02 - Iron Company

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Then, at last, it came. One cannonball, hurled far into the air and sent hurtling towards the gates, found its mark perfectly. The edifice, weakened by the ferocious waves of shot, crumbled. A huge cheer went up from the assembled ranks. Despite the drifting layers of smoke, they could see what was happening. The lintel had fallen. The arch was going down. The gates were broken.

  More projectiles were hurled. Rockets spun into the ruin. Mortars sent their deadly contents into the breach. Flames sprang up as the entire gatehouse slid into rubble. On either side of its mighty frame, the walls began to splinter. All of a sudden, Morgramgar looked vulnerable. The way was open. The wolf had been thrown down.

  Trumpets sounded once more from the command group.

  “Cease firing!” cried Magnus.

  It took a while for his order to be heeded. Some of the more enthusiastic crews managed to get another round away before they were dragged back by their counterparts. The smoke rolled across the vista. Morgramgar was revealed again. Its walls were still smooth and unbroken. But where the gates had stood, there was now a gaping hole. The doors had been utterly destroyed, and the pillars on either side of them were bent and sagging.

  Magnus smiled thinly. He had done what was asked of him. Now the army could be unleashed at last. He looked over at Scharnhorst, and nodded.

  More trumpets rang out, and a series of signals passed along the ranks. With a roar, of relief as much as anything else, the long held-back ranks of footsoldiers were loosed. Like a herd of wild beasts, they rushed forward, brandishing their weapons in the harsh morning sun, yelling and shouting with abandon. At their side were the flagellants, outdoing all others in ferocity, scourging themselves into a frenzy even as they charged headlong towards the breach. The handgunners advanced too, keeping further back, held from the vanguard by their stony-faced commanders. Slowly, cautiously, Magnus gave the order for the artillery to be hauled to closer quarters. There was still work for them to do, but they would need to be nearer.

  At the very centre of the huge mass of bodies, the Knights of the Iron Sceptre were the foremost. Their long black pennants streamed outwards as their steeds tore up the stone from under them. The noise of their massed hooves rivalled the blasts of the smaller guns. Magnus could see Kruger at the forefront, his standard held high, his black helm catching the sun and glinting like polished onyx. Despite himself, Magnus felt his heart surge. The sight was glorious. After so long trudging through the passes, hauling the machinery, putting up with one slight after another, the moment of release had finally come.

  But just then, even as the vanguard thundered towards the gates and the hordes of men followed eagerly in their wake, there was a gigantic, resonating boom from the citadel. Silent for so long it suddenly burst into life. Fires were kindled, and flames shot up from the battlements. Rows of archers appeared along the lower walls. From the gate there came the sound of brazen trumpets. Drums started up, beating wildly and echoing from the valley walls. As if waiting for Scharnhorst’s men to commit themselves, Morgramgar finally stirred. The army it had been cradling within its deep vaults, so long rumoured, was finally disgorged from the broken gates.

  With a blood-freezing shout, ranks of black-clad infantry poured from the breach to meet the onslaught. They kept coming. Rank after rank. There were gunners amongst them. The crack of their shots was audible even over the tumult. And there were mounted soldiers, armoured in plate and wearing black death’s-head emblems. They looked as well armed as the Iron Sceptre knights, and charged towards the invaders with as much ferocity.

  Still they kept coming. There were marching ranks of halberdiers, pouring from the shattered gates like ants spilling from a disturbed nest. The gap between the two armies narrowed. There was no let up. Each hurled themselves towards the other as if the End Times were upon them. Magnus narrowed his eyes. The vanguards would clash while still a long way from the gates. Had the enemy intended this? Why had his forces been kept in reserve for so long?

  He turned back to the guns.

  “Haul them faster, damn your eyes!” he bellowed, urging the men on. It took time to drag a whole artillery line into a new position. The guns needed careful handling. The barrels were red-hot still, and the horses were nervous and skittish from the explosions. The longer the crews took, however, the longer the footsoldiers were without heavy artillery cover.

