Chapter Fifteen

 

 

“By Sigmar, we’re invincible!” Dolf said, eyes widening as he saw the host arrayed beneath them.

“Don’t say that,” Erikson said, and spat for luck.

Dolf looked at him, then turned back to the army below. It was camped outside Hergig’s walls, and from this distance it was possible to see the order which had been imposed on the seething mass of men. There were perhaps ten thousand men and almost as many animals. Great warhorses grazed next to scrawny sheep and solid little pack mules. Hounds scrounged amongst the heaps of fly-blown waste and chickens squawked and fluttered within cages or clucked through the grass with the children who had been assigned to look after them.

But it was the soldiers who struck Dolf dumb with amazement. Hundreds of standards fluttered in the breeze. They ranged from the silken glory of the knights’ banners to the homespun canvas sheets of the city guards to the ancient, bloodstained glory of the state regiments. The men beneath them were an equally eclectic mix. The state regiments formed the core of the gridiron, the neat lines of their camps edged with sturdy corrals and covered latrine pits. From this solid centre the rest of the army spread out like frayed edges of torn blanket.

Ragged groups of peasants, armed with forks and scythes, intermingled with crudely armoured thugs from various aristocrats’ personal guards. Ragged cavalry units of farmers on plough horses jostled for space with broad-shouldered woodsmen and gangs of bargemen armed with viciously sharpened boathooks.

Fanatics also prowled through the soldiery, their icons and weather-beaten holy books held aloft in deification. Some preached but most, lacking such coherence, merely mumbled or ranted or stared blindly into the distance.

And behind them all, serene behind the sharpened pickets and hard-faced guards, rested the artillery. Even Erikson couldn’t remember seeing such an array of firepower before. There were cannons, mortars, rocket launchers. Even a monstrous contraption which he took to be one of the fabled helblasters.

“I suppose we should report to the provost marshal,” Freimann said.

“You’ve got that right,” Erikson said. “Where Dolf saw a mighty army he saw a queue of people waiting to get paid, sheltered and fed. We’d be honoured if you’d set up camp with us, Freimann. Sigmar knows, we owe you one.”

“Thanks anyway,” Freimann said, “but me and my lads are going to find somewhere away from the city. This place is a cholera outbreak waiting to happen.”

Erikson shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “I wouldn’t fancy being out there when the enemy turn up.”

“We seem to do all right,” Freimann said. “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I have to find the rest of my patrol and report to the baron. He’ll be wondering where we got off to.”

“Thanks again,” Erikson said, and the two men clamped their hands around each other’s wrists.

“Anything for the heroes of the Battle of the Gates,” Freimann told him, winked and set off on his own. His riflemen had been flanking the company for the past couple of miles and, after bidding their own farewells, they set off after their leader.

“Captain,” Sergeant Alter said as he took Freimann’s place beside Erikson. “What are we going to do about the survivors from Nalderstein?”

Erikson turned to look at them. They were scrawny and exhausted, hollow-eyed with grief and exhaustion.

“I’ll ask the provost marshal,” Erikson said. “I’m sure there is somewhere they can go. In the meantime, form the men into a square and let them rest. I’m going to find the provost marshal and see what I can squeeze out of him. Sigmar knows, he won’t be the first man to have hired more soldiers than he can pay. Porter. Porter! Ah, there you are. Come with me, will you? You’re the quartermaster. While I see what I can get from the baron, I want you to take a couple of men and buy a week’s worth of food.”

He counted out six gold crowns into Porter’s grubby fist.

“And I do mean a week’s food.”

“Yes, captain!” Porter snapped off a perfect salute and tried not to rub his hands together.

“That includes rations for our guests.”

Porter’s good humour slipped, but not much. A lifetime of fencing stolen goods had given him a gift for bartering, and combining that skill with Brandt’s fists he was going to make a tidy profit. Especially with so much stray horse meat about.

“Leave it to me,” Porter said. “Leave it to me.”

 

“And you say that you are Captain Erikson?” the guard said.

“Yes,” Erikson said, trying to keep his temper in the press of bodies that jostled behind him. It seemed that everybody in Hochland wanted access to the baron’s palace.

“And you say,” the guard drawled, dragging his finger down a scroll and frowning at what he saw there, “that you’re from the Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig?”

Erikson, who had spent the last five minutes saying just that to the man, merely glared at him. He responded by tutting regretfully.

“No, you can’t be,” he finally decided.

“What do you mean, I can’t be?” Erikson snapped.

“Erikson and his company are dead. Says so right here.”

The guard held up the parchment and pointed to where Erikson’s company had been. With a stroke of a quill somebody had done what the enemy had failed to do and wiped them out.

“We are not dead,” Erikson said, and fought the surreal sensation that dealing with military bureaucracy so often gave him. “I mean, do I look dead?”

“Precisely,” said the guard. He was tired and he was bored, and he was sick and tired of being pushed around by officers. “You look perfectly alive. And as Erikson is dead, you can’t be him.”

“Get out of the way,” somebody further back down the line shouted. “We are in a hurry.”

“Silence!” Erikson roared, venting his frustration on the man. He had lost out to enough bankrupt employers in the past to know that getting payment was the hardest part of being a mercenary leader, and he was damned if he was going to wait his turn for it.

