02 - Iron Company

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  He was marshalling the unloading of one of the huge iron-belchers, a massive piece with the fanciful name “Brunhilde” engraved on its iron barrel, when Hildebrandt rode up towards him.

  “Why are you here?” the big man said, looking exasperated. “Scharnhorst’s called a council of war.”

  Magnus’ heart sank. He hadn’t even been informed. Messina had replaced him in the general’s estimation. Magnus carried on with what he was doing, tightening a series of thick leather straps around the unwieldy machinery to allow it to be lifted down.

  “I guess I wasn’t required,” he said nonchalantly, concentrating on his work.

  Hildebrandt dismounted heavily, and strode up to him.

  “Listen to me,” he said, pulling Magnus around to face him. “This is pathetic. You’ve given up. Messina’s a pushy bastard, but he’s half your age. He hasn’t served as long as either of us. If you let him walk over you, you’ll become a laughing stock.”

  Magnus smiled wryly.

  “Am I not already?” he said, looking around at the busy gunnery crews. “The men are whispering behind my back. They think I can’t hear them. Perhaps it’s best to let the young blood take over.”

  Hildebrandt looked disgusted.

  “When I knew you of old, you’d never have let things come to this,” he said. “Mother of Sigmar, Magnus. You’ve changed. It’s humiliating, watching you like this.”

  Magnus failed to respond to that. He felt as if all the fight had been beaten out of him. He had returned to the shell of a man he’d been in Hergig. Whatever Grotius had roused in him, it hadn’t taken long to die.

  “What does it matter?” he said. “We’ll be paid in any case. I’ll clear my debts. You can put your children into a trade. Everyone’s happy.”

  Hildebrandt shook his head.

  “Not if that preening fool gets us all killed. He’s no idea what he’s doing. Scharnhorst is impressed with his rocket trick, but Messina has no idea how to deploy the heavy guns. And if you think the boy Herschel will do any better, you’re madder than he is. You need to put a stop to this, Magnus. Morr’s blood, man. You’re being turned into a fool by your own crew. I never thought I’d live to see it.”

  Finally, Magnus felt the sting of shame. Hildebrandt stood before him, his face torn between accusation and pity. That was hard to bear. He could take anything from Tobias, even contempt. But not pity. They had come too far together. Even after his fall from grace, the bond of friendship and respect had never completely severed. It would break his heart to see it snap now.

  “Where are they placing the wall-breakers?” asked Magnus. He was too weary for another battle with Messina and Scharnhorst, though he knew it had to come.

  “Messina wants them over on that ridge,” said Hildebrandt, pointing to a shallow hillock directly in front of the first ranks of handgunners. “They’ll be close enough to send shot over the lower battlements. He’s got some Tilean contraptions. He says they’ll kindle fire once they land.”

  Magnus frowned.

  “That’s too close,” he said. “For all we know, they’ve got guns on those walls with a greater range than ours. I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

  Hildebrandt let out another infuriated breath.

  “Exactly!” he cried. “You need to tell Scharnhorst that. Messina’s all over him. If the defenders get their own shot amongst our cannons, we’ll have hauled them up here for nothing. You’re still in command. Put an end to this madness.”

  Magnus looked back towards the distant walls of Morgramgar. There wasn’t any sign of gunnery on the walls. But that meant nothing. It was already evident that the enemy’s artillery commander was highly skilled. It wouldn’t be hard to conceal barrels behind those massive walls. The more he looked, the more sure he was that there was something hidden behind the blank, dark facade. Some of the openings below the battlements looked very strange indeed.

  “I’ll have a word with the general,” said Magnus at last. “He’s got to have forgiven me by now, hasn’t he?”

  Hildebrandt clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’ll oversee the rest of this,” he said. “Just make sure these pieces get put in the right place.”

