The Pitchfork and the Flame
A short story
An introduction to the “Pike & Shot vs Xenomorphs” wargame scenario.
In 1642 the Black Forest was a place of whispered fears even before the Demons came.
For years now the villagers of Druidenhain had already endured plague, famine, and the passing of armies that left nothing but ash in their wake. For sixteen-year-old Lukas, the son of a blacksmith, the war had always been a distant threat until that night when the true demons arrived.
Lukas was in the stable, a rickety structure behind their cottage when a scream cut the misty evening air. The sound was raw and primal, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He dropped the pitchfork he’d been using to muck out the stalls and grabbed the lantern hanging from a hook on the wall. The flame flickered as he stepped outside, the dense forest surrounding the village cloaked in unnatural stillness. The mist drifted low, curling around the gnarled trees like ghostly fingers, and the air carried the sharp tang of pine and something else—something acrid, like the burnt metal in his father’s forge.
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Another scream, closer this time, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Lukas’s heart pounded as he sprinted toward the village square, the lantern swinging wildly in his hand. The scene that greeted him was a nightmare. Green and orange, glistening creatures taller than any man, with elongated heads and razor-sharp claws—were rampaging through the village. They moved with terrifying speed, their tails whipping through the air like scythes. Lukas saw old Frau Keller dragged into the darkness, her screams cut short, and Hans the baker impaled on a creature’s tail, his body tossed aside like a rag doll.
Lukas froze, his breath catching in his throat. These were no soldiers, no bandits. These were demons straight from the fiery pits of hell. He turned to run back to the cottage, to warn his parents, but a guttural hiss stopped him in his tracks. One of the creatures emerged from the shadows of the blacksmith’s forge, its eyeless head tilting as if it could smell his fear. Its teeth gleamed in the moonlight, dripping with a viscous, yellow fluid that sizzled as it hit the ground.
Instinct took over. Lukas hurled the oil lantern at the creature with all his might. The glass shattered against its chest, and the oil ignited in a whoosh, engulfing the demon in a fiery blaze. It shrieked—a sound so alien and piercing that Lukas clapped his hands over his ears. The creature thrashed, its movements erratic, and in its blind frenzy, it charged straight toward him. Lukas dove to the side, rolling into the dirt, and his hand closed around the handle of the pitchfork he’d dropped earlier.
The demon lunged again, its burning body a horrifying silhouette against the night sky. Lukas acted without thinking, thrusting the pitchfork upward as the creature charged. The fork’s tines pierced its underbelly, sinking deep into its flesh. The demon let out a final, ear-splitting screech before collapsing, its weight pinning Lukas to the ground. A searing pain shot through his arm as a splash of its yellow blood landed on his skin, burning like acid. He screamed, shoving the creature off with a strength born of terror, and scrambled to his feet.
The demon lay still, its body smoldering, but Lukas knew more were coming. The village was lost—screams still echoed from every corner, and the flickering light of burning homes illuminated the chaos. His parents… he couldn’t think about them now. If he stayed, he’d die. But there was one place he might find help: the manor of Lord Albrecht von Hagen, a half-hour’s run through the forest. The lord had soldiers, weapons, and maybe even a way to fight these demons. Lukas grabbed the pitchfork—its smoking tines still coated in the creature’s blood—and ran.
The Black Forest was a labyrinth of shadows, the dense woods swallowing what little moonlight filtered through the mist. Lukas’s boots pounded against the uneven ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves, made him flinch, expecting one of those creatures to leap from the darkness. The pitchfork felt heavy in his hands, but he clung to it like a lifeline, its smoking tines a reminder that he’d killed one of the demons. He could still feel the burn on his arm where the acid blood had touched him, a throbbing reminder of how close he’d come to death.
He followed the old hunter’s path toward Lord Albrecht’s manor, a trail he’d walked countless times to deliver horseshoes and nails for his father. The path wound past rocky outcrops and through thickets of brambles, the air growing colder as he descended into a clearing near a ruined chapel. The chapel’s crumbling stone walls loomed out of the mist, and Lukas slowed, his heart sinking as he saw the faint glow of a campfire ahead. Soldiers—Imperial soldiers, judging by their blue-and-white uniforms—were encamped in the clearing, their pikemen and arquebusiers gathered around the fire, speaking in low, tense voices.
Lukas hesitated. He’d heard of Captain Heinrich von Sturm, a grizzled cavalry officer who’d been sent to investigate the “demonic creatures” plaguing the region. The villagers had scoffed at the rumors, blaming wolves or deserters, but Lukas knew better now. He stepped forward, clutching the pitchfork, and one of the soldiers—a pikeman with a scarred face—spotted him.