He took a deep breath, ran fingers through his hair, and turned back to the guard.

“Perhaps you should stand aside,” the man said helpfully. “The provost marshal is not to be disturbed with any non-military business.”

Erikson resisted the urge to hit him. Instead he smiled, as wide and white as a wolfhound. The expression didn’t reach the glitter of his green eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “In that case I demand to see the provost marshal immediately. I bring him much-needed reinforcements.”

The guard tried to smile back, but beneath Erikson’s horribly cheerful expression his own effort melted.

“I told you, you’re marked on the list as dead.”

“The Erikson on the list must be a different one,” Erikson said. “As you can see, I am alive. And I bring reinforcements.”

The guard opened his mouth then closed it again. For a moment he considered letting this big lug through, but then he changed his mind. If the man didn’t have the courtesy to offer a bribe then he could suffer.

“Sorry,” he said. “I am not in a position to deal with recruitment. Perhaps if you come… ah.”

Erikson, still smiling in an expression that was starting to look quite psychotic, had leaned in close enough to slip the edge of his dagger beneath the guard’s breastplate. He angled it down a touch.

“Are you going to let me in?” he grinned.

“Through you go, sir,” the guard said with barely a change in his tone of voice.

“Thank you,” Erikson said and swept past the man into the high-vaulted hall beyond. Once there he grabbed the nearest messenger.

“I need to see the provost marshal,” he said.

“I’m busy,” the messenger said.

“Me too,” said Erikson and pressed a coin into the man’s hand. “Now, lead on.”

“I doubt if he’ll see you.”

“Let me worry about that.”

The messenger shrugged, pocketed the coin and led Erikson up a flight of steps that led to the levels above. They spent five minutes navigating through a confusion of corridors before emerging into a wide gallery. It was crowded with courtiers and servants, and at the end a dozen men in bright armour stood to attention in front of a door big enough for a city gate.

“The provost marshal will be in there with the baron,” the messenger said, and gestured towards the door.

“Lead on,” Erikson told him impatiently. In his imagination he could see the provost marshal handing out the last of his gold to the man in front.

“Nobody is admitted without permission. Good day.” The messenger bowed and slipped away amongst the throng. Erikson considered chasing after him, then caught sight of a line of servants carrying platters towards the forbidding guards. He slipped his hat off, lowered his head and lifted the platter of cut meat from the hands of the last servant in the line.

“Hey!” the man said, but Erikson just winked at him.

“Don’t worry,” he said, throwing him a slab of beef. “I won’t tell.”

The man hesitated as he examined his prize, then was swallowed up in the crowd. Erikson lowered his eyes and tried to keep the swagger out of his step as the great oaken doors swung open and he followed the servants into the great hall beyond.

The baron didn’t look up as the servants trailed into the room with the afternoon meal. He and his officers were too deep in thought. The servants stacked their plates on side tables then turned and left. Erikson made to follow them, holding back until the last of them had left the room, then slapped his cap back on and sidled to one side so that he could peer over the assembled officers’ shoulders.

And yes. Yes, there he was. The provost marshal in all of his chit-signing, warrant-issuing, gold-paying glory. But before Erikson could cut the man from the herd, the baron looked up, sighed and said: “Gentlemen, we have a problem. Reports have started coming in that the enemy are not doing what we want them to.”

“Not all heading off to sort out those damned Stirlanders then?” one of the officers said.

“What?” the baron looked at him.

“It was just a joke,” the man said, turning brick-red. “I mean, it was nothing, sire.”

The baron held him in his gaze for another agonising moment, then released him and continued.

“We have been successful in bringing them to us. Those scouts who have returned speak of a gathering of the foul creatures, a great herd which we can slaughter in one fell swoop.”

“Sigmar willing,” one of the men added, and this time the baron joined in the murmur of agreement.

“Sigmar willing indeed. But first we have to pin the damned things against a city’s walls, and that’s where the problem appears to be. We were sure that they would come to meet us here. That’s why outside these walls we have every man in Hochland able to carry a weapon. The problem is that they are not moving against Hergig. They are going for Barwedel instead.”

“Barwedel!” one of the officers exclaimed. “That’s as far from the forest as it’s possible to get. Why would they risk crossing so much ground that we can cover with cavalry and cannon?”

“It would seem,” the baron said, “that they are attacking where we least expect it. It was no coincidence that most of the scouts who returned were those who reported the earlier manoeuvres that would have brought the enemy here.”

“But sire,” another officer said, “these are beasts. Surprise, misdirection, selectively killing scouts… How could they know of these finer points of war?”

“I would imagine,” the provost marshal said, speaking for the first time, “that General Count von Brechthold asked himself the same question shortly after losing our first army.”

The room lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

“So, gentlemen,” the baron said to rouse them. “Suggestions?”

“We can meet them from behind cover,” an officer with the black uniform of an artillerist offered. “Give me time for half a dozen volleys and the horse boys can mop up the remains.”

“If by horse boys you mean the honoured regiments of knights,” a man in full plate armour bristled, “then you have a point. I hardly think we need rely upon your fireworks, though. Nor do we need cover. It’s space we need, and lots of it.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” a colonel of state troopers interjected. “Both of your efforts will be appreciated, but it is the grind of the foot regiments that will win this battle. Let us meet them anywhere but in the forest. There my men can cut through them like the teeth of a saw through rotten wood.”

