Then he saw it. She had emerged. One of the windows had been opened. Far up the tower there was a narrow balcony. Anna-Louisa stood against it, her skirts fluttering in the smoky air. She was too far away for Hildebrandt to make out much of her expression, but it seemed she was smiling. The effect was mesmerising. Soldiers of Scharnhorst’s army who had been fed the story of Margravine von Kleister’s power and majesty now stared at the frail woman standing over them. Her own troops were similarly transfixed. Many looked horrified, discovering for the first time the true nature of their dread mistress.
“O men of Hochland!” she cried. Her voice was high and fragile, but it carried down to the courtyard well enough. A crazed edge was still apparent in it. “Why do you fight in my castle? Do you not know that soon we shall all march to Altdorf together? Put away your toys! It is time for bed!”
Her words had an instant impart. Soldiers of the citadel stood staring, or shook their heads in disbelief. From parts of Scharnhorst’s regiments, a raucous laughter broke out. Commanders bellowed in anger, urging their men back to the fighting, but it was no good. Anna-Louisa had stolen their thunder. Like some grotesque ghost of childhood, she loomed over them. As her fortress burned down below, she let slip a giddy laugh.
“You look so funny down there!” she giggled. “Stop your nonsense now. Where is my soldier man? He should have come to see me.”
More laughter broke out amongst the soldiers. Anna-Louisa’s troops fell back, some openly disputing between themselves. The unveiling of their commander had broken their vengeful spirit. Hildebrandt could see the look of horror on the faces nearest him. He could understand it well enough. Many of them had died. They had been promised much. It would be a hard lesson, to learn how far they had been deceived. Some of the troops even put down their weapons, throwing their hands up in disgust. Their commanders began moving through the ranks, cursing them and ordering them to take up arms again.
They responded only slowly. The momentum of the battle had been broken, and it was slow to recover. The long days of fighting, the endless cold and privation, had broken the martial spirit of many of the men. It was not as if they were struggling for survival against one of the dread foes of mankind. They were all Hochlanders, all simple men of the Empire, locked in combat due to the whims and obsessions of their distant superiors. Like beaten animals, they were herded back into combat. The commanders barked orders, cajoled with promises of plunder, threatened with the prospect of punishment.
Slowly, unwillingly, the men took up their swords. Anna-Louisa continued to laugh and rave. The knights charged, and the spell was broken. Scharnhorst’s troops reformed their defensive positions, and Esselman’s contingents renewed the press towards the tower. Steel clashed against steel, and the cries of anger and agony drowned out the crackle and spit of the flames. The distant roar of the fires in the keep had grown louder, and the columns of smoke curling into the night were thick and dark. Anna-Louisa was forgotten, a pathetic figure railing from the balcony unheeded.
Then the assault stumbled again. A single shot rang out across the courtyard, echoing from the walls around it. Another voice was raised in a great, resounding shout. It came from one of the lesser towers on the east side of the courtyard. There was a balcony set high up. A man stood at it. He had long, grey hair and wore a leather coat. He leaned over the masses below, pressing against the iron railing just as Anna-Louisa had done. In one hand he held a laden sack. In the other he held a pistol.
“Men of Hochland!” he cried, and his voice echoed around the strangely quiet scene. “You have been lied to! You were told there was gold for you at the end of your glorious campaign. You were told that your patron was a woman of power and wealth. All of these are lies. You can see with your own eyes that the margravine is mad. She has been used by evil men. Forget their stories! One of them is dead. The other still leads you. Reject him! He has nothing to offer you but this!”
At that, he swung the sack over his head several times, before launching it out over the heads of the two armies. It spun in the air, spraying its cargo in every direction. At first, it seemed as if the bag contained a collection of blood-red jewels. The nuggets rained down, bouncing from the stone and clattering across the flags. As they landed, the soldiers cowered, expecting some new engineering terror. But no fire exploded over their heads, and no strange blast kindled on the hot stone. The pebble-like projectiles lay against the flags, glinting in the firelight. Seized with a sudden realisation, men scrabbled after them.
