By the time Dieter returned with a flaming torch, having persuaded a member of one of the gun crews to part with it, Gerhardt and the others had already begun to move the wagon. Alongside himself, Rieger and Hoist, Gerhardt had commandeered several artillerymen to help them push the wagon.
“We only have to push it as far as the lip of the ridge,” Gerhardt said as the men strained to move the recalcitrant wagon. “After that, the slope will do the work for us.”
“And what about the troll?” Hoist asked. “Are you expecting it to hold still long enough to be run over by this cart?”
“It won’t need to. Once the oil trail is set alight, anything within thirty paces of this cart will be blown to pieces. And, besides, it’s not as though we have much choice. I don’t think we’ll find someone willing to sit on the cart and steer it down the hillside. Not unless you’re about to volunteer for the job.”
As the cart reached the edge of the ridge, the troll could be seen climbing eagerly up the slope at the head of a sizeable force of goblins. Further along the slope, the Scarlets were still engaged in close combat with the rest of the goblin horde, but to Gerhardt’s eye the men of the regiment were far enough away that there was little danger of them being caught in the blast.
“All right,” he said, once they had lined the cart up as much as possible. “Let ’er go!”
Once the cart’s brake was released it began to roll down the slope, picking up speed. Gerhardt waved a signal to Dieter.
“Now! Set fire to the oil!”
Touching the torch to the oil trail, Dieter watched for a second as the oil took light. The flame sped on, following the cart over the brow of the slope. Dieter ran after it, hoping to see the cart hit. By the time he reached the place where the others were standing, it was clear their efforts had been more on target than anyone could have hoped. The hurtling cart was headed straight for the troll, the flaming oil trail racing to catch up behind it. Dieter saw the troll lift its head to look at the cart in dumb confusion. Then, he heard Gerhardt’s voice.
“Get down!”
Even as Dieter dived for cover, he kept one eye on the unfolding drama further down the slope. Inspired perhaps by some misplaced predatory instinct, the troll actually moved closer to the rolling cart, spreading its monstrous arms wide to catch the cart and stop it. The flaming oil trail reached its destination a second later, resulting in an explosion that made the ground shake. The troll was blown to pieces, burning fragments of troll flesh falling in a broad radius like some form of grotesque rain.
The explosion caused similar havoc among the goblins. Beyond the casualties it created, it spread panic in its wake. Having received a fatal blow to their morale when the troll was killed, the remaining goblins on the slope fled.
“We’ll have to put every piece of troll to the torch,” Gerhardt said, gazing at the bloody pieces of meat strewn about the slope. “I hear trolls can heal almost any wound, even if they get chopped to pieces. But fire is supposed to work at killing them.”
Dieter was about to compliment Gerhardt on the success of his plan when his attention was distracted by something else. As he scanned the landscape around them, it became clear the entire greenskin army had been put to flight. Initially, Dieter wondered whether the defeat of the troll had caused a general panic that had spread throughout the enemy army, but a closer look at the battle unfolding in front of him soon disabused him of any such pigheaded notion.
General von Grahl had unleashed his cavalry, he could see that now. Gazing into the open fields below the slope, he saw the entire force of the Hochlanders’ cavalry—knights, pistoliers and outriders—had been unleashed at the orc centre of the enemy line in one cataclysmic death-or-glory charge. Apparently, von Grahl had waited until the optimum moment to strike. It was equally apparent the tactic had worked.
Everywhere Dieter looked the greenskin army was in full retreat. The Hochlander pistoliers and outriders were giving chase to the enemy, but even without them Dieter doubted whether the greenskins would have rallied. The enemy appeared to be broken. And, with that thought came the dizzying realisation that they had won the battle.
Peering down to the foot of the slope, Dieter saw a thin powerful figure in full plate, riding a charger. As the knight pulled back his visor revealing a hawk-nosed profile, Dieter realised it was Count Aldebrand. The Elector Count was holding his runefang high in the air, calling out to the knights around him as they cheered and exulted, celebrating their victory over the orcs. Hochland had been saved.