  Magnus looked back. Thorgad had scrambled on top of a pile of ammunition kegs to get a better view. He looked anxious to join the fray. The knights had reached the front lines of the advancing enemy. Behind them, footsoldiers piled in. Horses slammed into the front ranks, tearing a swathe through the oncoming infantry. Steel clashed against steel. The crack of long guns opened up from the right flank, and more men stumbled into the dust of the field. The pungent aroma of blood was mingled with the bitter stench of the blackpowder. The drums rolled. The fires burned. The war machines roared.

  Battle was joined.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Guns! Explosions! The smell of fire and fear! Gentlemen, there is nothing better, nothing on earth. What sport would war be without it? They say that the age of Sigmar was the age of heroism. Don’t believe a word of it! These are the days of glory, my friends! The time of blackpowder and steel! May it last forever!

  —Reported last words of

  Master Gunner Augerich von Mettelblicken

  Messina and Herschel were still working. The thunder of battle was all around, only slightly muffled by the thick canvas about them. The whine of rockets and the thud of the mortars broke the uniform clamour of arms. Below it all, the distant machines under Morgramgar still turned, and the heavy drums still rolled.

  “Nearly there…” said Messina, clambering over the huge frame of the Blutschreiben. He had two different gauges of spanner in each hand, and was tightening the last of the bolts on the exterior of the wooden skeleton. Against all the odds, it looked like they would make it. The chassis was complete. The furnace was stoked, and thick black smoke was pouring from the rear stacks. It billowed out of the open tent doors. There was now no hope of secrecy, but the need had passed. The machine was functional. Its time had come at last.

  “Is the locomotive bearing connected correctly?” asked Lukas, his voice sounding thin and scared. “I don’t think we’re ready for this, Silvio.”

  Messina laughed. His spirits had not been as high for days. Ironblood may have been a tyrant and a drunkard, but he knew how to build a war machine. The Blutschreiben stood nearly ten feet high at its tallest point. Its four massive wheels, adapted from the largest of their wagons and studded with iron spikes, turned effortlessly at the press of a lever. The enormous power of the furnace made the whole structure vibrate, like an animal eager to be released. Atop it all, the confusion of piping, bracings, gun housings, armoured plates, pulley mechanisms and gear chains, was the glory of the thing. A rotating chair, set on a ring of brass and festooned with controls of every sort. Though it was mostly constructed from wood taken from common wagons and iron stripped from existing artillery pieces, it was finer to his eyes than all the golden thrones of Araby.

  Messina clambered into it, dropped the spanners and took control of the main set of levers. With a judder and a gout of soot, the machine rolled jerkily forward.

  “She moves!” cried Messina, wild with triumph. He felt the same way he always did at the prospect of a fresh new conquest, of whatever sort. He could sense the enormous latent power of the machine beneath him. “A work of genius! Why did the old fool not build it?”

  Lukas hung back still.

  “Are you really taking it out there?”

  Messina looked down at him scornfully. He felt like some obscenely powerful potentate of the lands of legend, housed in his own steam-powered device of ruin.

  “So what do you think?” he said, witheringly “Why would I build it, if not to use in battle? We aren’t too late! This is our time!”

  “There’s been no testing!” cried Lukas, suddenly looking
angry with his mentor. “Ironblood knew there was something wrong with—”

  Before he could finish, one of the gaskets within the maze of piping blew. A column of scalding steam shot backwards. The chains driving the wheels shuddered, then went limp. The smoke coming out of the main furnace began to splutter and spit out dark gobbets of oil.

  “Shut it down!” cried Lukas. “It’ll blow!”

  Messina, flustered, pulled a couple of levers in front of him and depressed a great brass-tipped column. The engine heaved and coughed, then went dead. Slowly, with a last parting shudder for good measure, the contraption came to a halt.

  The air was thick with smoke. Soot had caked the entire rear end of the machinery. Steaming water leaked from the pipes under the chassis and pooled against the rock. The thing seemed to sink back a little into the earth.