Erikson listened as the argument grew more heated. He had heard it before in countless councils of war. Most professional soldiers, and all aristocrat ones, regarded all other regiments as no more than auxiliaries to their own.

The knight and the artillerist were squabbling about a battle which had happened fifty years before and three hundred miles away when Erikson realised that the baron was looking at him.

“You,” he said, and the others fell silent as he spoke. “I don’t remember inviting you to council.”

“No, sire,” Erikson said, and executed a perfect Tilean salute. When he had risen back to his feet he had found the words he wanted. “I have just arrived back at the city, and, upon hearing that my regiment was counted amongst the lost, I raced here to reassure the provost marshal that we are still part of the muster.”

“Frightened you’d be taken off the payroll, hey?” the provost marshal asked.

“My only concern is victory,” Erikson contrived to sound offended, “although we do need to resupply.”

“What’s your regiment?” the baron asked.

“The Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig,” Erikson replied with as much pride as if it had been the Empire’s oldest regiment of knights. “And we remain at your service.”

“Thank Sigmar for that,” the artillerist said. “We’re saved.”

The baron ignored him.

“Then as you seem to have invited yourself to council,” the baron said, “perhaps you could tell us what you think should be our strategy?”

All eyes turned to Erikson. He met them with a level green gaze.

“I think that it would be a mistake to start racing around the countryside looking for the enemy,” he decided. “Even if your forces didn’t end up becoming separated, I doubt if the enemy would meet you anywhere other than on ground of their own choosing.”

“We wouldn’t leave it to the enemy to decide where we meet,” a knight said impatiently. “Our horses are as fast as the beasts. We can outmanoeuvre them.”

“Perhaps you can,” Erikson nodded. “But what about the troopers and the artillery and the baggage train? No, if you go chasing after them they will devour you one piece at a time.”

“So?” the baron asked.

“So let them reach this town, this Barwedel. Give them time to surround it. Then you can do to them there what you were planning to do to them here. Hammer them into the anvil of that city’s fortifications and have done with it.”

“Anybody disagree?” the baron asked, and as soon as they heard his tone those who had been about to do so closed their mouths. All apart from the provost marshal.

“The problem is that Barwedel may not be so much an anvil as a clay pot. In fact, sire, we have a full two-thirds of their town guard camped outside our own gates.”

“That’s war,” the baron said. “Gentlemen, prepare your men. We leave on the morning after next. Dismissed. Oh and Steckler, see that Captain Erikson is paid, will you? I seem to remember that he was one of the heroes of the Battle of the Gates.”

“Yes, sire.” The provost marshal bowed as the baron made his way out of the chamber. When he looked up Erikson was smiling at him.

“I’ll come with you now, provost marshal,” he said. “Before you forget.”

“Oh it isn’t the coin I’m thinking of,” Steckler smiled. “It’s how you’re going to earn it.”

 

Whilst Erikson was counting each coin into his money belt and calculating his profit so far, Porter was busily pursuing his own entrepreneurial efforts.

“I’m not saying that the pony is going to die of the flux, Walder,” he said reasonably and gestured towards the animal in question. “Nor am I saying it will die of malnutrition despite the intestinal worms it looks like it’s carrying. Or even of old age, although judging by the look of it I’d say it’s on borrowed time.”

“You’re quite right,” Walder replied. “It is a healthy specimen. I wouldn’t have been doing my job as regimental quartermaster if I bought anything but the finest animals.”

“And a fine job you did,” Porter allowed, and winced as he bent down to inspect the animal’s hocks. “But how many years since the beast was in its prime?”

“One or two,” Walder lied easily and patted the pony on the rump. “We feed them the best in the state regiments. Keeps ’em going forever.”

Porter hissed through his teeth and turned to his companion.

“What do you think, Brandt?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t be able to fell a pony with a single punch,” the big man rumbled.

Before he could stop himself, Walder had taken the bait.

“You couldn’t fell a pony like that with a single punch. Not with the strength it’s carrying. Although,” he hastily added, “come to think of it…”

It was too late. Brandt, who knew the value of a sucker punch, had already lined the blow up and before Walder could finish the sentence his fist blurred through the air. He turned his entire body as he struck, putting every fibre of muscle and ounce of weight behind the fist as he drove it into the soft tissue behind the horse’s jaw. There was a snap and the beast collapsed with a grunt and hit the floor like a slab of stone.

The three men waited for it to get up. When it became clear that it wouldn’t, Porter and Walder both started speaking at the same time.

“Just as I thought,” Porter said. “It died of old age.”

“I’m going to try to save you from the hangman’s noose,” Walder said. “Given enough gold I could say that I sold it to you.”

“For Sigmar’s sake,” said Brandt, who knew exactly where and on who he was going to spend his share of the money they made by buying horse meat. “Why don’t you two just agree on a price and have done with it?”

The two quartermasters turned to look at him, identical expressions of shock on their faces. Porter was the first to recover.

“I’ll give you four coppers.”

Walder laughed long and hard.

“All right then, five.”

This time the other quartermaster said nothing. He seemed to have been struck by a sudden thought, and he was regarding Brandt with a sudden acquisitive interest.