  Scharnhorst gazed at Magnus with his familiar expression of wary disregard. The general was standing amidst the command retinue in his full ceremonial dress, a brass spyglass clutched in his hand. Kruger, Kossof and the other commanders were with him as always. Towards the rear of the group, Messina lurked, keeping his head down. Magnus had no doubt that he’d been active in talking to Scharnhorst behind his back. For the moment, Ironblood chose to keep his thoughts to himself. After his outburst the previous night, his position was precarious to say the least.

  “And what, may I ask, is the point of bringing our big guns all this way, if we can’t place them within range of the castle walls?” said Scharnhorst, his tone sarcastic.

  Magnus worked hard to keep his voice respectful.

  “I’m not sure who advised you to do that, sir,” he said. “Of course we need to place our artillery pieces in range of the walls. But sending shot high over the battlements will require them to be moved too close. We need to proceed with caution. We’ve already seen that the enemy possesses handguns far superior to ours. It is reasonable to assume they’ve prepared heavy artillery too. If we rush into this, we’ll lose our advantage.”

  Scharnhorst pursed his lips.

  “What would you suggest?” he asked.

  “Deploy our guns immediately in front of the ranks, with companies of halberdiers on hand to defend them against raids. They won’t be able to lob shot right over the battlements from there, but they’ll be close enough to blast at the foundations. That’s all we need to do. One crack in the walls, and we’ve got our entrance.”

  Kruger turned his aristocratic head towards the citadel.

  “I don’t know, Ironblood,” the knight said. “Those walls have been designed to withstand punishment. I think we should be aiming higher. I’ve seen the effect of fire within a closed space. We’ll cause panic. We should aim to make this siege as short as possible. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to.”

  Magnus stifled some smart remark about needing to head back to the estate to oppress the serfs. No one here knew anything about ballistics. Apart from Messina, that was.

  “I could be wrong,” Magnus said, speaking slowly and carefully, trying to stay humble. “I’m aware we haven’t exactly covered ourselves with glory. But I’ve got a strong feeling about this. We’ve been drawn up here by them. They wanted us to come to them. If they were worried about us deploying our cannons so close, they’d have tried to frustrate us. But they’re waiting. They want to make it look as if we can just walk up and start firing at them. I don’t believe it for a second.”

  Scharnhorst was listening carefully. Magnus had to give the man his due. He was sceptical, but he was paying attention.

  “You asked me to run your gunnery for you, sir,” Magnus said, completing his case. “That’s my advice. Deploy as far back as you can. It’ll take time to find our range in any case.”

  Scharnhorst rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking back and forth between the ranks of his own men and the silent walls of the citadel in the distance.

  “Messina,” he said, sharply. “What do you think?”

  Silvio came forward. He at least had the decency to look abashed, and didn’t meet Magnus’ eyes.

  “Herr Ironblood is master engineer,” he said, disingenuously. “His view carries the most weight. With all respect, though, I disagree.”

  His shifty eyes flickered around the assembled men nervously. Magnus could guess his predicament. The man’s stock had risen after the deployment of the flares. But those around him were officers, to whom the chain of command was near-sacred. Kruger looked at him suspiciously. The Tilean would have to play his hand carefully. Magnus kept silent, waiting to see how things would unfold.

  “Those walls are thick. They ar
e designed to take our heavy shot,” said Messina. “You can see that from here. I’ve seen stone like that before. The shape of the star makes it strong. If our shot is just hitting the base of walls, we’ll be here for weeks. We don’t have unlimited cannonballs, and our lines of supply are long.”

  For a moment, Silvio’s gaze alighted on Magnus. Ironblood stared back at him implacably. Messina’s eyes quickly moved back to Scharnhorst.

  “We have explosive charges,” he said, quickly “Like mortar rounds, but lighter. They’re an invention of mine, and I’ve used them before with success. They’re caskets, tied with steel wire and capable of surviving a detonation in the barrel, but full of quick-fire which explodes on hitting. Fuoco del muerto. An apt name. Once it is lit, it’s hard to douse quickly. If we keep up a volley, we can clear the walls. Maybe even in hours. They’ll be so busy running after those fires, you will be able to attack the gates in safety.”

