03 - Call to Arms Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  CALL TO ARMS

  Empire Army - 03

  Mitchel Scanlon

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  For Jon Can, mensch.

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  “In times of defeat; all men are cowards.

  In victory, they are all heroes.”

  —From The Testimony of General Ludwig von Grahl

  (unexpurgated text)

  PROLOGUE

  SEASONS OF WAR

  It was a hot day.

  Deep in the forests of northern Hochland, the sun’s rays lanced through the gaps in the woodland canopy overhead. To the men of the scouting patrol, currently following a trail that skirted the province’s ill-defined border with the Middle Mountains, it felt like they were riding through an oven. The air was stifling. Their helmets and armour increased their discomfort, the burden weighing heavily on their necks and shoulders.

  Despite this, they were watchful. As Sergeant Johann Gessler halted his mount and reached down to take a drinking flask from his saddle bag, he was pleased to see his men had kept their discipline despite the heat.

  He had sent two men ahead as a vanguard to scout the trail but it was important the main body of the patrol maintained a state of readiness, warily watching the forest around them for signs of ambush.

  Counting the vanguard, and the sergeant himself, the patrol numbered ten soldiers in total. With such sparse numbers, it was vital that everyone stayed sharp. Their mission here was routine, but the proximity of the mountains meant they could not relax their guard for an instant. His troops were lightly armoured, and armed only with swords and shields. If they encountered any serious opposition, their job was to run and warn others—not to fight.

  Gessler and his men were competent riders, but they were swordsmen by profession—infantrymen rather than horse soldiers. In the field, the armies of the Empire made use of pistoliers and outriders in the role of light cavalry. But such illustrious troops were in short supply, especially when it came to serving garrison duty at a dismal outpost in the hinterlands. It was not uncommon in such postings for foot soldiers such as Gessler and his men to be given horses and then find themselves deployed in a scouting role as mounted infantrymen. It was not an ideal solution, but his time as a soldier had taught Johann Gessler to be thankful for small mercies. Whatever other hardships might lie ahead, at least they wouldn’t have to walk.

  Even as Gessler removed the stopper from the flask and took a long drink, he was careful to keep one eye on the forest. The region had a dark reputation— one he knew was entirely deserved.

  “You ask me, this is a fool’s errand,” his second-in-command Kurt Walden said, pulling his own horse in beside the sergeant’s.

  “I don’t care what those woodcutters told Captain Ziegler. We won’t find anything along this trail. It’s the wrong time of year for beastmen.”

  “There is a season for beastmen, then?” Gessler asked with gentle sarcasm. “Like quail, you mean? Or wood pigeon?”

  Smiling, he offered Walden the flask. Despite the banter, he valued the other man’s company. Walden was ten years Gessler’s senior. He was an old hand in the northern forests, while Gessler was a new arrival, posted from Hergig only two months ago. As an experienced campaigner himself, Gessler knew his life depended on the quality of the men around him. He and Walden had quickly become fast friends.

  “You can laugh, but everything has its season,” Walden scowled in reply. “Men, animals, beastmen—we all have our cycles. It’s the way of things.”

  Taking the flask, Walden drank deeply, before making a face as though he had been poisoned.

  “Water. I had hoped for schnapps, brandy, even watered beer. Something to cut a man’s thirst.”

  “If you want a real drink, you’ll have to wait until we get back to the fort,” Gessler chided him, half in jest. Twisting in his saddle, he gazed at the woods about them and the smile disappeared. “Beastmen have been sighted in the area. That makes it a serious business, even if you don’t believe the reports.”

  “A wild goose chase, that’s what it is,” Walden grimaced as he handed the flask back to the sergeant. “I wasn’t joking when I said it was the wrong time of year for beastmen. And I wasn’t talking about us hunting them like they were quail or pigeon. Usually it’s the other way around—we are the prey and the beastmen are the ones doing the hunting. Like any hunter, they know there are seasons for the different kinds of game. There’s a season for deer, and wild bull, and boar. And, if you’re a beastman, there’s a season for war; a season for hunting men.”

  “And this isn’t that season?” Gessler asked.

  “It’s the wrong part of the year,” Walden shook his head. “You wouldn’t know it from this damn heat, but the summer is nearly over. Beastmen don’t live by the harvest like we do. They cluster around fixed points, like the forests here and the mountains, but they change their hunting grounds depending on the season. The same seasons determine when they go to war.”

  Walden removed his helmet, revealing a set of features weathered to the appearance of old leather by years spent guarding the province’s northern frontier. Pulling a cloth from inside his tunic, he used it to wipe away the beads of sweat glistening on his face.