“Six it is,” he said. “But tell me, your friend. Can he fight or can he just hit things hard?”

“Five,” Porter said. “As for Brandt, he can do both. He’s got all the technique of a smaller man, but when he hits something it stays hit.”

He kicked the carcass of the horse in illustration, and Walder pursed his lips. Almost as an afterthought he spat on his hand and held it out.

“Five and a half.”

“Deal,” Porter said and shook. “Though why the interest in my partner? Do you have a job for a man who knows how to use his fists?”

“Not a job, a challenge,” Walder said, then looked suspiciously around. “But look, let’s not talk about it now. Why don’t you ask Brandt to take the pony away before the officers start snooping, and me and you can go back to my quarters and discuss it further.”

“Suits me,” Brandt said, knotting a rope around the animal’s legs and turning to drag it away. “And if you want me, Porter, I’ll be at Lilly’s.”

“Don’t drink too much,” Walder said, then put a brotherly arm around Porter’s shoulder and led him away to a quiet corner.

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant,” Hofstadter asked from beneath the blanket he had wrapped like a shawl around his shoulders. “Can I have leave to go and find a doctor?”

“A doctor?” Alter asked suspiciously. He knew that many of the men wanted to slip off to the taverns and brothels below, but he was damned if he was going to have to explain any absences to Erikson when he returned. “What do you need a doctor for?”

Hofstadter bit back on the flash of rage that the question brought. He ground his teeth, ignoring the way that they felt too big for his gums, and spat a mouthful of blood into the dirt.

“I’m sick,” he said. “Got some sort of damned fever.”

Alter looked at him sceptically, then changed his mind. Beneath the thick pelt of stubble, Hofstadter’s skin was as white as chalk, and dark grey rings lined his downcast eyes. And spitting blood was never a good sign.

“If you want to risk a doctor you can,” he decided, “although I’d stick to sleep and soup if I were you.”

Hofstadter started to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He spat again, and this time Alter saw the pink-stained lengths of the man’s teeth. His gums seemed to be pulling away.

“Go on, then,” Alter said. “Do you want anyone to go with you?”

“No,” Hofstadter said and lumbered off beneath his blankets. Alter wondered how many of the things he had wrapped himself in. He certainly looked bulkier than usual. Before he could wonder any further there was a curse, the thump of a fist into flesh and a roar of encouragement from the men behind him.

He turned to break up the fight, Hofstadter forgotten.

Although the agony in his bones had grown, Hofstadter strode through the encampment below with an easy speed. His nose twitched and wrinkled as he drank in the countless smells of man and beast, and the blood that flowed from around his erupting gums mixed with saliva.

He was snapped out of this appreciation by a sudden chorus of hysterically yapping dogs. He jumped back, turning to snarl at the beasts as they strained at their chains. As he did so he bumped into a man who swore as he pushed him away.

“Watch where you’re going, you drunken fool,” he snapped.

Hofstadter turned to him. The blanket fell from his head and he bared his pink-stained teeth as he snarled.

“Sigmar!” the man said, anger giving way to shock. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

Hofstadter ignored him, wrapped the blanket back around his head and loped away through the crowd. For a moment the man he had threatened considered giving chase, but only until he realised that that might entail catching the misshapen creature. Then he considered contacting the witch hunters. But no. No, only a lunatic would willingly have anything to do with them.

Eventually he contented himself with a shrug, and walked on.

Hofstadter, meanwhile, had reached the city gates. They were wide open, and the guards were pressed back by the tide of humanity that washed back and forth between them. Soldiers, merchants and refugees pushed and jostled as they fought through to whatever destination the war had sent them to, and Hofstadter let himself be carried along in a stream of people who were entering the city. It wasn’t until he was halfway down Hergig’s main thoroughfare that he started elbowing his way towards the side streets.

Half an hour later he was alone in the crumbling darkness of a back alley. After taking a last, furtive glance around him, he pulled the neck of his tunic away from his chest and gazed down at the pulsing green glow of the pendant he wore on his chest.

Over the past days the fur that it rested upon had grown coarse and thick, and the muscle beneath it had grown. Perhaps that was why he was so constantly, constantly hungry. His stomach rumbled at the thought and, with a last loving look at the pendant, he began to prowl quietly through the filth and the shadows.

Rats scurried away as they smelled his approach. Dogs barked in distant streets. Hofstadter ignored them. He knew what meat he craved, and it was neither rodent nor canine.

He clambered from the alleyway down into a sewer, slunk through a dozen yards of filth and then back up into the gloom of a forgotten courtyard. That was where he first heard the baby crying.

His ears twitched at the sound and his nostrils flared. With his eyes half-closed Hofstadter leaned back and inhaled the soup of scents that filled the air here. There was stale sweat and cooking food and rotting refuse and jasmine and, yes. Yes, there it was.

The sweet, ripening smell of the sweetest of meats.

Hofstadter followed the scent and the sound of his quarry over to the far wall of the courtyard, and then started climbing. The gaps between the crumbling masonry made it an easy task, as did the effortless strength which seemed to glow within his aching muscles. When he reached the roof he paused, squatting like a blanketed gargoyle on the slate, and listened intently. For a moment he feared that his quarry had fallen silent, but then it started mewling again. It was a low, miserable sound, but even above the other voices of the city it was clear enough for Hofstadter to track.