  Scharnhorst remained silent, pondering the options. Kossof, standing at the rear of the captains, muttered to himself.

  “What does it matter which of these heretics we listen to?” he said under his breath. “They’re both as bad as each other. We should be storming the gates!”

  Scharnhorst ignored him. The general looked supremely irritated. Magnus felt an acute sense of shame begin to creep across him. This situation should never have arisen. If he’d been a proper master of his company, Messina would never have been able to undermine him so completely. Now that it had happened, he would just have to wait on the general’s decision.

  “We’ll deploy on the forward ridge, as planned,” said Scharnhorst. His voice had a tone of finality about it that brooked no disagreement. He turned to Magnus. “This is nothing personal, Ironblood. But I can’t see any ordnance on those walls, and the scouts report nothing either. You’ve been too cautious all through this campaign. If we can get those lower levels on fire, our task will be made that much easier. And if we end up spending weeks up here waiting for the walls to crack, we’ll start running low on supplies.”

  Magnus felt his heart sink. The final humiliation. His command of his men had been undermined again. He pondered protesting, but then saw the implacable expression on the general’s face. The man wasn’t going to change his mind.

  “I want you to oversee the deployment as soon as those guns are unloaded and prepared,” said Scharnhorst. “You’re the master engineer. Make sure that they can clear the battlements.”

  The general turned to Messina.

  “Take your orders from Ironblood,” he said, though his voice didn’t quite carry the conviction it had earlier. “He’s the superior officer. Remember that.”

  The two men bowed, and left the group of commanders together. As they walked down from the retinue, the remaining captains fell into discussion about other aspects of the siege. There was much to organise, and the day was waning fast.

  Magnus gave Messina a hard stare. The Tilean said nothing, and had trouble meeting the older man’s gaze. It was the first time they’d spoken since Magnus’ performance in front of Scharnhorst. As they walked on, there was an uneasy silence.

  “Why are you doing this, Messina?” said Magnus at last. His voice was neither accusatory nor whining. He just wanted to know. “We’d be better working together. You can’t hide behind the general forever.”

  Messina kept his eyes on the floor.

  “I do not know what you’re talking about, sir,” he said. “General Scharnhorst asked for my advice.”

  Magnus laughed, a bitter sound with no mirth in it.

  “So you’re playing that game,” he said. His pained smile left his face. “Listen, lad. You’re young. You know how to fire a pistol, and you’re good with the machinery. That’s why I hired you. But don’t play politics. You may think you can run with Scharnhorst and come away with something extra from this, but you’ll burn your fingers. I’ve served with his sort before. He doesn’t think much of me, and that’s given you your chance. But overplay your hand, and you’ll regret it.”

  Messina remained stony-faced.

  “Where do you want me starting on these guns?” he said.

  Magnus sighed. There were fights he enjoyed, and fights he didn’t. This was one he didn’t.

  “The iron-belchers are ready,” he said, motioning towards Hildebrandt and a gang of gunners. “I’ll look to the lighter ordnance. If I’m right, and I hope I’m not, it’s all we’ll have left in a few hours anyway.”

  By mid-afternoon, the guns had been hauled into position. Crews milled around them, piling shot in neat pyramids behind the heavy iron cannons and laying out the rest of their equipment on sheets of leather. The artillery pieces were the largest in the army’s arsenal, designed to break down castle walls or send heavy shot hurtling into massed enemy formations. Magnus had seen similar guns in action on many battlefields in the past. Used rightly, they were devastating. Used wrongly, they were expensive, dangerous follies. It all depended on who was in charge.

  Each cannon had a crew of up to half a dozen men attached to it. The most important member was the master gunner, responsible for sighting the gun. This was an inexact science, mostly involving ramming wooden wedges under the great wheels to raise the barrel to the required angle. The master gunners had travelled with the same weapon for years, though, and knew all its idiosyncrasies and kinks.