  “Granted, it can be difficult to second-guess them,” Walden said, adjusting the chin strap before he put the helmet back on. “But usually, if beastmen go to war, it will be in early spring or late autumn. If it’s spring, it’s because the young gors are eager to prove themselves by killing enemies and taking trophies. It’s worse, though, when they attack in the shank of autumn. If that happens it means there’s a hard winter ahead and the weather has forced them to move down from the uplands into human territory.”

  “You seem to know them well.”

  “I should do. I’ve had twenty years fighting them in these damned forests. You learn some things in that time.”

  It was a familiar theme. In the brief period they had served together, Gessler reckoned he had heard Walden expound at least a dozen times on his pet theories regarding Hochland’s enemies. Already, he felt he could recite them by heart.

  The ratmen were a myth, no doubt made up by the dwarfs to keep people away from their mines. Elves and Bretonnians might as well be a myth, since they were seen so infrequently in Hochland. Orcs were dangerous, but they lacked cunning. Beastmen only attacked at certain times. Goblins were cowards and they had no discipline—they were hardly worth bothering about.

  According
to Walden, the greatest threat to Hochland came from the neighbouring province of Ostland. “Never let an Ostlander into your home,” he was fond of saying. “He’ll cut your sister’s throat and have unnatural congress with your livestock. And that’s only if he’s in a good mood.”

  It wasn’t that Gessler completely rejected such notions. Certainly, Walden’s opinions on the ratmen made sense, and they shared a common prejudice against Ostlanders. For the main part, however, he tended to regard most of Walden’s claims as little more than country wisdoms; entertaining in their way perhaps, but likely to prove spurious if they were ever put to the test.

  Still, he could see no reason to tell that to Walden. In the two months he had known him, Gessler had come to be impressed by the other’s abilities as a soldier. The older man was a good second-in-command. He could be relied upon in a crisis. With that in mind, it did no harm to humour him.

  “Well, I hope you’re right,” Gessler said. “If it turns out the sightings of beastmen hereabouts are just so much hot air, then I’ll be happy.”

  Putting the flask back in his saddle bag, he glanced up along the trail. While he and Walden had been talking, the rest of the patrol had gotten ahead of them.

  “But, in the meantime, they have to be investigated. We’d better get moving before we lag any further behind and the others think we’ve decided to make camp. I’ll tell you what, though, Kurt. If it turns out you’re right and there are no beastmen out here, the drinks are on me when we finally get back to the fort.”

  “You’re on,” Walden told him.

  They spurred their horses. Together, they rode down the trail.

  The cause of Gessler’s downfall had been a woman, a beautiful girl with laughing eyes and hair like spun gold.

  Her name was Sylvia. They had met on a cool spring evening. At first glance, seeing a young woman standing alone and unattended outside the barracks gates in Hergig, he had taken her for a streetwalker. Closer inspection of her clothes and manner had proved him wrong. She had the look of a girl of good family; not one of noble blood perhaps, but only a rank or two below it.

  Playing the gallant soldier, he had introduced himself and offered to walk her home. She had taken him to a large house just off the Konradin Platz and asked him inside. There, one thing had led to another.

  “A general’s daughter?” his commanding officer had spluttered in outrage the next day. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know? Every soldier in Hergig has heard of Sylvia von Bork! They scratch their privates whenever she passes.”

  “I didn’t think she could be the same girl. She was so beautiful. And it wasn’t as though she told me her last name…”

  “I bet she didn’t. Well, whatever happens now, you’ve done it to yourself, Gessler. Bad enough the old man came home to find you storming his daughter’s ramparts. The fact you decided to salute him without pulling your britches up first only added insult to injury. I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls you out. Where will you be then? A sergeant, fighting a duel with a general…”

  It had not come to that. When it was a matter of removing a stain against his daughter’s honour, General Joachim von Bork was inclined to more subtle tactics. Within three days of the incident, Gessler had received orders that he was being transferred to a new regiment. Henceforth, his military career would be spent at an isolated fort on the northern frontier, guarding Hochland’s border with the Middle Mountains.

  Initially, he had been surprised at the relative mildness of the punishment. It seemed strange the general had not used his influence to have him stripped of his rank. The reason became clear once he arrived at the fort to take up his duties. As one of only two sergeants stationed at the garrison, Gessler found he was expected to lead scouting patrols into the forests on an almost daily basis.

  The borderlands were a dangerous place. Chaos warriors, beastmen, greenskins - all of them made their home in the Middle Mountains. Already, in two months at the fort, Gessler had seen more action than he might have faced in an entire year in some less hazardous posting.

  It was not difficult to see it was all part of von Bork’s plan. The general had no need to get his hands dirty killing the man who had “dishonoured” his daughter. Not when he could send him to the northern frontier and hope some obliging orc or beastman would do the job for him. The fact that Sylvia had already been willingly dishonoured on several past occasions was neither here nor there.

