The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  Hildebrandt nodded. The knowledge that the Blutschreiben still existed, albeit packed away and dismantled, was tantalising. But now was not the right time. He could return to the subject later.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Messina and the boy have been busy with them all morning. I’ll lend them a hand. We’ll be at Morgramgar soon enough anyway.’

  Thorgad looked doubtful, but said nothing. Magnus let out a deep, shuddering sigh, and sat back down again.

  ‘By Sigmar, I hope so,’ he said. ‘When those cannons are delivered and we’re sending death at them from a safe distance, then I’ll relax. Until then, we’ve got a contest.’

  At noon, the army moved onwards once more. The dead were disposed of quickly and with little ceremony. There was no time for burial, and the bodies were merely piled together and thrown into a crack in the granite plain. Lime was thrown over them, and Kossof gave a blessing. As he spoke to the assembled ranks, hostile eyes were directed at the engineers. Whispers had spread throughout the troops that Ironblood was still drinking, that he had spiked the defenders’ guns to make them fire more slowly, that he was somehow in league with the enemy. It was wild talk, and baseless, but fatigue and fear did strange things to the men’s minds.

  When they returned to the march, they made slow progress. The land wound inexorably upward. The path passed between two mighty shoulders of hard, tumbled rock. It was dark and scoured of all but the hardiest grasses by the wind. The wains struggled, the men laboured, and the chill air bled the last of the energy from tired legs.

  The very landscape seemed set against them. But there was more than cold stone to contend with. In the constant moan of the wind, there were fragments of fell voices. It might have been imagination, might not. High up in the crags, there were definitely things moving. Stones would skitter down slopes, clattering into tired ranks of infantry. Echoing roars sounded from far off in the peaks, and were answered by distant hammer-blows. These were not portents of Anna-Louisa’s men. They were the noises of the unknown mountain reaches, far above the tolerances of mortal men. Whatever dread sentience dwelt in those terrible extremes, it did not descend to trouble them. But all were aware of its presence, and the knowledge added to the febrile atmosphere in the army itself.

  Throughout all of this, Ironblood rode ahead of the gunnery companies, keeping himself to himself. He spoke rarely, and solely to Hildebrandt. Tobias was similarly quiet, locked in thought. Thorgad seemed utterly content in his own company, and strode tirelessly alongside the straining horses. Only Messina and Herschel still kept up something approaching banter with the men. They had been the most heavily involved with the punishing rounds of firing practice, and were looked on by many of the troops as their real mentors.

  The warrior priest Kossof made the most of the situation. He and his acolytes had become the most animated of the army’s many ranks. Every fresh adversity seemed to swell their sense of righteous fury.

  ‘Trust not in the new science, brothers!’ Kossof cried cheerfully, as the snap of whips and shrieks of the faithful rang out into the air. ‘Keep faith in Holy Sigmar! The sword and the spear are the blessed weapons! The time when we will use them is coming! Keep faith!’

  The gunners looked darkly on him as he passed them, but the words found resonance with the halberdiers and pikemen. They had been largely redundant on the journey so far, unable to respond quick enough to the night-time raid. Their skills would only come into play when they arrived at the citadel, and until then they looked restive and surly.

  The other component of the army which retained its vigour was the Knights of the Iron Sceptre. They had the luxury of superior rations and the best equipment. While the bulk of the men shivered in the biting wind, they still rode up and down the lines, secure within heavy suits of armour. Though they were resented, they were also admired. The knights had done more than any others to chase down the night-time attackers, and they were trusted far more than the flighty bunch of engineers and their drunkard commander.

  Despite the harshness of the terrain, they made steady progress. Scharnhorst had sent many men ahead as scouts on the few remaining horses. They patrolled in groups of six, mindful of the possibility of ambush. The rest of the army kept as bunched together as they could, all eyes on the shadows in the rocks.