It was entirely in keeping with his experience of war, Dieter decided, that he and his comrades had been so busy with their own small battles that they had completely missed the climax of the larger battle around them. In the end he supposed that was the nature of the foot soldier’s lot. The knights claimed the glory, while the infantryman did the marching.
Listen to me, Dieter thought. Only a soldier for a few months, and already I’m turning into a bitter curmudgeon. I wonder what I’ll be like after twenty years with the Scarlets.
He smiled to himself at the thought of it. Then, he went to join his comrades as they celebrated the victory. All along the hills and ridges, he heard the sound of cheering. It was good to be alive, he decided.
On days like these, it was good to be a soldier.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER THE BATTLE
“They look so young,” Dieter said.
It was later in the day, and he was sitting on a rock by the side of the trail, resting with his comrades as they recovered from the exertions of the battle and its aftermath. While the army’s pistoliers, outriders and knights gave chase to the fleeing greenskins, the infantry had been assigned to a variety of less glamorous tasks, including mercy duty, acting as stretcher bearers and serving in burial parties to give a final resting place to the Hochlander dead. It had been hard, thankless work, but Dieter supposed these tasks were as much part of being a soldier as the cut and thrust of battle.
Ironically, with the battle over and the orcs defeated, fresh reinforcements arrived in the shape of several thousand of the newly-trained soldiers called up by the Count’s muster. Dieter and his fellow Scarlets had decided to watch the new men as they arrived. The reinforcements marched in double file along the trail, weapons and equipment slung over their shoulders.
“Young, you say?” Hoist smiled at Dieter’s remark. “You should look at yourself in the mirror, young blood. You’re the same age as most of these babes-in-arms.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Dieter said. Looking back at the new recruits, however, he found it hard to credit that he was the same age as the boyish faces he saw before him. He had been a soldier barely a few months, but already he felt years older.
“You have to say they timed it perfectly,” Hoist said, turning back to watch the steady files of recruits as they marched past. “You ask me, there’s no better time to join a war than when it’s just about over.”
“Over?” Rieger raised an eyebrow. “I never had you for an optimist.”
“Eh? What do you mean?” Hoist looked at him warily. “You’re not about to launch into another sermon, are you? Something about how the war’s never really over, Sigmar’s enemies are all around us, and so on, and so on. Please, Rieger, we’ve just won a victory. Give the sermons a rest.”
“No sermon,” Rieger shook his head. “Just an observation. We’ve won a battle, Hoist. Nothing more. The greenskins may be fleeing now, but they’ll be back. Remember, we may have beaten them here, but large parts of northern Hochland are still in their power. I suspect this might well turn out to be the beginning of a long campaign. The war will go on.”
“Rieger is right,” Gerhardt nodded. He looked wistfully at the fresh-faced ranks of new soldiers passing by them, as though the presence of the new recruits reminded him of something lost and long ago. “I was just speaking to a sergeant from the Fourth Hergig Spears. He told me Count Aldebrand has appointed General von Grahl as commander of al
l his forces—not just his armies in the field, but all his armies including every garrison, every newly mustered regiment and even the new troops that haven’t yet answered the muster. Von Grahl is a wartime general, he always was. If the Count has made him his foremost commander, it means they expect the war to last some time.”
There was a brief period of silence between the comrades as they digested the news. It was Rieger that broke the silence.
“I understand that isn’t the only promotion in the army. Is it, Sergeant Gerhardt?”
“You heard then?” Gerhardt grimaced. “I hadn’t expected the news to spread so quickly, but I suppose that’s the army for you—the only thing soldiers can’t do is keep a secret. Yes, it’s true. Sergeant Bohlen was wounded during the battle. They say he’ll survive, but he’ll be out of action for a while. Captain Harkner has appointed me as file sergeant in his absence.”
Overjoyed, the others huddled around him to shake his hand and offer congratulations. For the first time since Dieter had known him, Gerhardt seemed embarrassed.