  The master was accompanied by a gunnery crew who had responsibility for loading, sponging and firing the mechanism. One man carried the heavy ramrod used to thrust the shot and cartridge of blackpowder deep into the barrel, while another had a stave-mounted sponge of rags covered in wool used to clean the interior after a detonation. There were pails of dirty water next to every piece, needed for when the iron barrel reached dangerous temperatures. During a heated exchange, this could happen with unnerving speed.

  When the shot was loaded and rammed, the gun aimed in the right direction and at the right elevation, the gunnery master would step forwards with a lighted wick. The flaming kindling would be dropped into the pan, filled with blackpowder. All being well, the detonation would be immediate. The blackpowder would cause the cartridge within the iron shaft to explode. The cannon would rock back on its wheels, slamming against the back of the chassis and jumping like an animal. With any luck, the crew would have got out of the way in time, cowering behind whatever shelter they had to hand. Gunnery hands soon learned to move quickly.

  With a well-bored piece, the shot would be sent high and true, and the cannon would come back to rest on its chassis, ready for reloading. But such was the way of things that the cartridge was perfectly capable of rupturing the shell of iron around it, or blasting the breech out backwards, or shattering the wooden framework beneath, or a dozen other calamitous things. Not for nothing were prayers whispered to Morr every time a great cannon was deployed. They were ferocious devices, but also capricious. If the barrel exploded, the worst of all the things that could happen, then there was little hope for the crew.

  To his credit, Messina worked hard on the deployment. Magnus watched him closely. In another situation, he would have agreed with the Tilean’s strategy. But this was different. Having been stung once by the range of the handguns, he had a deep-seated feeling that their deployment was ruinously close. Something about the enemy’s equipment scared him. The serpentine was part of it. For all Thorgad’s words about dwarfish design, there was something familiar about it. Nothing he could put his finger on, just a vague recollection of something from the far past. He took the shard of metal out of his pocket and looked at it again. It winked in the sunlight, looking as innocent as a lady’s necklace. Only an engineer would know it for what it was, the trigger that ignited the destructive power of the weapon. It was a piece of exquisite, and dangerous, machinery.

  Magnus sighed, and put it away. Messina and Herschel were coming towards him. The Tilean had recovered most of his habitual self-assurance, but the lad from Averland looked uncertain whom to defer to. Ironblood almost felt so
rry for him.

  “We are in place, sir,” said Messina. “Will you give the order to fire?”

  Magnus looked along the line of cannons. The crews gazed back at him expectantly. The fuses had been lit, and the first volley of Silvio’s strange shot had been loaded and rammed. Thorgad and Hildebrandt stood some distance away, looking unconvinced. Neither spoke.

  “Very good,” said Magnus, and glanced up at the silent walls of Morgramgar. There was still no movement visible on the high walls. The dark citadel remained entirely silent, entirely still. Only the slight movement of the death’s-head standard and the swaying of the strange chains broke the impression of implacable hostility. It was an unnerving construction. The walls looked as smooth and unbroken as ever. If he didn’t know that the citadel was swarming with troops deep inside, Magnus might have presumed it had been abandoned.

  From several yards away, Scharnhorst stood peering at the ramparts through his spyglass. All other eyes were on the artillery rank.

  Magnus pushed that out of his mind, and raised his hand.

  “On my mark!” he cried.

  The master gunners shuffled to their positions. Magnus could feel his breathing begin to speed up. There was an air of stifled expectation across the whole army. This was what they had come for.

  He muttered a brief benediction to Sigmar, then raised his eyes to the walls once more.

  “Fire!” he cried.

  The wicks fell. Almost immediately, the cartridges in the cannon exploded. In a ragged line, the great guns leapt back on their chassis, and the air was filled with the noxious stench of blackpowder. Messina’s ingenious shells were blasted high into the air.

  Magnus followed their progress intently, shading his eyes against the white of the sky. The master gunners had done their job well. Only one shell spun off target, smashing into the rock in front of the gates. It exploded messily, spreading an orange carpet of flames across the stony ground. The rest sailed over the tops of the ramparts. They ignited against the dark walls, spreading their deadly cargo across the battlements.