“Gold!” came the cry. The scuffle became a frenzy. Fights broke out instantly. All discipline had been broken. The courtyard descended into confusion once more.
“My gold!” came a wail from the tower. Anna-Louisa had climbed onto the balcony edge, her face creased with distress. “Do not take my gold!”
The man in the leather coat laughed, and the sound of it echoed even above the growing commotion below.
“Fear not, lady!” he shouted. “It is worthless! Like your promises!”
The truth of it was gradually emerging. As men fought over the nuggets, they shattered and broke between their fingers. Greed turned to anger. A low murmur began to build across Anna-Louisa’s forces. Hildebrandt, standing amid the ranks of Scharnhorst’s troops, looked over towards the rear of the courtyard. The enemy command group was besieged by their own men, and had drawn arms.
“My gold!” shrieked Anna-Louisa, and stood, precariously, on the rim of the railing. She seemed to be stretched out into the void, desperately clawing at the air. Hildebrandt looked up. With a sudden feeling of nausea, he could see what would happen.
“Get out of the way!” he shouted. It was hopeless. There were dozens of men directly beneath her. They were squabbling over the fool’s gold, all thought of the conflict lost.
There was a desperate, last flail before her balance was lost completely. Anna-Louisa grasped the railing, her eyes wide and staring. For a brief second, her gaze seemed to clarify. She looked out over the ruins of her fortress. The flames burned, licking even up the parapet of the courtyard. A wan smile crossed her ruined features. The madness in her eyes dimmed. Her features relaxed. For a moment, she seemed as she must have done, years ago. She lingered for a heartbeat longer. Then her fingers unclasped. Without a sound, she dropped from the balcony. Her nightdress flapping, she plummeted. Hildebrandt averted his eyes. There was a heavy crack, and then nothing.
The fires were growing. The armies were seized by a dark and mutinous mood. The grip of the commanders was loosened, and murderous fighting broke out again.
Madness swept across the regiments, as the utter futility and desperation of their situation became apparent. They would get no money. There would be no plunder. All that remained was a blind rage, the fury of the mob. At the base of the tower, the storm of anger swirled. Hochlanders put down their long guns and picked up blades. Morgramgar had become a pyre, a gruesome monument to the folly of Anna-Louisa and the ruthless response of Ludenhof.
It seemed as if both armies would be consumed with the same primal rage. Once the lust for blood was kindled, it was hard to douse. But Scharnhorst was still at the heart of the fighting, and his knights were clustered around. The kernel of his army remained true, a fixed point around which the madness revolved. Slowly, his iron will began to exert itself. Regiments of Ludenhofs Grand Army were beaten into shape by their captains, and formed up to charge into the demoralised, shapeless ranks of Anna-Louisa’s men. The Knights of the Iron Sceptre, noble warriors who had little need for more gold, kept their heads. Scharnhorst’s army gradually recovered its poise, and began to push out from the steps around the tower. Slowly, and with each step contested, they pressed against the noose around them, driving the encircling ranks of soldiers back towards the parapet.
There was no disciplined response. Anna-Louisa’s army had turned in on itself. It was an army of mercenaries, hired by the promise of riches. Seeing the ruin of their hopes, many of them tried to flee. Others went bers
erk in their frustration and bitterness, attacking anyone who came near them, friend or foe. Knots of desperate men dragged their own commanders down. Throats were cut in the dark, and scores settled.
The rot of mutiny spread fast. The most bitter of the fighters, professional murderers and brawlers, the dogs of war, needed a culprit for their loss. Too late did the command group see the danger. The rear ranks of Anna-Louisa’s forces turned tail and surged towards Esselman. There was a murderous sheen in their eyes. Their swords dripped with gore as they came.
