Tortured screams echoed all around Castle Gostahof. Adebar ignored them, kneeling on the cold stone floor, dressed in nothing but a nightshirt.

He tried to find the words, tried to reckon what had happened to him, tried to find the faith he’d felt in the first night after Diesdorf.

He had strayed, he knew. He’d forsaken Sigmar, and all gods, even if only for a day. He had failed. He did not know whether it had all been a test, or whether the gods truly did not care. All he knew was that he hoped they would watch over him this day. Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't. As it stood, prayer couldn’t worsen the situation.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing these things, y’know, honestly didn’t think I’d live to see this day last time we met, really. Not to say I don’t have faith, but, oh well, sometimes I am a tad worried, Herr, if I may be so open.” Schimmel’s flow of drivel was welcome, for once. It took Adebar’s mind away from his theological concerns, and forced him to pay attention to the present. They stood on the eastern rampart, to their left stood a round tower. Already bolts and arrows rained down at the few Beastmen foolish enough to waddle and prance into range.

The Count had said they were “testing the defences”, not that Adebar understood much of siege-warfare.

One of the wiry, twisted, hornless things fell to the ground violently, one of Holzer’s arrows had struck it down. The selfsame huntsman stepped back from the crest of the wall, letting out a breath he’d held in. “An admirable shot, Holzer.” Adebar chimed in, having watched the whole procedure with cold indifference.

“Thanks, Herr.” Holzer fell down to sit on a pile of bags, wiping his brow with a rag. It was the dead of winter, yet still the skirmishing drove sweat from the marksmen.

Adebar looked around on the parapet. They were a strange assortment, but they would do. Aside from Henno Schimmel and Ludolf Holzer, he was joined by others he recognised. Lars and his mother, from the coaching inn, as well as Lars’ oldest sister, and another man from that night, alongside the families that had granted them shelter while Adebar had been strutting around the place in the Count’s name. They guarded their portion of the eastern curtain wall with arrows and crossbows, and what few guns they could muster. Adebar had decided to conserve his ammunition for once the Beasts came closer. He had no illusions that the horde would wander off without charging the walls at least once.

Behind their wall lay the winding passage into the inner courtyard, and beyond that passage lay the wall of the keep. Atop it stood a few of the Count’s armsmen, in their red and yellow livery, pointing here and there.

Adebar looked back out at the horde. Yes, the vast majority of the unwashed heathen-beasts had simply taken positions around the Castle, clinging to the land like ink. His eyes wandered over the dark tide, over the strange constructions the monsters had erected, to make sure the defenders saw the fate of the villagers that had stayed behind. Adebar didn’t have the stomach to watch half of it, and after three hours of standing on the parapet and waiting for the inevitable, it came natural to ignore the deaths of half of Gostahof.

His attention more often wandered to the lumbering, horned man-bulls that forced their way through their smaller allies, trampling and goring them. Minotaurs. The things were as tall as two men, and broad as small hovels. Their axes seemed massive, even at this distance, the blades easily the size of men. It was an exercise of will to not envision the gate hacked down by the monsters. Somehow even more worrying to Adebar, however, was a figure that, by all accounts, seemed unremarkable. It was a shambling, cowled Beastman, with a long, many-pronged spear. Its horns were twisted and gnarled, and it's right arm ended in a long hook-claw. Noone else seemed to have seen the beast, but von Bolstedt couldn’t take his eyes off it. Its presence boded ill, even if the nobleman didn’t know how or why. Out of the corner of his eye he spied something, a speck of purple, standing in the treeline, unmolested by the Beastmen. A young woman, in a purple robe, too distant to make out details. She stood there, fair-skinned and golden-haired, and watched them all. Then, suddenly, she was gone, disappearing behind one of the Minotaurs, gone with the beasts passing.

“Taal’s ‘orns, look at them!” Lars was shouting, and it was good that he was, for otherwise the young man’s words would have been lost in the din of battle. Dozens of crude horns bellowed, from the bastions above the thunder of small cannons drummed in Adebar’s ears. Arrows flew overhead, as the first Beastmen scaled the walls, not by ladders, but climbing the sheer mountain of corpses their previous assaults had left. A short, bent thing leapt over the parapet, dog-faced and three armed, Adebar struck out, driving the point of his rapier through its guts, while Lars hacked into its leg with his longknife. The horror tipped backward screeching, but was immediately pushed aside by an armoured brute, brandishing a pair of wicked hacking-axes, it too was felled, its skull-plate pierced by a bolt from high above, but now that they could get up there was no stopping the tide of chaotic beasts. A mighty crash resounded from the gate, another charge of the Minotaurs, a rallying call for the Beastmen outside, who visibly surged forward, empowered by the promise of blood and death.

