of his brothers’ bloodlust greasing the air and the delicious smell of fresh, soft man-flesh within the town, Kathgor prepared to give the order to attack. To crush the town like the shell of a snail so that he might suck out the juicy innards.

But even as he prepared to end the agony of waiting, he caught the first, sharp scent of smoke on the wind. At first he ignored it, telling himself that it must come from within the town and that it would soon be extinguished with blood.

“Fire coming,” Hruul barked. He loomed above Kathgor, tall enough to cast a shadow over his nominal herd leader.

“I don’t fear fire,” Kathgor barked back. He could feel the fur on the back of his neck starting to rise in challenge, and fought to keep it down. There would be blood enough for both of them soon.

Hruul gazed down at him, and the insolence in his eyes brought a growl to Kathgor’s throat. He swallowed it.

“We attack now,” he decided.

“No,” Hruul said. “Wait for the fire.”

This time the impudence was too much, but before Kathgor could snarl his challenge a gaggle of skinny runts tumbled into his presence, their eyes bloodshot and their fur singed. Even as they began to chatter Kathgor realised how strong the smell of burning had grown. And how strong and how quickly.

“Fire!” the despised creatures jabbered. “Fire in the east. In the wheat. Coming at us with the wind!”

“How… how big is it?” Kathgor struggled to think through the storm of rage and impatience that surged through his consciousness. Already the world was starting to look tinged with red.

“Endless,” one of his scouts bleated. “It’s all in the wheat.”

Kathgor looked in the direction the creature was pointing towards and yes, there it was. A great waterfall of white smoke reversed up into the clear blue of the sky. And could he smell the singe of fur in amongst the reek of burning grass?

Kathgor struggled to think, but already it was too late. His herd was already disintegrating in the face of the racing fire. They fled towards the dank safety of the river and the forest beyond. As they ran so they drew others with them, and soon the entire army began to stampede.

“Make sure your herd stays intact,” Kathgor barked at Hruul. “We will return for the humans after this fire has burned itself out.”

“Yes,” said Hruul and, neither wanting to be the first to run, the two leaders slowly followed their herds back into the shelter of the forest, there beginning to terrorise them back into order.

 

“Come on, lads!” Erikson roared, lifting his voice above the furnace roar of the flames. They were devouring the wheat in front of his company with a terrifying speed, and he tried not to think of what would happen if the wind changed.

“You heard the captain,” Alter shouted from down the line. The company was spread out in a long, single rank behind the fire, each man hugging it as closely as he could. As well as driving the beasts away, it would camouflage their advance.

Unless the wind changed.

Erikson felt the heat burning up through the soles of his boots. The skin of his face already felt red and raw, and as he glanced towards Dolf he saw steam rising from the lad’s clothes.

“Don’t get too far ahead,” he told the youngster, who just smiled up at him.

“I follow you, captain.”

Erikson smiled back. He did follow him, too. Of all the company, Dolf was the most loyal. The most fearless. It almost seemed a shame to be leading him into the trap of a siege. That is, if they ever made it. Even as he slowed the fire slowed too, the wind that drove it seeming to pause uncertainly.

“The wind’s changing!” somebody cried, and Erikson rounded on him.

“Hold your ground!” he bellowed. “It’s slowed, that’s all.”

The men around him looked unconvinced, and he could hear Sergeant Alter subjecting somebody who had started to retreat to a torrent of abuse. All eyes turned to the flames. They danced beneath the shifting veil of smoke above them, as playful as a cat which has cornered a mouse. Then, mercifully, the wind picked up and drove them forwards once more.

Erikson tried to keep the relief out of his voice as he ordered the men forwards once more. By now his eyes were streaming from the heat and the smoke, and soon he was coughing along with the rest of his men.

Should I have risked this, he thought?

He tried to push the thought away, but sweating through the furnace heat of the fire it nagged away at him. The problem was that there was no bold stroke he could make, no cunning stratagem or wild charge. All he could do was trudge along behind the fire, hoping that the wind didn’t change.

Again the wind paused, and again the line staggered to a breathless halt. Erikson ground his teeth together and rubbed a smear of sweat from his forehead. Above the ravenous crackle of the flames he could hear a man sobbing, and he turned just in time to see another edging back from the line.

“Hold your ground,” he called out, but his voice was so hoarse from the heat that it barely carried.

When the wind lifted again and the fire started to march away, the line stayed where it was. Sergeant Alter, his own voice hoarsening into silence, berated the men. Still none moved, unless it was to shift burning feet or slosh water over blistering skin.

