[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard

by Richard Williams - (ebook by Undead)

  “Tyrant!” One of his bulls approached him up the slope. He was dragging something through the dirt behind him. It looked like some hairy animal, drowned in the river.

  “Found this. Washed up on the bank.” The bull held it out for Burakk to examine.

  Thorntoad unravelled and came up screeching. He whipped one arm around and his spines made a dozen tiny slices in Burakk’s outstretched hand. Thorntoad spun about and dug his teeth into the wrist of the bull holding one of his crippled legs. The bull shouted in pain and let go his grip as the goblin freak took a chunk from his flesh. Thorntoad, though, did not fall, he held on right and scrambled up the bull’s shoulder. He flipped himself over and sat upon the ogre’s shoulders, clamping his arms around the ogre’s face and letting his thorns dig in. The bull’s shout turned into a strangled bellow and he blindly grabbed at the goblin on his shoulders, only to grasp handfuls of razor spines. Thorntoad was screeching again, this time in triumph, as he dug his heels into the ogre’s back as though to ride him to safety.

  Burakk swung his hefty club and smacked them both hard. The ogre, brained, fell to the side and Thorntoad tumbled from his shoulders. Burakk raised his club again to finish the goblin off, but the freak sprang up and raced up the cliffside out of the ogre’s reach.

  Thorntoad was not done. No sooner was he safe than he turned back. The struggle had been heard by the ogres and goblins alike, and now both came to see. Thorntoad looked over his goblins newly sworn to the tribe of the Craw. There were still enough, he could win them back!

  “My fiends!” he called, hanging onto the rockface with one hand and reaching out to them with the other. “My magnificent fiends! Your black hearts are in my chest. Your broken teeth within my mouth. Do not submit your fates to these betrayers who will have you serve them in the day and then will gorge themselves upon you at night. Let yours be the first blow! Seize your blades and set upon these hulks. Rend their bodies and drain their spleens. Our own great victory is still within—”

  The heavy stone struck the goblin’s temple. Burakk’s aim had been good. Thorntoad crumpled and fell from his perch, landing in a spindly mass at the feet of his goblins below.

  “Take his thorns,” Burakk ordered. The goblins’ blades came out and they cut Thorntoad’s spines from him. As they were cleared, the mighty Thorntoad was revealed beneath for what he truly was, a pitiful, slight freak.

  Burakk lifted him by his leg above his head, and his breath roused the denuded freak to consciousness. It was too late. The mouth of the Craw opened and engulfed its victim. Burakk felt it wriggle as it slid down his gullet. He swallowed and then it went still. His bulls cheered and his goblins cackled, and he acknowledged their ovation as he strode back to the edge. Out there, upon the plains, Burakk could see a farm: both cattle and humans, plump and juicy. The Feast of Averland would begin with them. His tribe’s course was set, and it would prove satisfying indeed.

  The cold metal prongs of the grey instrument forced the flesh of Alptraum’s cheek apart even wider and the Averlander howled in pain. His attempt at quiet stoicism had long since been abandoned.

  Alptraum crouched before the sergeant who was slowly opening up the side of his face to extract the arrow’s tip. He clenched his jaw against the agony for a moment, then gave up and continued in his systematic defamation of the Empire’s lower pantheon.

  Delmar, Siebrecht, Gausser and Bohdan watched from a few paces distant. As Alptraum’s oaths progressed onto the lesser goddesses and took on a more lurid tone, Siebrecht turned to Gausser.

  “Can we not get him a horse’s bit to bite down on?”

  “The swearing helps him, he says,” Gausser replied.

  “I do not doubt it,” Siebrecht said. “I am just not certain it’s helping anyone else.”

  The sergeant twisted and pulled, and Alptraum’s shouts rose to new heights. With his own cry of triumph, the sergeant extracted the arrow with his pincers. Alptraum, exhausted and hoarse, collapsed onto his back as his brothers congratulated him.

  As they set about bandaging the wound, the sergeant held the arrow point up to the light of the torch. “Would you like to keep it, my lord?” he asked. “Many of our brother-knights do. A memento of battle?”