There was a brief moment, just when he was swinging down from the guttering into the room below, when something twitched in the back of his mind. It made him wince, and as the sobs from within the crib turned to screams he rubbed at his head. The nubs of horns that had started growing there seemed even bigger than they had this morning.

Then he looked down into the crib and saw the soft flesh and wide, frantically staring eyes of his prey. A rope of drool fell from his fangs as he reached down and, with a single twist, snapped the neck as easily as if it had been a rabbit’s.

In the sudden silence that followed he felt some nagging doubt pull at him again, but with the aroma of fresh meat filling his nostrils it was easy to ignore.

With a grunt of hunger Hofstadter squatted down over his victim and began to feed. As he slavered over the flesh the amulet he wore about his neck throbbed so brightly that it cast a muted green light over the glistening red that spilled across the floor, but before he could notice a woman burst in the door and started to scream.

 

That evening was perhaps the most contented time the company had ever spent together. It was certainly the most contented they would spend for a long time.

After handing over their wounded to the sisters of Shallya they had assembled for their first pay parade. Erikson, who was still basking in the warm feeling of being in profit for the first time, had decided to give each man advance payment of a silver coin. Then, with enough for a good two days of drinking in their pockets, the men had feasted on a rich stew of horse-meat, flatbread and a ration of wine. Porter, ever anxious to make sure that his budget wasn’t scrutinised, even gave them baked apples with which to finish the meal.

He had been deep in thought ever since returning from his meeting with Walder, and it wasn’t until the guards had been posted and the bulk of the men had made off to spend their money that he sidled over to Brandt. The big man had been in a mood of silent good cheer ever since returning from the brothel, and Porter handed him a tankard of wine and sat down beside him by the fire.

“Walder was impressed by that punch you threw today,” he began, poking at the dying flames of the cooking fire with a stick. The air was thick with the smell of a thousand campfires. They twinkled in the ground below them, as bright and numerous as the stars in the sky above.

“Walder.” Brandt spat into the embers and made them hiss. “I wouldn’t trust that dog an inch.”

“Nor would I,” Porter agreed. “That’s why I told him, unless things are exactly, and I mean exactly, as he says, then the fight’s off.”

“You’re entering a fight?” Brandt asked with feigned surprise.

“I offered,” Porter said. “But he said only you would do. Said he’d been looking for a man like you ever since he rolled into camp. Said he’d pay ten gold crowns. More if the audience is big enough.”

“You’re boxing?” Sergeant Alter asked and sat down besides them. He had a jug of wine in his hand and the hard, hawk-faced lines had softened into something approaching friendliness.

“Sounds like I might be, sergeant,” Brandt said.

“Good,” Alter said, and slapped the big man on the back. “In the regiments our company always had a boxing champion. You’ve got a good fighter’s build, too.”

“I’m still trying to organise something,” Porter said, “but I don’t know if we’ll have time.”

“Make time,” Alter said. “We’ve got to help bring the best out of each other. That’s what being a soldier is all about. What being a family is all about. I remember my family.”

The old man trailed off and he blinked back a tear. For the first time Porter realised just quite how drunk he was.

“Maybe we should get down to the city,” he said, but Brandt shook his head.

“No, the sergeant’s right. I wouldn’t know much about boxing, though. It was all teeth and kneecaps where I learned to fight.”

“Don’t worry about that, lad,” Alter said, his mood swinging back towards the euphoric. “I’ll teach you. Used to be a bit of a boxer myself. Handier with a sword, though. We’ve done some fighting together, haven’t we?” he cackled happily. “Just like the good old days.”

“That we have,” Brandt said, and smiled as Alter collapsed backwards onto the flattened grass and started to snore.

“Right then, where were we?” Porter asked. “Oh yes, I remember. The fight. Right, well it’s a bit unusual, which is why it will pay so much.”

“Unusual?” Brandt asked as Porter paused to refill his tankard.

“Yes. Your opponent will be muzzled, and chained to one side of the ring.”

“So what you’re saying,” Brandt drank deeply and belched, “is that I’ll be fighting a bear, like that time last summer?”

“No,” Porter hedged. “Not quite a bear.”

“You can’t mean what I think you do.”

“But think of the money!”

“Where did they get it from?”

“Who cares?”

“Wouldn’t it be illegal?”

“Illegal!” Porter scoffed. “Since when have we worried about that?”

“Since you went mad and decided to organise a boxing match against a beastman.”

“Sssshhhhhhhhh!” Porter hissed, and looked around to make sure that nobody was in earshot. Then the two men lapsed into silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and Alter’s snoring.

“I’m not doing it,” Brandt said.

“You have to. I already took your advance. Look.”

With another surreptitious look around, Porter reached into his tunic and drew out a purse. He counted out five thick golden coins. They glowed like captured sunlight in the gloom. Both men looked at them reverently.

“If I do it,” Brandt said, “I want twenty gold crowns, win or lose.”

“I might be able to swing it,” Porter said. “Just make sure that you go down when I tell you to. I’ve seen the thing, and there’s no point in you trying to beat it.”

“Oh good,” said Brandt, and helped himself to another drink.

When Sergeant Alter spoke both men froze.

