Forged in Battle by Justin Hunter - (ebook by Undead) Page A

hands, his muscles so tense that tendrils of veins stood
out from his arms and neck and forehead, right up to his horns.
    Uzrak the Black glared at the display of dissention. He’d
fathered this whelp ten years before on the brood-goat of some dead chieftain.
He put back his horns, snout to the sky, and let out a roar that made the trees
above his head shake—but when he looked back down he saw that one challenger
had stepped into the ring. The contester glowed white in the dawn.
    Neither of the beastmen moved for a moment, but all around
the circle the other beastmen began to snort and stamp their hooves, tense and
excited.
    Blood would be shed tonight.
     
    In the clearing the two combatants—black and white—were
locked together. The white shape thrust his horns in one more time, and the
black body slid slowly to the ground, to lie at his feet like a pool of
darkness.
    There was silence. In the memory of all there, there had
never been such a fast and brutal fight. And none imagined that Uzrak the
Black’s thirty-year reign had ended on the horns of one of his son—this cursed
albino—that should have been smothered at birth.
    Azgrak glared round the ring, sensing the disquiet, but no
others dared challenge him. They looked towards the shaman to ban this
abomination but the shaman shook the man-skull rattle and began the rites of
lordship; after what they’d seen, there was no doubt that the albino had been
blessed by the gods.

 
 
CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    That afternoon Vostig’s men were drilling. Sigmund stood to
watch, making sure they were lined up close together.
    “Prime the pan!” Vostig shouted. The men moved as one,
filling the pans with powder.
    “Close the pan!” The men flipped the pans closed and blew
away any loose powder.
    “Charge with powder.” The men poured a measure of blackpowder
down the barrels.
    “Prime with shot!” A lead ball the size of a walnut was
dropped down the barrels. The bullet and charge were rammed home. Each gun had a
slow-burning fuse attached to the trigger. They blew on the fuse to make the end
glow and then when the order came to “Present handguns” the handgunners lifted
the butt to their shoulders.
    “Prepare to fire!” Vostig shouted. The men flipped the pans
open.
    “Give fire!” Vostig called. The men pulled on the triggers
and the fuse struck the powder in the pan, which belched and ignited the charge
within the barrel. The guns flared flame and smoke in a ragged fusillade.
    As the smoke cleared Sigmund turned to look at the length of
cloth, a foot high and ten foot long, that had been pinned up along the back of
the barrack wall, at chest height. Twelve ragged holes showed where the lead
shots had ripped through. Three men had missed. There were new chips on the
brickwork, well over head height.
    Vostig cursed. “Again!” he shouted, and the men scrambled to
remove the fuse from their guns and use the ram rod to clear any embers from the
barrels. “Damn your hides!” Vostig cursed. “I want fifteen holes each time! Now—prime the pan!”
     
    Sigmund left the handgunners to their practice and walked
through the barracks to the sick room.
    Elias did not look any better. His face was pale and sweaty.
As he inspected the young man, Sigmund smiled to hide his concern. Where was
that damned apothecary?
    “How do you feel?”
    “A little sore.” Elias seemed exhausted by the effort of
speaking. His ragged breaths filled the room. He looked suddenly frightened. “If
I die will you tell Guthrie that—”
    “You’re not going to die,” Sigmund told him, quickly.
    “Promise?”
    “I promise,” Sigmund said, trying to hide his concern. Surely
no normal infection could have taken hold so quickly and so violently? And there
were no medicines for the supernatural.
     
    As Sigmund sat with Elias, keeping him company, the sick room
door creaked open. The woodsman, Edmunt, stood uncertainly by the door, his lips
moving