Len Gilbert - The Furred Reich

Vahn and three others scaled the hill and soon found a small collection of huts pressed together in a valley.

“Let’s go,” he said over the noisy mooing of a nearby cow. The spearmen followed close behind.

They approached the hovel without making a sound. Vahn craned forward and edged inside. It was dark. Utensils lay on the table, and there was a bowl sitting on the counter, as if those things had been recently used.

“Hello? There are battles coming. We’re here to move you further west. Rock bombs could hit this home at anytime.”

The three of them stepped in, one of them opened a cupboard and the other lifted up a pallet. No one was here.

“Strange. The people here must have fled before we arrived.”

“Come on,” Vahn said, “forget about these furres. They’re probably just Lapine rabbits anyway.”

He was right. There was no time to spare because Poetschke was already moving toward the nearby spring and even further on to Oxbane’s encampment.

Vahn and the others followed Poetschke’s boot tracks into Balaton forest. After an hour of walking they found their leader in a clearing with many others buzzing around him.

“We found only empty huts, sir. No sign of anyone,” Vahn explained. A cloud of white vapor puffed from his snout as he breathed.

“That will have to do,” Poetschke replied. “Come on. Let’s keep moving east.”

The Kompanie continued its march. Wherever the enemy was, it wasn’t in this forest any longer. The ‘Khanate’s’ warriors must have retreated hastily, because the sun was already at its apogee, and still the wolves had seen nothing since the opening attack.

“We take this place. The edge of this forest. Then we send scouts to the plains. Who knows what they have ahead.”

“YIPE!”

A line of axes flew into the forest, one of the axes hit a wolf from the front and cut him down. Vahn jumped onto the snow and flattened himself with the rest of the Kompanie. Poetschke fired back in the axes direction and ran over to one of the fallen canine, who was screaming in pain.

The ax cut into the wolf’s spine and through the ribs, and now he was flopping uncontrollably on the ground. He was in shock and would never walk again. Poetschke knew what he had to do: He took the spear tip and jammed it through the back of the fallen wolf’s neck and through to the brain, and ended his suffering.

Vahn peeked up to see several ax-hurlers, maybe five, behind a brick lain barrier, with some dozen monsters around guarding the nest. He heard the whistle to pull back deeper behind the trees, where Poetschke huddled his ‘Kapitans.’ The blonde human unhooked his belt of ‘mashers’ and called Vahn over.

“Vahn, we’re going to charge the fort. You’re the one best suited for this. They have a good defensive position, but our force is superior here, and we have to keep going. You just find your way to the throwers, and use the mashers to get rid of the enemy.”

It was best not to think much about these things before they happened. Vahn strapped on the mashers and picked up a spear with the rest. When Poetschke’s whistle blew again, the wolves looked nervously at one another and dashed for the light, only to be met with another wall of flying axes and even blades. There was another scream and the wolves scurried back into the protective slope of their wooded position.

Upon seeing the wolves back away, Poetschke’s face turned beet red. Gripped by a towering rage, he reloaded his hand cannon and pointed it toward one of the shocked Kapitans.

“One step to the back, any of you, and I will personally shoot you myself.”

One of the fellows stared at Vahn in silence, pleading for him to do something about the mad human commanding them. Vahn ignored the fellow and looked on through the trees at the monsters, who made a loose shield around the throwers.

Then the whistle blew again. Vahn stared into the abyss and darted out again into the light. A Grimeskin was coming right for him when Poetschke’s cannon went off. Vahn winced and half expected Poetshke’s aim to be for him, but instead the cannon knocked down the Grimeskin. Poetschke had created an opening for Vahn. Vahn dropped to the ground and began crawling his way forward.

All around him he heard snarls emerging from various sides of the forest. This time the wolves ignored the threat of murderous axes and descended onto the Grimeskins in packs. In the mayhem Vahn crawled forward, stalking in on the square of red bricks that sheltered the throwers.

Poetschke then sprinted from the cover of the trees and fired bullets at the throwers, keeping them down. The tiny cannonballs whizzed over Vahn’s head and confused the enemy.

Now was the time. Vahn got up and charged, pulling the plug on one of the mashers. The monsters saw him and one of them gave chase, but it was too late. Three more seconds. He sprinted wildly at the pinned-in axe-hurlers, tossed the masher in and rolled into the snow. With a crash the stick exploded, hurling soil and stray earthen bricks in every direction.

Flying debris blocked the light as Vahn stayed put, hearing snarls and screams from several places. When the smoke settled, Poetschke was the first person Vahn saw.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” Vahn coughed out a cloud of dust as he answered, and Poetschke reached down to help him up.

“We’ve got to keep going,” was all he said.

“But I’ll recommend Sepp put you on the honor roll for this…”

“Sir, what’s an honor roll?” Vahn said, dusting the soil off his ear.

“Heh. You’ll find out. Now come on.”

The snowy field was littered with death, mostly the Grimeskins. Poetschke demanded his wolves to attack like selfless ants, or bees. It was a different style than Vahn and the wolves knew, but no one could argue with the outcome. Packs of wolves that comprised Poetshcke’s Kompanie trudged through the pock-marked field and on towards Oxbane’s camp. Wherever that was.

Vahn’s ear flicked as he heard a faint snarl in the distance. Then another, then a whole line of them.

“Reinforcements?” He said to himself.

Soon he got his answer. A line of black wolftaurs appeared on the horizon and came charging toward them. Each mount was crowned with a Greenskin.

“Raiders…” A fellow chanted out.

“Raiders! Raiders! There has to be tens upon tens of them!” Another panicked.

Just nearby, the Sturmbannfuehrer picked up his field glass and shook his head. Sobriety had descended over him.

“We need to get out of here. Now.”

Kasha picked the ten most able-bodied warriors, brought them out from the trench and looked at each one of them. Most were young like him. Many were afraid.

“We are going on the attack now.”

Kasha dug the butt of his spear into the snowy ground.

“Engage the Grimeskins in groups of three, stay in heavily-wooded areas. We won’t give them an advantage unless its necessary. Our goal is to head forward some 100 Terras, where we’ll await instruction from Master Sepp. The whole Kompanie is going with us. Be brave and fight with all the hate in your heart. Remember who this is for. We meet up with Kristiyan 100 terras from here.”

Kasha divided the platoon into three parties. They slipped into the woods next to Kristiyan’s platoon. The dark northern woods were no place to be a Greenskin, but even Kasha knew his warriors were outnumbered, and their attacking nature meant open battle would almost certainly happen.

He spotted five monsters treading side by side, through the snow, and ordered two of his groups into the woods flanking both sides. His nose told him there were other Greenskins right behind. This was likely a trap, but it was also the one chance they would have to actually preempt the Monsters. Kasha and three others charged the monsters head on, and already the two flanks knew what to do. They leaped out and surprised the party of Greenskins.