“I’ll put a copper coin on Brandt,” he said as he struggled back up into a sitting position. “Better not to tell the captain about his opponent, though. You know how finicky officers get.”

Porter realised his mouth was open. He snapped it shut.

“Just as you say, sergeant,” he agreed.

“And if the damned thing isn’t properly muzzled, you’ll swing for it,” Alter said as he used Brandt’s shoulder to hoist himself to his feet. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me I must check the sentries. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sergeant,” both men chimed and watched disbelievingly as Alter staggered away, beginning to sing as he did so.

“Well, that settles it,” Porter said. “You’ll have to fight now.”

 

By the time the company assembled for the evening meal the next day, everybody knew about the fight. At Porter’s constant hectoring almost all of them had bet on Brandt winning it. He had wanted to be sure of getting their coin before they saw the creature he was going up against.

Erikson was suspicious.

“Tell me, Porter,” he said as the men lined up for their dinner, “why are you betting against your man winning?”

“Oh, these bets are nothing,” Porter said, surprised that nobody else had raised the issue. “Presumably they were all still too hungover from the night before. They’re just to cover my costs until I can start taking bets against him.”

“I see,” Erikson said and watched as Porter started slopping out the gruel. “And who is he fighting?”

“Just some big hairy lump from another regiment,” Porter said, chasing around in the cauldron for a nice lump of juicy gristle. “He’s got muscle, but no technique.”

“I look forward to watching Brandt hammering him into the ground,” Erikson said. “Where did you say it was?”

“Sorry, captain,” Porter said, glaring at one of the men who looked as though he was going to take an extra flatbread. “No officers. Hosts’ rules, I’m afraid.”

Lying rogue, Erikson thought. What he said was: “What a shame. Still, as long as no harm comes to any of the lads.”

“They’ll be fine,” Porter said and looked at the captain for the first time. “And the sergeant thinks that it will do us good to have a boxing champion in the ranks.”

“Very well,” Erikson said. He had led mercenaries often enough to know when not to interfere with their villainy. “Well, good luck. I’m off to find the provost marshal.”

“We could do with more grain chits,” Porter called after him. Then, glad to see the captain gone, he finished ladling out the food and went to find Brandt. Together they walked over to the fighting pit Walder had constructed. A wide circle had been dug perhaps six feet down into the soil. It was surrounded by a wider circle of standing room and, behind that, the rickety framework of two tiers of bleachers. As Porter and Brandt made their way through the state troopers whom Walder had drafted in to build the arena, the quartermaster himself scurried over to them.

“Where have you been all day?” he asked. “I was afraid you weren’t going to turn up.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Porter told him. “What about your boy? I want to check on his fastenings before the fight begins. Make sure he’s all fitted up.”

“Why not?” Walder said. “You’ve got time. We’ve got some dog fights to get through first, just to liven everybody up. Then it’s a couple of boxing matches. Then it’s you.”

As he spoke, the torches that lined the arena began to flare into life.

“Quite an arrangement you’ve got here,” Porter said.

“Oh, the lads from the regiment don’t mind helping out,” Walder shrugged modestly as he led them towards a covered wagon. “After all, the officers get their cut. By the way, you aren’t planning on taking any bets within the arena, I hope. That’s strictly my racket.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Porter replied.

Walder stopped outside the covered wagon. It was a solid, timber-built construction with iron plates bolted over the joints. A couple of men, both as big as Brandt, stood outside it. They stood to attention as their quartermaster approached. Walder just nodded at them.

“Here it is,” Walder said. “Take a look but try not to disturb it too much.”

With a furtive look around, one of the guards opened the rear doors of the wagon and Porter ducked inside. For a moment there was silence. It was broken with a roar and the wagon, which must have weighed at least two tons, wobbled as Porter bolted back out of it.

“That all seems fine,” he squeaked as he collided with Brandt.

“Check everything well, did you?” Brandt asked, pushing him away.

“Yes,” Porter nodded and looked guiltily away. “Oh yes. Now let’s get a drink and find somewhere to wait.”

 

“And you’re sure it’s muzzled?” Brandt asked, shouting to be heard above the roar of the crowd around him.

“Muzzled and chained,” Porter shouted back, and slapped Brandt on the hard muscle of his shoulder. He was stripped to the waist for the coming fight, and the torchlight gleamed off his skin. The company stood around him, and they roared impatiently at Walder’s men as they dragged the victim of the last fight out of the ring.

Then Brandt stood up and their roar of impatience turned into one of approval. He basked in their support, bowing low, then he leapt down into the churned earth of the ring. He landed neatly on the balls of his feet, lifted his fists above his head and bellowed a challenge.

It was met by the jeers of the crowd, and then all eyes turned to the wagon that was being backed down an earthen ramp and into the ring. It lurched from side to side, and as the crowd quietened the maddened howls of the beast within could be heard.

“Remember,” Porter said, darting forwards to give a last piece of advice, “cut and run as soon as you like. You don’t need to win this one.”

Brandt ignored him. He could feel terror coiling within him, but he could also feel the berserker joy which had carried him through a lifetime of bloodshed. His fists were bound, but so were the jaws of the beast he would fight.

To the hells with Porter, he decided. He would leave this ring victorious.