There was nowhere for the general to go. He was pinned at the back of the courtyard with only the sheer drop down to the next level behind him. One by one, Esselman and his commanders were set upon and pulled into the maw of the mob. Far from help, swords rose and fell quickly, and the cries of Anna-Louisa’s captains were brief before being silenced. The orgy of rage was ratcheted higher. Soldiers trampled over their comrades, just for the chance to desecrate the corpses of the men who had betrayed them. Fists hammered down, feet stamped, fingers gouged. The stones were covered in a thick carpet of blood. With a roar of empty triumph, the mutineers dragged the corpses to the edge of the parapet. With little ceremony, the bloodied bodies were stripped of their armour and valuables, then hurled over the edge and into the inferno below. Esselman was the last. As his blackened, mutilated body sailed into the void, a huge cheer broke from the armies. Both of them.
Lukas looked at Hildebrandt, a mix of amazement and uncertainty in his expression.
“What is this, Tobias?” he said.
Hildebrandt leaned on his sword. He could see Scharnhorst and his commanders surging forward, slicing through the broken ranks of the enemy. The standard of Hochland was being carried into the heart of Anna-Louisa’s forces. Their formations were broken, their hopes ended. All that was left was the final bout of killing, the final snuffing of the candle.
“This is the end, Lukas,” said Hildebrandt, wearily preparing to join the assault for the last time.
There was no triumph in his voice. All around them, Morgramgar burned. And in the firelight, crushed underfoot, the nuggets of fool’s gold twinkled, a final mockery to heap insult onto the memory of all those who had died.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The fact that I have become, by dint of my skill and labour, one of the pre-eminent engineers in the Empire, is a matter of considerable pride to me. Not a day goes by without me giving thanks to Sigmar for his grace in granting me my gifts of invention and the moral character to use them wisely. And yet all these things pale into nothingness beside the greatest creation of my life, the one that fills me with joy beyond compare, and in earnest of which I would gladly give up all else. My son, Magnus, the priceless jewel for the sake of which all else has been done. I am proud of him, though he doesn’t know it as he should. I am old now, and I write these words for posterity. One day he shall rise up and shake the Empire with his deeds. He has the skill. And, in time, if the fates are kind, he will discover the will.
—Augustus Ironblood Private diary.
Recovered and preserved in the Imperial College, Nuln
The smoke drifted down the valley, staining the clear mountain air. Dawn had broken several hours since, and still the lower levels of Morgramgar burned. Scharnhorst had long abandoned the attempt to save the citadel. The survivors of the assault had been withdrawn. Those who had fought for Anna-Louisa were disarmed and interned. Their trials, or what passed for them, would take place in Hergig. After a day of being near abandoned, the camp was inhabited again, and the men wearily went about gathering their supplies for the long march back to the lowlands. All were exhausted. There was no mood of victory. Morgramgar had held neither riches nor glory. It had been cursed, a monument to the madness and greed of the noble classes and nothing more.
Magnus sat on one of the artillery wagons back in the encampment, gazing over the ruins before him. They smouldered darkly under the shoulder of the mighty crag beyond. Every so often a muffled boom would announce that some hidden cache had gone off. The proud aspect of the fortress had been mauled beyond recognition. Many of the towers had fallen. Those that were left were charred and cracked. The forges, deep in the heart of Rathmor’s conflagration, were lost forever.
Magnus thought of the rows of infernal machines hidden in those dark storerooms. And the ranks of forges, now silenced. Perhaps it was for the best that they were destroyed. There was some knowledge that the world was better off without.
His thoughts were interrupted by a massive, rolling blast in the distance. He lifted his eyes in time to see the central tower, the emerald-encrusted pinnacle, slowly crumble. With a muffled roar, it toppled over, throwing a cloud of dust high into the air. With it gone, the citadel lost its residual terror. It was now nothing more than a collection of ruins, high in the wastes of the Middle Mountains. They had done what they came for. Kleister’s fortress had been razed.
There was a movement at Magnus’ shoulder. Hildebrandt came and sat down by him. He watched the same spectacle grimly for a while.
“What do you think will become of it?” he said in his deep, rolling voice.
Magnus shrugged, not really caring.
“Who knows?” he said. “Maybe Ludenhof will have it rebuilt.”
Hildebrandt turned away from the citadel, and looked at Magnus.