  Alptraum looked at him as though he had recommended they should fling themselves onto hot irons for fun. “Throw the cursed thing away! I never want to see it again.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” the sergeant said, slipping the arrowhead away, and passing Alptraum a draft. “Here, drink this. It will help fight the infection.”

  That it did, and it also swiftly put the young Averland knight to sleep. Delmar watched as his knotted face finally relaxed.

  “I’m going to see Hardenburg,” Delmar told Siebrecht.

  Siebrecht nodded and then, after Delmar had left, he stepped over to the sergeant who was putting away his surgeon’s tools.

  “I’ll give you half a crown for the arrowhead,” Siebrecht whispered.

  The sergeant almost asked why he wanted it, but then he saw the twinkle in Siebrecht’s eyes and decided that the less he knew the better.

  “Two crowns,” the sergeant countered.

  “One.”

  “One and a half.”

  “One,” Siebrecht said, more firmly this time.

  “Done.”

  Siebrecht smiled and turned back to Gausser. “Brother? Our wager? Delmar lives. Pay the man.”

  Growling something beneath his breath, Gausser reluctantly reached for a coin.

  Delmar stepped past the other convalescing knights. Most of them here would survive, cared for by the order’s sergeants, who carried their knights to battle and carried them home again. The dying were kept separate; the sergeants did not want to tempt Morr when he came for the dead to take the living as well. Their last hours would be spent with the prayers of a priest, until they passed and their bodies could be moved. At least, Delmar thought sombrely, his father had been spared that slow dissolution of life.

  The Reiksmarshal had confirmed all of Griesmeyer’s words. At last, Delmar knew the truth of what had happened to his father. And yet, in gaining knowledge, he had lost his certainty. The order had concealed the taint of a man to allow him to keep his honour. It had deceived and sinned, broken the faith of knights like Wolfsenberger, but in pursuit of a noble goal. Griesmeyer had lied to his brother’s wife and his son, but all for the purpose of protecting them from those who would consider them tainted as well.

  By all the priests’ teachings Delmar had ever heard, Griesmeyer was wrong, the order was wrong, dangerous, complicit even. Where there was mortal taint, there could be no exceptions made. And yet Delmar held in his heart the fervent belief that they had been right in what they had done. He could not resolve it.

  But then Delmar thought back to the crippled masters of the chapter house: Verrakker, Lehrer, Talhoffer and Ott. The order cared for its own, no matter what befell them in its service. No matter if their wounds were self-evident, or hidden inside. Brotherhood — that was the order’s true strength.

  Hardenburg lay amongst the living. His entire body was swathed in anointed bandages that were fighting the spores that covered him. His flesh had become a tiny battlefield of its own as the infection and the medicine waged war.

  “Tomas?” Delmar announced his presence.

  Hardenburg’s eyes looked over; his head was too bandaged to move.

  “Delmar?” he croaked. “I am glad you have come.”

  “I have something for you.” Delmar was holding a piece of plate, a shoulder pauldron. “It is from your harness.”

  Hardenburg focused upon it. “What are those markings?”

  “The dwarf we freed from the goblins’ lair. The one you saved.”

  Hardenburg nodded a fraction.

  “That dwarf,” Delmar continued, “was King Gramrik’s son.”

  Hardenburg gave a hollow chuckle beneath his bandages. “Is there a reward? Is there gold?” he joked, his voice weak.


  “No, brother,” Delmar laughed. “But in his thanks, he ordered this rune carved upon our armour. Of all our squadron.”

  Delmar held the pauldron forwards so Hardenburg could see, and the injured knight peered at the markings.

  “Do you know what it means?” he asked.

  “No,” Delmar admitted, “but I think it must be a mark of strength, and of courage. I thought it should travel back to Altdorf with you, not in some caravan.”

  Hardenburg shakily reached out with his hand and traced the pattern lightly.

  “Yes,” he decided, “yes, you are right. Strength and courage.”

  Hardenburg continued to touch the rune, but Delmar saw his eyes glass over with worry once more. “Do you not like it?”