The sun stood high in the sky by the time the Beastmen first drew back. The men and women of the castle took the respite without questioning it, but Adebar knew the calm would be short. He rested half-sprawled on the ground, half rested against the parapet, covered from head to toe in acrid blood. Adebar was sure he’d passed out, for when he next looked up it was the Count who looked down at him. With his wild beard and hair he looked like a Northman, like he belonged out there, with the Beastmen, not in here with the defenders. His armour was encrusted with vitae, though the red lacquer barely let it make a difference.

The Count didn’t speak, his gaze carried more than words could ever have said. It was a strange feeling, von Bolstedt found, to know so well the feelings of another man without having to share a word. There was approval there, thanks, and an apology.

He blinked and the Count was gone.

The sun would soon sink. Their limbs were leaden, their hearts determined. Of the hundred defenders maybe half lay dead when the last attack of the day rolled in like flash-flood. This wave consisted entirely of the armoured brutes. They hacked man in half, Adebar dropped to one knee to evade the swipe of a glaive, rammed his rapier upward, into the beast’s armpit and pushed it back, von Bolstedt aimed his pistol at a Beastman that seemed to have nailed the plates of dark metal directly into its flesh. He squeezed the trigger, felt the flash-warmth, already looking to his right for a new opponent, only to find Lars and Holzer hacking down a monster that still held the squirming body of Lars’ eldest sister in its claws. The beast died with its fangs still buried inside the maiden's throat. His chest was empty of all rage, he felt cold, too used by now to the violence. Some men simply passed out or froze, hacked down by their foes. He watched one of the villagers simply stand immobile as one of the brutes cracked open his skull with a spiked club, He’d made no effort to defend himself.

In his stupor Adebar looked out across the still growing tide of monsters. There, atop the hill, he spotted the cowled Beastman, a hurtful crown of indescribable colours grew from his head, flickering lights. Some seemed animalistic, like bats and flies, fluttering away on vile wings, while others seemed like mockeries of the rays of the sun, all hurt the eye, all enraged his senses.

Behind the sorcerous creature, the canopy stirred and broke open. A giant, twisted much like the Beastmen themselves, with horns, sprouting fur, broke from the treeline, bellowing its challenge. The ground shook with its lumbering charge. It came right toward the eastern wall. Then the world turned upside down.

The impact drove the air from Adebar’s chest, old and new wounds bled freely once more. He looked around, he saw other men and women scrambling to get up, others simply lying as broken husks. The mutant-giant had broken the top off the curtain wall, and thrown the masonry at the bastions above, trying to silence the cannons that pelted its flesh with iron balls.

The first wall was lost. No man could kill that thing on his own.

“You reckon that if we kill this witch-beast the giant will just wander off?”

The Count’s doubt was quite obvious. Von Bolstedt couldn’t fault him.

“I have no proof, if that is what you ask. I simply do not think we have a better option than to try.” The nobleman sat upright in the saddle, slightly uncomfortable in the battle-plate he’d been given.

“The fact we are here tells me you thought so too.”

They were a poor lance, 20 men in various states of injury, mounted on horses that were terrified and struggled to even stand still. Sigmar willing, it would be enough. They were gathered in an arrow-formation, behind the inner gate, and waited for the right moment to strike.

“I can only hope you’re right, von Bolstedt. Pray to Sigmar, you may meet him sooner than you’d like.” The Count put on his helmet, accepting his mace and shield from Mauritz. “Hope he won’t mind the armour.”

Adebar wasn’t worried that the man-god would take offence to his ill-fitting cuirass. To be very honest Adebar wasn’t worried about anything right now.

In his hand he held a lance, on a belt across his chest hung five pistols, all loaded. For the first time in his life he embodied the knightly virtues his blood had imbued him with. He was no knight, he’d never been destined for such things, but now, just for this day, possibly his last day on earth, he hoped that the line of ancient warriors that had elevated his kin to their high status was watching him now.