“You were in the vaults,” he said. “How did you get out of there? The whole place was on fire.”
Magnus smiled weakly.
“It helped having a dwarf at my side,” he said. “As ever, he knew all the hidden ways.”
Magnus sighed, and looked away from the wreck of Morgramgar.
“He’s gone now,” he said. “It turned out that this was more about him than any of us. He’s happy, at least.”
Hildebrandt didn’t ask what that comment was about. For a moment, the two of them sat in silence.
Two old friends, perched on a ramshackle cart on the edge of the civilised world. All around was wasteland, desolation and destruction.
“So was it worth it, this commission?” asked Hildebrandt, finally.
Magnus didn’t reply immediately.
“Not for the money we’ll get,” he said at last. “And Messina’s dead. I regret that, despite everything. I should have worked harder with him. He had no idea of the danger he was in. And the Blutschreiben has gone forever. I now know what Rathmor did after leaving Nuln. We’ve stopped him spreading his madness further. That’s something, I suppose.”
Hildebrandt nodded, but without much enthusiasm.
“I suppose so,” he said.
Ahead of them, amongst the toiling ranks of men dismantling the camp ready for the journey home, Magnus suddenly caught sight of Lukas. The boy was laughing and joking with a band of halberdiers. In the sun, his flaxen hair looked bright and unsullied.
“The lad,” Magnus said. “He was with you at the end, yes?”
Hildebrandt nodded.
“Will he make it, do you think? Will he become an engineer?”
Hildebrandt thought for a moment, before fixing Magnus with a level gaze.
“Maybe,” he said. “But he’s seen what can be done with the machines. He saw what it did to Messina. If that’s the future, I’d wager he wants no part of it.”
“You sound like I did,” said Magnus. “Back in Hergig. You don’t regret what we’ve done, do you?”
Hildebrandt looked back over the smoking ruins of Morgramgar, and his expression was bleak.
“You persuaded me to come with you, Magnus,” he said. “Truth be told, I came to protect you from yourself. Maybe this will be the saving of you. I hope it is. But there’s nothing for me here now. A man grows sick of the killing. When we’re back, that’s it for me. No more campaigns. You’d do well to do the same. Find an honest trade. Leave the fighting to younger men. Our time has passed.”
Magnus said nothing, but followed his friend’s gaze out towards the broken fortress. The smoke still poured out.
“T
he Empire will always need Iron Companies,” he said, though his heart was not quite in it.
“So you say,” said Hildebrandt, and neither was his.
In the distance, a series of trumpets were blown to mark the lifting of the camp. Horses were whipped into action, and the loaded wagons and carts began to move. Men shouldered their weapons and pulled their packs onto their backs. In the midst of them were the handgunners. Their numbers were sorely reduced. There were few cannons left too. Hochland’s arsenal would take months to recover its strength. The entire state had been weakened, its strength sapped by the feuds between powerful men. Even as its armies were drained of their potency, the foes of mankind multiplied in the wastelands beyond. The whole affair had been dirty, vicious, demoralising and dangerous. If this was victory, it was a sour taste to savour.
Hildebrandt said nothing more. After a few moments, he got down from his seat and walked over to the remnants of the artillery train. His voice was soon raised in the distance, shouting orders to the men, getting the caravan into order.
Magnus watched him for a moment, before turning his gaze one final time back to Morgramgar. The thought that Rathmor, the architect of the disaster which killed his father, lay buried under the mountain was some consolation for all that had happened. And despite everything, there was a flicker of pride deep within his breast.
He reached down for his gourd. For the last few days, he had barely thought of having a drink. Now, with all the excitement over, he surely deserved a swig. As he drew the leather to his lips, he paused. For some reason, the smell of the ale repelled him. Perhaps it had finally turned. Of perhaps finally he had.
He let the gourd fall down at his feet. The beer ran from the neck, foaming brown. It seeped into the rock. There suddenly seemed so little point to it. He had drowned in drink to forget the past. Now the past had returned, and its horrors had been more fragile than he’d remembered.
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