  “No, it is not that. I am just afraid, that is all.”

  “Of what, Tomas?”

  “Of what people will think of me back home in Eilhart. I do not think many of my friends back there will wish to see me like this.”

  “Your real friends will.”

  “Maybe, then, it is I who does not want them to see me like this. Even if I heal, they shall never look at me the same again.”

  Hardenburg brushed one of his bandages aside slightly and Delmar saw the virulent work of the goblin’s toxic spores upon the young man’s body. Hardenburg would survive, Delmar knew, but he would bear those ugly scars upon his skin forever.

  But the order cared for its own. No matter what.

  “Then do not go back to Eilhart just yet. The chapter house is no bad place to heal,” he said. “You will get the finest treatment from the sisters of Shallya.” Delmar got to his feet. “Consider it, Tomas. For when you are amongst your brothers, you have nothing to fear.”

  “I know,” Hardenburg replied, replacing the bandage. “I think I will,” he decided.

  Delmar placed the pauldron down on the bed by his brother’s hand.

  “I will tell you, Delmar,” Hardenburg said. “I knew this was to happen to me.”

  Delmar looked back up at him. “How so?”

  “I had a dream, back in Altdorf. It was the night before our vigil. It was so vivid, so real.”

  “You dreamt this?”

  “Aye, I think I did. It’s hard to picture it now.” His eyes closed. “But I know it was a nightmare. I was marked, scarred, like this, and there was some bargain, I could make myself whole again.”

  Hardenburg opened his eyes. “I remember thinking when I woke up that to be so disfigured was the worst that could happen to me. Worse even than death. I wanted to talk to you about it but…”

  Someone coughed behind them. It was Falkenhayn.

  “If you are finished, Reinhardt,” he said, stiffly. “Then I would appreciate some time to sit with my brother.”

  Hardenburg acknowledged Falkenhayn, but then beckoned Delmar to lean down close to him.

  “But now the worst has happened to me, and I have survived,” he whispered, “and so I have nothing left to fear.”

  Delmar leaned up. “I’m glad to hear it, Tomas.”

  He stood and took his leave, but as he passed Falkenhayn the other knight stopped him.

  “Do not think,” Falkenhayn said quietly, “that the order has mistaken your desperate race up that mountainside for anything more than it was. They can discern the difference between a proper leader and an ill-balanced mind, yearning for its own destruction. You and your Provincials will not take this squadron from me.”

  Delmar looked closely into Falkenhayn’s eyes, searching for some kind of comprehension on his part of what was truly happening.

  “There are no Provincials, Franz, not anymore. Nor Falcons, nor Reiklanders.” Delmar motioned to the rune both he and Falkenhayn wore on their shoulders. “We are united. For we are brothers.”

  “Oh,” Falkenhayn replied, “do not think you can catch me that way, Reinhardt. I am no fool. You may be the more able warrior, but you shall never best me in this.”

  Falkenhayn raised his voice a degree, just so it would be heard by the others nearby. “Stay with me, Reinhardt. Sit with me over our fallen brother and let us comfort him together.”

  Delmar could not believe it had taken him so long to see how small a man Falkenhayn truly was. But then they were interrupted; more pressing news had arrived at camp.

  “Uncle! Uncle!” Siebrecht hurried down the slope. At the bottom, Herr von Matz watched a line of men and dwarfs loading a riverboat. “Have you heard?”

  “What is it, Siebrecht?”

  Siebrecht caught his breath to answer, and then noticed that one of the men loading the riverboat was Twoswords. Then he realised that all the rest were his uncle’s keepers as well. “Wait. What is this? Where are you going?”

  “Back to Nuln,” Herr von Matz replied. “Now the goblins are broken the river is open again, and I can get my shipment safely there. I had begun to think that it might have been trapped in Karak Angazhar for good.”

  “What? You already had a shipment here?”

  “I admit,” Herr von Matz smiled, “I was perhaps overly modest about my relations with the dwarfs of Karak Angazhar. We have been trading partners for some years now. But you seemed so heartened to hear that I had a trace of altruism that I did not want to disappoint you, especially going to war.”