“Dolf,” Erikson said. “Sound the advance.”

“Yes, captain,” Dolf said, and the rolling thunder of the company’s drum added a beat to the crackle of the racing flames.

Once more the men moved forward, but by now they were as reluctant as cattle being driven to the slaughterhouse. As the drumbeat rolled through the flames and towards the town and forest beyond, Erikson prayed again that the wind wouldn’t change.

 

Kathgor watched the advancing wall of fire as it stalked through the wheat. Although he could not help but feel a certain joy in the destruction of the crops, it was outweighed by the fang-grinding frustration. He had kept his herd balanced on the edge of a glorious precipice of destruction for so long that they were mad with anticipation. He could almost taste the sweet, sweet flesh of his prey. He wanted it. He needed it.

Then he heard the drumming.

At first he thought that it was no more than the blood which pounded through his arteries, pulsing with the terrible energy of his barely contained rage. But no. No, he had heard that noise before, and it was unmistakable. But how could a human drumbeat be coming from behind the fire?

A fleeting suspicion of sorcery raised the hackles on the back of his neck, but he dismissed the idea. Humans were as weak against the shamans’ blessings as they were against the warriors’ steel. Then understanding dawned. His muzzle drew back to bare fangs, and he turned to bellow a summons to those of his herd who waited nearest to them. Then, without waiting to see how many would follow him, he bounded away, following the tree line.

It didn’t take him long to pass the line of fire which was already nearing the town. Kathgor wondered if it would burn those high timber palisades too, but only in passing. The drumming grew ever louder, and even though the smell of smoke blotted out their smell he knew that prey was nearby.

Turning to make sure that none of his followers broke from the cover of the forest too soon, he pressed on until he was past the line of fire. And yes! Yes, there amongst the blackened husks of burned wheat and the smouldering remains of rats which hadn’t been quick enough, were the men.

Crouching down in order to stay hidden for as long as possible, Kathgor led his herd out of the forest and into the shallow river that lay between him and the rear of the humans’ line.

 

“Keep it up, Dolf,” Erikson said, although the lad had little need of encouragement. Since taking the drum he had learned to play it so well that it had become almost a part of his body, and he could beat out a rhythm with a tireless consistency that they had all learned to march to.

Even now the company was instinctively holding to a straight line, every man in the single long rank adjusting himself to the whole. Erikson admired their formation and, after casting the thousandth worried glance at the progression of the fire before them, looked back to see there really were no stragglers.

There were.

His face hardened and, despite the sting of heat and smoke in his throat, he roared at them.

“Get back into line,” he bellowed, disappointment lending fuel to his outrage. “That’s right. Double time it, you… you…”

Erikson trailed off and blinked the tears from his eyes. At first he had only seen a couple of figures but, as soon as he had called, a dozen more had stood up and started running towards him. Then another dozen. Then, with a horrified realisation that hit him like a punch in the stomach, he realised what they were.

“Oh Sigmar,” he said, and in that moment he almost froze.

Almost, but not quite. Men who froze didn’t survive for as long as Erikson had on the battlefields of the Old World. Although he had never expected to be in such a predicament, and although they were trapped as neatly as skillets in an oven, it took him a heartbeat to formulate the best plan that he could. Then he was bellowing orders at his men.

“Form ranks,” he cried, his vocal cords feeling as though they were on fire. “Form ranks. Dolf, drum the command.”

Dolf was already doing so. As the other men turned and yelled in confusion the lad had taken his place by his captain’s side and started beating the order. Slowly, painfully slowly, the wide line of men began to draw in and Erikson marched back towards the enemy in order to give them enough room to form up behind him.

Not all of the men obeyed the order. A couple of those at the ends of the line tried to flee, desperately scampering away between the closing jaws of the fire and that of the beasts. The rest straggled into the square as, with a terrifying speed, the enemy closed in on them.

If the beasts had looked terrifying on the green fields before Hergig then here, amongst the smoking ruins of the flame-harrowed fields, they looked daemonic. Bloodshot eyes burned with reflected fire, and the animal roar they made as they charged had an elemental power to it. The flaming heat seemed to grow even more unbearable in reply, so that the men’s armour and sword hilts stung wherever they touched skin.

Erikson heard himself bellowing a challenge as the enemy fell upon them. He could almost feel the ragged formation around him shudder with the impact of the charge, but this time he was sure they would hold. Hemmed in by the fire behind and the enemy in front, they had no choice but fight or die.