It was strange when Dieter thought about it later, but in the aftermath of battle everything seemed different somehow. Certainly he felt different. After tasting defeat in his first battle as a Scarlet, it felt good that his second major battle had been such a resounding victory.
Dieter had been part of that victory, as had thousands of other men. Some had paid the ultimate price, sacrificing their lives for the sake of their province and its people. Others had survived, hopefully to grow wiser and become better soldiers.
Krug and Febel had been among those who were killed. Dieter had never liked either man, but in the wake of their deaths he realised the bonds between himself and the other men around him went beyond such questions. Whatever their faults—and of those there were many—Krug and Febel had been Scarlets. They had been soldiers, and they had died as soldiers, bravely facing the enemy. Tonight, when the Sigmarite priests gathered together the faithful to offer thanks that the enemy had been defeated, Dieter would make sure he would say a prayer for Krug and Febel.
There were others who would feature in his prayers: dead Scarlets like Breitmeyer and Rosen, his comrades like Gerhardt, Hoist and Rieger, his leaders like Sergeant Bohlen and Captain Harkner. He would offer prayers for General von Grahl and Count Aldebrand. He would offer prayers toward the success of their efforts. He would pray they could keep Hochland safe, and that the greenskins could be driven back into the mountains never to return.
Dieter had survived a great battle. He had hoped he had learned something by it. Either way, come tomorrow, the war would go on.
From
The Testimony of General Ludwig von Grahl
(unexpurgated text):
And so, in the end, despite months of careful planning and the efforts of thousands, the battle was won in a single moment.
Perhaps that may seem an exaggeration, but let me explain.
As any commander knows, a battle is a confusing, disorderly business. A thousand small details may play their part in its outcome, often unexpectedly. This is why it is always better to keep your battle plans as simple as possible.
In this case, it seemed as though my plans were working. From my position on the left flank, at the head of the army’s contingent of knights, I could see the enemy was beginning to falter. Weakened by the relentless fire of our archers and artillery, the greenskin attack on the centre of our battle line had ground to a halt. With the enemy starting to fade, it was only a matter of time before the infantry pressed home their advantage and forced a rout among the greenskins.
I thought victory was in my grasp. Then, my opponent showed his cunning.
It seemed Morgoth Ironfang had not committed all his resources to the battle. Displaying a degree of forethought almost unheard of from an orc commander, he had held back a sizeable contingent of boar riders. Apparently intending to use them as a mobile reserve—in itself a novel concept among orc commanders—he had positioned them some distance behind the rest of his troops so they were kept out of sight of our scouts.
Signalling the boar riders forward once the battle began, Ironfang had held back committing them to action until the battle reached its tipping point. Realising that the orc forces in the centre of his battle line were about to crumble, Ironfang ordered a massed charge by his boar riders directly at the human infantry holding the Hochland centre.
Ironfang led the charge himself, seeking to rally as much of his army as possible and push through our lines.
Meanwhile, from my position on the left flank, it was clear the battle had reached a climax. Seeing Ironfang’s charge, I committed my own cavalry to an immediate countercharge.
Realising its importance to the battle as a whole, I decided to lead the countercharge myself. Count Aldebrand rode beside me, alongside his bodyguard, at the head of a motley collection of knights, pistoliers, mercenary cavalry and outriders. I had gathered together every mounted warrior at my disposal, but still our cavalry strength was far outnumbered by Ironfang’s boar riders—never mind the larger greenskin army.
Such is the way with all battles. We hope to achieve supremacy over the enemy by subtle stratagems and incisive manoeuvres, but all too often it comes down to a test of will. In the end, the battle would be decided by the elite of my army versus Ironfang’s elite—brawn against brawn, steel against steel, with no quarter given.
Let me tell you, I have now ridden to battle beside our Count, Aldebrand Ludenhof, on three separate occasions—enough to hail him as one of the great warriors of our age. Whatever my private concerns at the Count’s haughtiness, his aloofness regarding his province and its people, I recognise in him a kindred soul when it comes to the call of arms.