  Siebrecht stopped the next pair of men carrying a crate.

  “Open it,” he ordered. They looked at Herr von Matz.

  “Go ahead,” Herr von Matz said wearily.

  Using a pick, they levered the crate’s lid open. Siebrecht looked inside.

  “It’s pistol shot?” he said in disbelief. “You came all this way for a few crates of pistol shot?”

  “There is a war on, Siebrecht.” Herr von Matz waved at his men to close the crate up. “There has never been greater demand for fine dwarfen shot. For nobility only. And perhaps I might interest the Reiksguard in some as well. They’re worth a small fortune, I can tell you.”

  Siebrecht had no interest in his uncle’s commercial enterprises; there were events of far greater importance unfolding. “You can’t leave now, uncle. You haven’t heard about the ogres.”

  “What about them?”

  “They didn’t disperse into the mountains. They’ve gone down the Reik valley, and they’ve taken the goblins with them.”

  “They are not blocking the river, I hope.”

  “No, they’re into Averland. They’re heading for the villages.” Herr von Matz ignored his nephew and carried on supervising the loading. Siebrecht took hold of his shoulder to gain his attention. “You don’t understand. The militias are here, the villages are defenceless.”

  As Siebrecht gripped his uncle, Twoswords suddenly appeared behind him. Herr von Matz gestured for his guardian to hold back and gently removed Siebrecht’s hand. “So, what would you have me do about it?”

  “We can ride ahead of the army; as soon as we catch up with the ogres you can talk to Burakk again. I know it was you who convinced him to break with Thorntoad; you can convince him to return to the mountains.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why?” Siebrecht blinked at his uncle’s impenetrability. “Burakk is going to lay waste to Averland! The army is in the north, the militia is here, there’s nothing to stop him.”

  “No, Siebrecht, I understand what Burakk will do. I mean, why would I go and renege on our agreement?”

  Siebrecht was about to repeat himself when he realised what his uncle had said. Herr von Matz motioned to his men to hurry loading the last few crates.

  “You… agreed this?”

  Herr von Matz regarded him coolly. “Of course. How do you think I convinced him to give up Thorntoad’s lair? How do you think I convinced him to stand aside as the Reiksguard rooted the goblins out?”

  Siebrecht was staggered, “I thought… I thought you had given him money. Or offered him mercy, so he could escape into the mountains.”

  “Money or mercy? If you had listened for a single moment when I told you about
them,” Herr von Matz said, the scorn and disappointment clear in his voice, “then you would know perfectly well that ogres have no use for either. They want food. And at this moment Averland is full of villagers, fat from the harvest. It was ideal.”

  “Gods, you are a traitor.” Siebrecht’s hand went to the hilt of his weapon. In a flash, Twoswords whirled and Siebrecht felt the man’s two blades crossed under his chin like scissors at his throat.

  “You are developing a habit, Siebrecht,” Herr von Matz said, “of reaching for your sword at the most inopportune moments.”

  Siebrecht swallowed carefully. The rest of his uncle’s men were watching from the boat with interest; the dwarfs from Karak Angazhar were nowhere to be seen. He dared not turn his head to see if there was anyone behind him who might come to his aid. He released his grip on his sword and it slid back into its scabbard.

  “There’s a good boy,” Herr von Matz said it as though he were speaking to a child. Twoswords did not lower his blades though.

  “So it was all for coin?” Siebrecht began. “You gave up Averland for trade? For this one pathetic shipment?”

  “Listen to me, Siebrecht. Truly listen for once. Burakk and his ogres will gorge themselves on cattle and villagers, they will burn a few towns, then they will get bored and move on. It is nothing that Averland has not endured before, and nothing they will not have to endure again.”

  “They are going to kill hundreds of our people.”

  “Yes,” Herr von Matz agreed, “they will only kill hundreds of our people. What price is that? Karak Angazhar is safe. Black Fire Pass is safe. The Empire is safe.”