The wagon had come to a rest in the pit, and Walder’s men attached ropes to the rear doors. With a last, pitying look at Brandt they leapt out of the ring and jerked the doors open.

The beast blurred into the ring, its hooves tearing up divots of bloodstained earth as it arrowed towards Brandt. The crowd fell almost silent as he leapt away from the beast’s onslaught, and although he was quick he wasn’t quick enough. It caught hold of him and lunged forwards, then tumbled back as it reached the end of its chain.

Brandt tumbled back too, and tried not to think about the panic that fluttered within him.

It wasn’t just that the beast was so big, standing a full head taller than him. Nor was it the powerful bulge of its jaws because, true to his word, Walder had fastened them within an iron muzzle.

No, what scared Brandt was the blind hatred in the beast’s eyes. He could almost feel it burning into him as it strained at the limit of its chain, choking on its collar and making the wagon it was tethered to jump.

The crowd, which had been stunned into silence, suddenly found its voice again. Soon the babble of catcalls and voices resolved itself into a chant, a savage metronome beaten out with stamping feet and clashing weapons.

“Kill it,” the crowd demanded with a single, atavistic voice. “Kill, kill.”

Brandt felt his courage return.

“After all,” he told himself as he lunged forwards, “it’s only an animal.”

And so it was. When it turned it was with the speed of a serpent, and when it swiped him across the face with outstretched claws it felt as though he had been mauled by a lion. Brandt staggered back, blood blinding him in one eye and his ears ringing with the impact.

The beast roared with irritation as the chain once more prevented it from pursuing its prey. It grabbed hold of the metal and turned back to try to tear it free.

Brandt, who had learned to fight in the Empire’s slums, moved with an unerring instinct towards his opponent’s back. He drew back his fist and drove a left hook straight into its kidneys.

It felt like punching an oaken barrel. A man would have been crippled by the blow but the beast just spun around, its chains forgotten in the face of the assault. It lunged at Brandt, fangs gnashing impotently behind the cage of its muzzle, but to the crowd’s horrified delight the same muzzle struck Brandt square on the forehead. He fell, his face a sheet of blood, and rolled aside as a hoof stamped down towards him.

Ignoring the weight of the impact which had been behind the kick, Brandt drove his foot into the tendons behind the beast’s re-curved knee. It grunted and staggered away, and Brandt seized the opportunity to stagger to his feet and stumble out of his enemy’s reach.

This time the crowd were less supportive. As the beast hurled itself against the restriction of its chain, they started hurling abuse at Brandt for his lack of fighting spirit. His comrades hurled abuse back, and there were already some scuffles breaking out in the stalls. In the midst of it he could see Porter waving a white scarf in a signal for him to leave the ring. Beside him Alter, by contrast, waved his fist in encouragement.

Brandt scooped up a handful of dirt. He used it to staunch the bleeding, spat out a tooth and moved back in towards his enemy.

This time, instead of pouncing, he danced around the beast, goading it until he had worked out the exact reach of its chain. Only then did he move in, tapping away at it with fast jabs before jumping out of range. It grunted with frustration as it fought to retaliate, but now that Brandt had got the measure of it he didn’t give it a chance.

He ducked in.

He landed a jab.

He ducked out.

The crowd, its sporting instincts outraged by this unfair tactic, began to grow ever more belligerent. Brandt had just landed a neat blow on the beast’s wrist when the first turf of earth was thrown. It landed between the two combatants harmlessly, but already a new fashion was sweeping the makeshift stadium and suddenly the air was filled with flying debris.

Brandt staggered back to safety, his arms raised against the missiles. His opponent reacted more strongly. When a tossed bottle landed with a crack on its horns it turned, roared with rage and charged the spectators. It leapt up onto the side of the fighting pit and crawled forwards.

The chain tightened again and it fell back into the ring, but by now it no longer mattered. The ferocity of its charge had been enough to start a stampede that spread throughout the gathered spectators with a terrible urgency. Where moments before men had been chanting and jeering and drinking, now they were in full flight.

Darkness added to the confusion and, as a hundred men tried to climb a single ladder at the same time, a torch was knocked into a bale of straw. Soon flames were roaring up into the night, and within minutes the makeshift stadium was ablaze.

The development did little to calm the panicking spectators.

“Come on, you damn fool!”

Brandt swung around, fists raised against the man who had grabbed his shoulder. Then he realised that it was Porter.

“I had him,” he said and Porter, who had begun to fear just that, swept an arm around the flame-lit chaos around them.

“We’ve got more important things to worry about than that,” he said. “Like surviving, for instance.”

Brandt grunted and, with a last look back at his opponent, turned and followed the rest of the company as they made their escape.

 

“Doesn’t look good, does it, Erikson?” the provost marshal said. Erikson, who had been escorted to the palace by a dozen guards, merely examined the brim of his hat and tried not to think too much about his surroundings. He had never been in the dungeon before, and even though he remained free, the manacles that hung from the walls in this chamber seemed a little more than coincidental.

“Over a dozen deaths in all,” the provost marshal glanced down at the sheet before him, “and a hundred men injured. The fire also destroyed the stores of three regiments, and scattered a corral full of horses that we are still chasing now. Tell me, Erikson. Do you work for the enemy?”

“Of course not, provost marshal,” Erikson said. “Nor do I understand why you have brought me here.”