Together, at the head of our cavalry, we smashed into the enemy. The full story of that conflict is a tale that will no doubt be told elsewhere in the annals of our noble province, but it was as hard and brutal a fight as any I have ever faced.
Sometimes, a cavalry charge will be met by a sudden dispersal of the enemy— terrified at the prospect of facing cavalry an enemy’s morale will often falter, leading to a rout. In Ironfang and his boar riders, however, we faced a more formidable foe.
Seeing us as we charged towards them, they did not for a moment falter. The boar riders simply turned and charged towards us, eager to meet our knights head-on in battle.
Sigmar was with us, however. Although they fought with tenacious strength, we managed to defeat the boat riders. Adopting a wedge formation, we sliced through them like an arrow through flesh. Meanwhile, seeing the toll we had taken on the best of their warriors, the other orcs and goblins of Ironfang’s army began to flee.
Earlier, I spoke of the battle being won in a single moment. Equally, in the moment in question, it could have been lost. I was driving through the enemy hordes, laying about me with the sword the Count had gifted me, when I saw a huge and battle-scarred orc riding on top of an equally impressive beast.
A pair of metal tusks jutted from the orc’s lower jaw, apparently serving as over-sized replacements for two teeth that had been lost—though whether this oral disfigurement was as a result of some earlier wound sustained in battle, or some excess of orc dentistry, I could not comment.
Realising this could only be the much-famed orc general, Ironfang, I immediately spurred my horse towards him. Smiling in a way that was made more sinister by his iron teeth, the orc likewise spurred his boar and charged towards me.
We met with the ringing of clashing steel as we each struck at the other simultaneously. My sword tore through his armour and inflicted a grievous wound to his chest, while his axe struck my head.
The blow glanced off my helmet and smashed away my visor. For a moment, I was blinded as blood ran freely down from my scalp into my eyes. Ironfang could have finished me then, but Count Aldebrand had seen my distress. Sending his hunting hawk to harry and distract Ironfang, he charged forward with his bodyguard to save me.
By the time I cleaned th
e blood from my eyes, I was surrounded by friendly faces. Ironfang was gone, however—disappeared amid the shifting tides of battle.
As short as it was, that brief and bloody meeting between Ironfang and myself turned out to be the climactic moment of the battle. If Ironfang’s axe had struck a finger’s-width lower, it would have taken my head from my shoulders - perhaps dealing a deadly blow to the army’s morale. As it was, I was fortunate - both in terms of the placement of Ironfang’s blow and the Count’s quick thinking. Otherwise, I would be in my grave.
Such, therefore, was the way by which the battle was decided. Wounded, Ironfang fled—though, sadly, I have to accept the wound he sustained is unlikely to prove fatal. In his absence, his army’s morale collapsed. The enemy were routed.
For myself, I have a new scar to add to my collection. When I removed my helmet after the battle, we found that Ironfang’s blow had added a thin new crease to my scalp. The surgeons tell me I am lucky. Head wounds are notoriously difficult to treat, but I have suffered no more adverse effect than a few headaches. And what are headaches when there is a war to fight!
Grateful for my service, the Count has made me commander of all his armies. I have been given carte blanche to take the war to the orcs and drive them from Hochland—perhaps to even follow them to their haunts in the Middle Mountains and remove their scourge from the face of the world forever. I warn the Count such lofty ambitions do not come to reality without paying a hard price in blood and sweat, not to mention gold, but he seems ready to meet the cost.
Tonight, there will be a celebration. The army will rejoice in its victory. The men will drink, and laugh, and jest, and dream of days of peace.
Come tomorrow, the war goes on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mitchel Scanlon is a full-time novelist and comics writer. His previous credits for the Black Library include the novel Fifteen Hours, the background book The Loathsome Ratmen, and the comics series Tales of Hellbrandt Grimm. He lives in Derbyshire, in the UK.
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