If he would ever be ready, now was the time.

The gate flew open, the warhorn sounded. Gostahof rode to its death.

Of the twenty knights of Gostahof only ten broke through the advancing Beastmen, hacking and slashing to all sides, trampling underhoof. Never before had Adebar fought in war like this, braving wind, arrow and blade. His lance found its mark in the throat of a charging Minotaur, he was forced back, only kept atop his horse by his saddle, then the lance was out of his hands and a cruel rider’s hammer struck down at the horned fiends. The Count was to his right, Mauritz to his left, the others followed him in their formation, their charge unbroken. There was the hill, atop it the corona of malign intelligence, the shaman, surrounded by berserker beasts clad in chainmail and plate. His horse reared up, the charge faltered, one of the beasts was stricken dead by the hooves, then he fell off his mount as it was speared with a shoddy halberd. Mauritz rode past him, struck at the Beastman that had skewered the steed, then Mauritz himself fell, immolated by black lightning. Adebar ignored the screams, and swung his hammer at the next guard-beast, crushing its chest with the might of his strike. Spying an opening, he drew one of his two remaining pistols and tried to get a shot at the shaman. A vicious headbutt to the small of his back sent him sprawling into the dirt, the pistol discharged senselessly into the open air. Von Bolstedt wasted no time trying to turn around, he crawled forward on all fours, clawing his way back up. A look over his shoulder showed that his assailant already lay dead at the feet of a retainer he didn’t recognise, then something grabbed his head from behind, pulled him back, tore off his helmet. The Beastman snarled in his face, fangs bared. No! He could not fail now, not after all this! He had sworn an oath to save Diesdorf, he’d come all this way! His gauntleted fist smashed into the beast’s teeth, the thing bleated and spit acrid blood at him, that seared his skin.

Stinging pain left him paralyzed for a moment, some had gotten into his eye! He was blind for a heartbeat, tried to rub the acidic vitae away, but it was to no avail, the pain did not stop. Half-blind, he hefted his hammer with both hands, hitting his assailant with an upward strike, he stood above the Beastman, raised the hammer, brought it down on its skull, then he was charging into the next foe, crushing limbs and armour. All reason was forgotten for a moment, the pain drove him to mad slaughter, but he was just a mortal man. Even his armour could not protect him once he realized that he’d wandered into the middle of the armoured Beastmen. He was brought down, one of the beasts grabbed onto his right arm, the hammer dropped, he staggered, was dragged back into the crowd of monsters. The Shaman was right there, staring at him with half-aware eyes, blazing with iridescent witchery. His left hand fumbled for the last pistol, barely managing to retrieve it, hairy paws grabbed a hold of his throat as the monsters closed in all around him.

The gap toward the shaman grew ever smaller. Flint struck steel, smoke filled his vision.

Rusty steel touched his exposed throat as his head was torn back by his unshorn hair.

It seemed Diesdorf would need to do without him.

Warm blood splashed across his features, yet the stark pain would not come. He’d closed his eyes, he realized. The pressure on his head ceased, he fell to the ground. People fought all around him.

“Come now, von Bolstedt, don’t tell me you died now they run!”

The Count shook him awake. The Adebar took the gauntleted hand that was offered, came to his feet and turned around to look over the battlefield.

The Count wasn’t lying. The giant was rampaging through the Beastman horde, fleeing without consideration for its erstwhile allies, who died in droves under its feet. The flow of Beasts from the woods suddenly reversed, perverse rag-standards suddenly disappeared in a mass of teeming mutant-flesh. Castle Gostahof was a terrible sight to behold. The eastern curtain wall had been utterly bashed down, part of the inner keep torn down, and still men and beasts were struggling on the inner walls.

Still, all in all the Count was right. It seemed the horde had fairly quickly realized what had happened. Maybe the shaman had been the unifying leader of the disparate tribes, maybe they just lost heart with the loss of the giant, none could know their ways.

Adebar looked around, four men in the red plate of Gostahof still stood on the hill. Mauritz was not among them. The Count didn’t give him the time to express condolences or joy, the Lord of the land was already back on his steed, mace in hand.

“Heinrich, hold that banner high. Talabecland isn’t lost yet.”

With that the knights were off, rushing to chase as many of the monsters as they could.

The Battle of Gostahof was won, but the losses still called for more bloodshed. Vengeance would be had.