“Because,” Steckler said, “your company caused this… this devastation. We’ve lost a day’s march because of you. A day’s march! Do you have any idea how important a day’s march can be in a war?”

“Some idea,” Erikson said, his temper rising. “Is it more important than finding scapegoats for accidents?”

“Don’t take that line with me,” Steckler roared and slammed his fist onto a table. “The witch hunters are already in a lather about enemy infiltrators and some killing in the potters’ quarter. Perhaps you’d like to talk to them?”

“Not at all, provost marshal,” Erikson said. “My point is that it is unfair to blame my company.”

“Are you denying that it was them who staged this fight? Are you denying that one of your men, and I can hardly believe this myself, was boxing with a beastman?”

“I’m sure the event wasn’t organised by them,” Erikson said. “Apart from anything else, they haven’t had the time.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. In fact, Viksberg has collected statements from over two dozen men who will swear that your company was responsible for the event.”

“Viksberg,” Erikson said the name with such disgust that Steckler paused.

“I don’t care what you think of the man, these statements are genuine. I had them checked. And your man was fighting a beast, wasn’t he?”

“I believe it was muzzled,” Erikson began, but Steckler cut him off with a bark of humourless laughter.

“Well that’s all right then,” he said.

Erikson fixed him with a cold glare.

“My men have been fighting the enemy for the past month and more,” he said. “Might I remind you that, before then, they were prisoners in your own gaol, no more than mouths to feed and bodies to guard?”

Steckler met Erikson’s glare with his own. He liked this man. Liked his nerve. He was damned if he was going to let it show, though.

“Yes, about that gaol. Have you told the men that they are only on licence, and that as soon as the war is over they will return to their sentences?”

To his surprise, Erikson felt a shudder of some strange new feeling. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. Nor was it nausea, or sadness.

“Yes,” Steckler said, seeing that he had made his point. “You do well to look guilty.”

“I was hoping that the men would be freed in consideration of their service,” Erikson said, looking down.

“So I take it that you haven’t told the men their cells are waiting for them?” Steckler twisted the knife, “Or, in several cases, the noose?”

Erikson opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Understanding dawned, as did disappointment.

“I see. You should have just told me what you were after. I would have offered you a cut, but you didn’t seem the type. How much?”

This time Steckler’s anger was real.

“Don’t insult me, Erikson,” he said, his tone icy cold. “I didn’t bring you down here to blackmail you. Not exactly, anyway. I’ve come here to make you an offer.”

Steckler produced a leather tube, drew a roll of parchment out from within and offered it to Erikson.

“This is a pardon for all crimes committed by you and your company to date, including any involvement you might have had in last night’s events.”

“By Sigmar,” Erikson said, unable to hold back his smile of relief as he read it. “So it is. Thank you!”

“Not so fast,” Steckler said. “You’ll see that it hasn’t been signed yet. That will only happen after you and your men have played your part in the coming battle to my complete, and I do mean complete, satisfaction.”

Erikson ignored his misgivings and nodded happily.

“It will be our pleasure, provost marshal,” he said.

Five minutes later he had come to the conclusion that paying a bribe would have been easier anyway, but by then it was too late.

 

After feeding, Hofstadter had been overcome with a crippling exhaustion which had laid him low for days. He had found a quiet ledge in a nearby sewer and there he had slept, bloodied and remorseless, as the world above had discovered the horror he had left behind him.

When he awoke the pain in his bones was gone. The only discomfort came from his boots, which seemed to have grown misshapen and ill-fitting. He clawed at the fastenings and tore them off, ripping the stitching apart when they caught on his bone. As he tossed them into the sewer he tapped at his new hooves and realised that he would never need another pair of boots again.

He almost tore off the remains of his clothes too, but some instinct stayed his fingers. The city that squatted down above him was no place for him to reveal his new form. It was full of sharp eyes and sharper steel. He would have to be careful until he was free. Careful and cloaked.

He waited until the beam of light that pierced the crumbling masonry of his hideout faded into dusk. Only then did he slip carefully back out into the city. He had wrapped part of the blanket around his head in a shawl, and the other half trailed into the dirt, its ragged threads hiding the re-knitted bone of his legs and the hardness of his hooves.

Although he stank of fear as well as sewage, the city remained blind to him as he joined its throngs. The acrid stink of countless torches and fires greased the air, and although pressed and jostled by the crowds Hofstadter was just one of a myriad of ragged and crazed refugees. He kept the yellow glimmer of his eyes lowered as he followed the press that led to the city gates, and eventually he was spat out into the encampment beyond.

Here it was even easier to pass unremarked. The campfires barely cast any light beyond the circles of men who huddled around them, and the road between them was an anonymous highway of drunks and thieves and merchants hurrying back to the safety of the city with their day’s takings. Hofstadter ignored them as they ignored him, and soon he was approaching the last few clusters of tents that stood between him and the freedom of the land beyond.

That’s when he smelled it.

He paused, lifted his head and sniffed the air. The flattened rings of his nostrils twitched as he breathed the foetid air in and tasted it. He didn’t have a word for the joy that flowed through him then, nor did he need one.

All he needed to know was that what he could smell was the herd.

With a grunt of happiness Hofstadter quickened his pace and trotted off towards the embrace of his own kind.