“Boy!” the pikeman barked, raising his weapon. “Who goes there?”
Lukas raised his hands, the pitchfork trembling in his grip. “I’m Lukas Müller, from Druidenhain! The village—it’s under attack! Demons… green demons with claws and teeth… they’re killing everyone!”
The soldiers exchanged wary glances, and Captain Heinrich von Sturm, a towering figure in a plumed helmet, dismounted from his horse and strode over. His weathered face was etched with suspicion, but his eyes narrowed as he took in Lukas’s bloodied pitchfork and the burn on his arm.
“Demons, you say?” Heinrich’s voice was gruff, but there was a flicker of unease in his gaze. “Describe them.”
Lukas’s words tumbled out in a rush, his voice shaking as he recounted the attack—the creatures’ speed, their glistening green bodies, the way their blood burned like acid. He pointed to the pitchfork, its tines dissolving with the demon’s ichor. “I killed one… with this, and an oil lantern. But there are more—dozens, maybe. They’ll come here next!”
Heinrich’s expression darkened. He turned to his men, his voice sharp with command. “Form up! Pikes to the front, arquebuses ready! If this boy speaks true, we’re in for a fight.”
The soldiers moved quickly, their training kicking in despite the fear in their eyes. The pikemen formed a defensive line, their long spears bristling like a hedge of steel, while the arquebusiers loaded their weapons, the smell of gunpowder mingling with the damp forest air. Lukas stood beside Heinrich, his hands trembling around the pitchfork. He wanted to run, to hide, but there was nowhere left to go. The forest was alive with the creatures—he could feel it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
The first demon attacked without warning, a blur of green death that erupted from the trees. It launched itself at a pikeman on the edge of the formation, its claws rending through armor and flesh with horrifying ease. The soldier’s scream was cut short as the creature’s tail impaled him, and a spray of acid blood splattered the men nearby, drawing cries of pain. The arquebusiers fired, their shots ringing out in the night, but the demon was too fast, dodging the lead balls with an unnatural agility.
Lukas’s heart raced as more creatures emerged, their hisses echoing through the clearing. The soldiers fought bravely, their pikes thrusting and arquebuses roaring, but the demons were relentless. One of the creatures charged straight at Heinrich, who met it with a swing of his cavalry saber, slicing into its shoulder. The demon screeched, its acid blood splashing onto Heinrich’s horse, which reared in panic, throwing the captain to the ground.
“Lukas!” Heinrich shouted, scrambling to his feet. “Get to the manor! Warn Lord Albrecht—we’ll hold them here!”
Lukas didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and ran, his legs burning as he sprinted through the forest. Behind him, the sounds of battle faded—screams, gunfire, and the unearthly shrieks of the demons. The path to the manor was treacherous, the rocky outcrops forcing him to climb and scramble, but fear drove him forward. He couldn’t shake the image of the village, of his parents, of the creature he’d killed. If he didn’t reach the manor, if he didn’t warn Lord Albrecht, the entire region would fall.
The manor of Lord Albrecht von Hagen loomed out of the mist, its stone walls fortified with a moat and a gatehouse. Torches burned along the battlements, casting flickering shadows, and Lukas pounded on the heavy wooden gate, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Open the gate! Please, I bring news of demons!”
The gate creaked open, and a pair of guards in the lord’s livery hauled Lukas inside. Lord Albrecht, a stern man with a graying beard, met him in the courtyard, his expression a mix of irritation and curiosity. “What madness is this, boy?” he demanded.
Lukas recounted everything—the attack on the village, the creatures, the soldiers fighting in the clearing. He held up the pitchfork, its tines melted away by the demon’s blood, as proof. Lord Albrecht’s face paled, and he turned to his men, barking orders to muster the garrison and send riders to the nearest Imperial outpost.
“You’ve done well, boy,” Albrecht said, his voice gruff but approving. “But if these creatures are as deadly as you say, we’ll need more than pikes and arquebuses to stop them.”
Lukas nodded, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He didn’t know if Captain Heinrich and his men were still alive, but he’d delivered the warning. For the first time since the attack began, he felt a flicker of hope. The demons were a nightmare, but he’d fought one and survived. Maybe, just maybe, they could be stopped.
As the manor’s bell tolled, summoning the soldiers to arms, Lukas tightened his grip on the pitchfork. He wasn’t a soldier, but he was a blacksmith’s son, and he’d fight with whatever he had. The Black Forest had birthed a new kind of war, and Lukas Müller would not let it claim him without a fight.
Watch for the next post, with stats and a scenario for bring this battle to life!