  Messina peered over the edge of the turret, his spirits still high. It was a setback, nothing more.

  “It moves!” he said again, his face still filled with a childish delight. “Help me get it working again!”

  Lukas looked out of the tent entrance, clearly torn between making the machine safe and rushing to help with the fighting. For a moment, he hesitated, a sword in one hand, a wrench in the other.

  “Come on,” said Messina, smoothly, knowing the lad was suggestible. “We’ve spent days making this thing. All the problems have been solved. With this, we can turn tide of the battle. If we make a name for ourselves, what is the harm? We’re so close!”

  Lukas looked up at him, and his gaze was accusatory.

  “This is all about the gold, isn’t it?” he said, and he dropped the wrench. “Enough. You’ve kept me tied up with this folly long enough. No more.”

  He brandished his sword, and shot one last, dark look up at Messina.

  “You’ve taught me a lot, Silvio,” he said. “Perhaps in more ways than you know.”

  And then he was gone, his blond head ducking under the tent flap and out into the camp beyond.

  “Come back!” cried Messina, struggling to extricate himself from the narrow turret. “Damn you, Herschel! It’s not about the gold! It’s about—”

  His foot slipped. His hands scrabbled onto the brass lip of the chair, but missed their aim. For a sickening moment, he felt nothing beneath him. Then he was on the hard floor with a heavy thump, his head cracking against the near wheel of the Blutschreiben. His vision went black, and waves of blood-red pain started behind his eyes.

  “Mother of Luccina!” he hissed, getting up with difficulty.

  Messina staggered to the tent entrance. To their credit, the hired guards were still at their stations. They peered at Silvio as if he were some bestial creature from the wilds. The Tilean clasped a hand to his aching head, and scowled at them.

  “Do not stand there stupid like Bretonnian pigs,” he snapped. “There is three more silver pieces for each of you if you will come inside and help me get this thing working. Keep your mouth shut and don’t ask questions, and I will make you all rich men.”

  The venality of soldiers was always worth a punt. The three men looked at each other for a moment, then the most senior of them nodded.

  “Very well. What needs to be done?”

  Messina smiled through his rapidly developing headache. Who needed Lukas?

  “Come inside, my good men,” he said. “Steady yourselves when entering, and I will show you one of the wonders of the Old World.”

  Rathmor stood on the balcony, high up on the leading wall of the citadel. He gazed over the battle, raging far below on the plain. The wind tore at his cloak, pulling it over his shoulder.

  His expression was sour. There was no art in such warfare. The brutish clash of arms did nothing to stir his sensibilities. Only in the subtle arts of slow pain, or the mighty contest between machines, was there any glory. Above all, he valued the duel between masters of the single-shot gun. That was where the majesty of combat lay. To wield a true-firing pistol against one’s opponent was the highest form of civilised conflict. Almost everything else was tedious barbarism. It was a pity that he’d almost certainly not have the opportunity to indulge his passion in this messy engagement.

  He was shaken from his introspection by a familiar sound. Once more, like a recurring bad dream, Esselman had come to bother him. The man was irritating beyond words. His soldier’s mind was pathetically limited, and his endless interference had become wearing. It seemed to Rathmor as if he’d never be left alone with his high, lofty thoughts. When all of this was over, he would really have to see whether the lady could do any better for her generals.

  Esselman arrived on the balcony, stood beside him and looked over the same scene. His face was grim. There was a lurid weal on one cheek. The results of his last meeting with the lady, no doubt.

  “You’ve set the traps, as we discussed?” he said, his voice clipped.

  Rathmor nodded.

  “All the inner levels have been rigged,” he said. “If the need comes, we can turn this place into a pyre. But only if the need comes. The treasures in the forges are beyond price, even for the lady. We’ll never see their like again.”

  Esselman grunted in reply.

  “Good,” he said. “My place is on the field. I’ll leave you to play with your toys.”