Within seconds they were doing both. In between the blurred exhilaration of his own combat Erikson caught snatched glimpses of blades punching through hides, axes smashing through bone, fangs bared and bloodied. He didn’t let the images distract him. He didn’t let anything distract him as his world shrank to the sphere measured by the reach of his sword.

He killed the first of the beasts by throwing himself to one side, bouncing off the body of the man next to him and then slicing down into the arteries inside the hard muscle of its goat legs. The creature squealed as it sprayed blood, and Erikson used its falling body as cover for a backhanded slash towards the throat of the next. This one was quicker. It dropped its head so that the sword bounced off the iron hardness of its horns.

Erikson felt the impact of the jarring sword all the way up to his shoulder, and for one terrified instant he thought that the blade was going to be knocked from his numbed hand. He staggered back, but in the press of bodies there was no retreat, and he raised his sword to parry the axe that chopped down towards him with a terrible whiplash of power.

This time the sword was knocked from his hand and pain burst amongst the bones of his wrist. With a grunt of triumph the beast swung its crude weapon back for another blow, but Erikson was already moving. He hurled himself forwards as, with a practiced manoeuvre, he flipped the dagger in his left hand from the downward defensive position into the upright position of the killing stroke.

His shoulder hit the oak-hard muscle of the beast’s torso, and before it could shift its grip on its own weapon he stabbed the dagger into its belly, sliding the blade between bands of muscle and then pressing down to put all of his weight into the twist.

When he withdrew the dagger it released a spool of blue intestines and a reek of methane. As the creature shrieked and clutched at its stray innards, Erikson rolled around the stinking bulk of its lice-infested body and sought his next target.

Before he could, his next target found him. Its shoulders bulged as it sent the misshapen iron of its axe head in an arc that would have smashed through both of Erikson’s knees had he not leapt up. Fear made him as agile as a cat dropped onto a hot stove, and he avoided the next stroke by spinning around the now kneeling body of his last opponent.

He looked at the warrior beside him, desperate for help until he could find his dropped sword, but the thing that looked back at him did so with yellow, goat-pupilled eyes. It lunged at him, fangs slashing towards his throat, and Erikson stabbed with his dagger, popping into the jelly of one of those hellish eyes. The scrum of bodies pressed closed around him and he let himself be carried back towards the flames. His armour was becoming a stove with the heat, but he was beyond caring. If he was going to be eaten, he decided with a hysterical wit, then he might as well be cooked first.

“Captain!”

At first Erikson ignored the voice. Amongst the screams and cries and the crackle of the fire which waited for them it was just one more distraction to be ignored.

“Captain!”

This time he did hear it. It sounded like Gunter. No, it didn’t sound like him. It was him.

Erikson turned and saw the miracle. Although the fire he had set still burned in a wall behind him, a gap had appeared in the flame and, through this gap, his men were already pouring.

“Captain,” Gunter’s voice called again. “Withdraw!”

Erikson felt the press of bodies behind him slacken as the men disappeared through the flames and there, glinting in the burned grass, was his sword. He stooped to pick it up, ignoring the blistering heat that cooked his palm, and let the company tumble away behind him.

The enemy showed little appetite for following them. The first of them, the strongest and hungriest, were either dying or busily gorging themselves on the flesh of those they had killed. The others shied away from the flames that still spread out on either side of Erikson’s company, fluttering like the wings of a phoenix. Erikson watched them as he backed away, and suddenly they were gone, vanished beneath a sudden wall of flame.

“This way,” Gunter said, and Erikson felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. It dragged him through the heat, between the two gateposts of fire, and through into the blinding smoke beyond.

“Now run,” Gunter bellowed. “Run!”

Overwhelmed by confusion and doubled up by a fit of coughing, Erikson allowed himself to be dragged along. Seconds seemed to last for hours as they slipped through the inferno, but finally they were clear. Through streaming eyes he saw that the fire was behind them. Ahead, a wide swathe had been cut through the wheat towards Nalderstein’s gates. His men staggered along the fire break. Most of them were as singed and disorientated as he was himself, and they were being herded towards safety by men who looked nervously towards the forest.

“Gunter,” Erikson wheezed as the two of them trotted along behind the rest of the survivors. “Well done.”

“Sigmar provides,” Gunter told him as he bundled him towards the gates. “And anyway, you did come to save us.”

Erikson looked at the burned and choking gaggle of survivors who stood around him and started to laugh. Then he began to choke, and even as he doubled over to hawk out great gobs of soot and phlegm he wondered if Nalderstein’s walls would be proof against the flame.