  Possibly, the general did not believe the gossip about his daughter. If such was the case, Gessler supposed any father had a right to his illusions.

  It seemed harsh, however, that he was expected to bear the burden of them at the potential cost of his life.

  “Sergeant! We have seen smoke!”

  They travelled for another hour before they finally saw sign of the enemy. Duhr, one of the men from the vanguard, came riding back down the trail as though he had a daemon after him.

  “Sergeant!” Duhr brought his horse to a halt in front of Gessler and saluted. “Sergeant, we saw smoke. It was a little further down the trail. A big cloud of black smoke, rising above the treetops.”

  “Which direction?” Walden asked, coming to join them.

  “That way,” Duhr turned in the saddle and pointed east. “Edelmann said he thought it might be coming from Kerndorf.”

  “That’s a village, about three leagues east of here,” Walden said, smoothly filling in the gaps in his new sergeant’s knowledge. “Maybe a dozen families live there.”

  “This close to the mountains?” Gessler raised an eyebrow. “It seems a perilous place to build a home.”

  “They’re here for the engelwurz,” Walden told him. Reading Gessler’s look of confusion, he elaborated. “It’s a plant. The locals eat it like a vegetable, but its real value is as a medicinal herb. The variety that grows near the mountains is particularly potent. The doctors from Hergig pay a lot of money for the seeds and leaves.”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re right, though. It’s dangerous. But times are hard, so people risk it.”

  “Is the village defended?” Gessler asked him.

  “There’ll be a palisade wall and a defensive ditch,” Walden answered. “The villagers around here are not shy when it comes to protecting themselves. Most of the men will be experienced archers. Even the women and children will know how to use spears.”

  “All right, then,” Gessler said. “We’ll head for Kerndorf and see if they need help.”

  He turned to Duhr.

  “Ride back to Edelmann and tell him we’re on our way. If you see any enemies, you’re to turn back and warn us. Otherwise, I want you to hold your position until the rest of the patrol gets there.”

  “Understood, sergeant.”

  Saluting once more, Duhr spurred his horse and raced back up the trail.

  “What about the fort?” Walden said. The rest of the patrol had gathered around them, awaiting orders. “Should we send a messenger back to warn them?”

  “No, not yet,” Gessler shook his head. “I want to know what’s going on before we raise an alarm. For all we know, Kerndorf might have already fought off any raiders. We don’t even know what caused the fire. It could have a less dramatic explanation. Maybe someone got careless. In weather like this, a thatched roof can be dry as tinder.”

  He looked at the faces of the men. It was only natural he saw some nervousness, but there was nothing that suggested overt fear or panic. Again, Gessler found he was pleased. They were good soldiers. They would do their duty.

  “We will travel in single file,” he told them. “No matter what happens, you will not dismount unless ordered to do so. I want you to be ready to withdraw at all times. If we run into anything that’s more than we can handle, we will pull back immediately. If Kerndorf is in trouble, we will help if we can. But our first duty is to the fort. We are scouts, not a war party. Is that understood?”

  The men nodded their asse
nt, almost as one.

  “Good.”

  Easing his horse further along the trail as the riders arranged themselves in single file, Gessler took up position at the head of the column. He raised his hand.

  “Move out.”

  By the time they reached Kerndorf, the worst of the fire had died down. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, along with the odour of burned flesh. Approaching cautiously on horseback, Gessler saw the gates of the palisade wall that surrounded the village hung open. They yawned on wooden hinges, a section of the thick timber bolt that had once held the gates shut lying shattered on the ground between them.

  Nothing moved inside the village when he looked through the gates.

  “Moeller! Schultz!” he ordered two of his men forward. “Scout inside. If you run into trouble, I want you to raise the alarm and get out fast.”

  “It looks like hell hit this place,” Walden said as the two scouts disappeared into the village. “Maybe I was wrong about the beastmen.”

  “We’ll see,” Gessler replied. He cast a wary eye at the forest surrounding them and turned to another of his men, a broad-faced farmer’s son with pock marked features.

  “Schimmel, you’re on lookout duty. When we enter the village, you’re to stay here and stand guard. I especially want you to keep a watch on the forest. If anything starts moving out there, I’m to hear about it from you first. Understood?”

  After a few minutes, Moeller rode back into view. Framed either side by the gates, he waved his shield, giving the sign that everything was clear.

  Taking the lead, Gessler led the rest of the patrol into the village. Once past the walls of the palisade, it was as though they had entered a slaughterhouse. He felt his horse give a nervous shiver beneath him, disturbed by the smell of death.

  Bodies, both human and animal, were strewn all about them. The people of Kerndorf had been killed alongside their livestock, murdered in the enemy’s mad rampage. Gessler saw that chunks of flesh had been cut from some of the corpses, though whether for use as food or as trophies he could not be sure.