  Rathmor bristled at the insult, but said nothing in reply It was his “toys” that powered the whole enterprise. Without them, Esselman would be nothing more than a provincial commander.

  “There’s one last thing,” said the general, curtly.

  Rathmor waited. He knew what was coming, but Esselman would at least have to ask him outright.

  “The infernal machine.”

  Still Rathmor didn’t reply.

  “I know it’s ready,” continued Esselman, his voice failing to hide a note of urgency. “You told me yourself. Tell me where it is. I’ll have a gunner assigned to it. They’ll break against it like rain on the hills.”

  Rathmor stayed unresponsive for a moment longer, but then his resolve failed. It was only a matter of time. He couldn’t keep it safely stowed forever. This wasn’t the proper moment for it, but the situation was difficult. He could hardly deny the man his tools now.

  “Very well,” he said, turning to face Esselman and fixing him with as stern a look as he could generate. “You can take it out. There are men in my retinue who know how to power it. If you truly need it to guarantee victory, that is. But I’d planned to unleash them all together. Alone, the infernal machine can cause havoc. In formation, they will be unstoppable.”

  Esselman nodded. That was as close to thanks as he was ever going to get.

  “It must be deployed now. They have the advantage of numbers. We need to break it.”

  Rathmor looked back over the sea of men below. It looked like a tide of darkness, ready to wash against the foundations of the citadel. Much as he hated to see his beloved creations sent out prematurely, he couldn’t help but suppress a smile at the thought of the carnage they would wreak.

  “I’ll come down with you. You will have your precious machine on the field in moments. Who knows? I may even join you out there. It’s been too long since I tasted the aroma of blood on the air.”

  The two men turned and walked back from the balcony. They disappeared into the tower behind, and the great doors were slammed shut. Far above them, the death’s-head standard fluttered once, caught by the wind, and then hung still.

  Thorgad had gone. The dwarf could not be restrained, and had charged down the slope into the thick of the fighting. Even over so many other sounds, Magnus could just about hear him. His strange battle cries were like no other shout from the field. The engineer couldn’t suppress a faint smile. Dwarfs were irritating and irritable in roughly equal measure, but they were peerless fighters.

  He looked over his shoulder. The artillery pieces had been dragged forwards into their new firing positions. Hildebrandt had taken control of the longer-range pieces, and was already goading the crews to reload. Magnus turne
d away. That was no longer his job. He was with the handgunners. In a close melee, they were the ones to turn the battle.

  “Form up!” he cried. The two detachments of Hochland handgunners under his direct command responded quickly. They were getting better.

  The regiments were a few dozen yards from the press of the fighting. The battle was evenly poised. The enemy sortie had prevented the attackers from reaching the gates, but they had been unable to break through Scharnhorst’s lines. Now the Hochland army had pinned the defenders back, and the hand-to-hand combat stretched in a long line before the citadel walls. For the moment, it was a stalemate. The conflict was ferocious, but it had yet to resolve one way or the other.

  Some of the handgunners had already charged into the fray, dragged into it by their enthusiasm and foolish captains. That was not the way to conduct ranged battle. The guns were only effective at a distance, and could only bring their power to bear in coordinated volleys. The key was discipline.

  “Keep together men!” bellowed Magnus, and looked down the lines of gunners severely. “Fire, advance, then fire again. Any man who gets out of line will have me to answer to! And pick your targets. It’s a mess out there.”

  He raised his hand, and the gunners lifted their weapons to their shoulders. At the edge of their range, the boiling mass of fighting men struggled. It was hard to make out who was who. Then there was a break, and a contingent of Anna-Louisa’s troops charged towards them. They were dressed in the black livery of the citadel, and were armed with swords and axes.

  Magnus smiled. Fodder for his guns.

  “Fire!” he cried, and there was a instant rolling crack along the lines.

  Shot spun into the advancing attackers, felling a dozen instantly. The charge broke, and some even turned back.