  After another day of heavy toil, the men crested the last of the great ridges before the valley in which, so the charts said, Morgramgar lay. The citadel itself was some miles distant, and the depression was wreathed in a heavy fog. Mindful of the mistakes of the past, Scharnhorst called a halt as the sun began to wane. They were in a shallow, wide valley surrounded by broken country. It was the only location wide enough to accommodate the whole army, but it was hardly ideal. There were vantage points in the hills around. All knew what that meant, and the men’s eyes flickered nervously up at the jagged rocks enclosing them.

  With an hour to go before nightfall, the camp was rigged properly, and sentries were posted on the high ground beyond. Fires were lit all around the perimeter, and gunners placed on every vantage point. They knew the enemy would come again. This was the rebels’ last chance to strike before the siege was laid. At least they would be prepared this time.

  As the final glow of the sunset ebbed behind the mountains to the west, Magnus sat on his horse, staring moodily at the dying of the light. Thorgad stood alongside him, scouring the mountains ahead.

  ‘Tough country,’ he muttered, seemingly to himself.

  Magnus paid no attention. He knew his mood was weakening his authority with the men. They were looking for a decisive sign, and he was giving them none. His whole body ached for a drink. The scale of his dependence had begun to frighten him. Had he really sunk so low? How close had he been to losing himself entirely? It was a frightening prospect. And yet, despite knowing how ruinous it had been, how close to the edge it had taken him, every fibre in Magnus’s body yearned for one more swig.

  His sombre gaze swept across the ranks of gunners. They were primed and ready, muzzles arranged in long rows, ready for the assault. Their faces were grim in the failing light. They knew that they presented a big target. The enemy would not have to be accurate. Somehow, the defenders would have to pick their opposite numbers in the murk. What was worse, their guns were inferior. Magnus wanted to offer some words of comfort and encouragement. He couldn’t think of any. His mind was sluggish and morbid. They would just have to cope as best they could.

  Just as before, the attack came without warning. Scharnhorst’s extra scouts had clearly not done their job. The night was suddenly lit from all around with muzzle flashes. An instant later, and the harsh sound of the blackpowder igniting echoed from the mountain flanks. Shot spat into the close-packed ranks of men. The sickeningly familiar cries of agony rose into the night.

  ‘Keep your formations!’ cried Magnus, suddenly galvanised into action. ‘Remember your training! Return fire! Aim for the flashes!’

  The response was less chaotic than it had been. Despite their losses, the lines of handgunners held their shape, and a disciplined volley whined off back into the night. Some of them might have even found their mark. It was hard to tell. Seeing anything in the gloom was nigh on impossible. As long as they retained their positions, though, they would get through it. The temptation to go charging off into the foothills was strong, but it must be resisted. The enemy would just draw them on, picking them off as they stumbled up the slope.

  A second wave of incoming shot slammed into the defenders’ lines. So quick. Most of the handgunners were still reloading when it impacted. Magnus saw one man take a musket-ball in the face as he stooped to pick up fresh shot. He spun round from the force of the blow, his skull caved in. The gunner fell without making a sound, and lay immobile. On either side of him, his comrades worked grimly to prepare a second volley.

  ‘Keep your shape!’ yelled Magnus again, knowing they would be itching to run. It was hard t
o fight the instinct. ‘Fire in rounds! Hold your positions!’

  Then, without warning, something new happened. From the far side of the camp, there were three mighty crashes. There was a high whine that slowly disappeared into the night. Something had been launched. There was a trail of smoke just visible against the darkening sky. Magnus followed the curve of the projectiles, his mouth hanging open in surprise. They were rockets. But he hadn’t ordered any fired. They were for the siege. How had they been found?

  ‘What in Sigmar’s…’ he began.

  Then they detonated. The explosions were massive, and the earth seemed to vibrate under his feet. Three huge blooms of red cascaded over their heads, fizzing and drifting to earth slowly. These were not his rockets. The entire space was lit up with a lurid illumination. The outlines of men were suddenly visible on the ridges around them. The light didn’t die away, but kept burning in the air. Spinning sparks flew from the floating shards, picking out every detail of the rocky hills above them in stark detail.

  There was a roar of excitement from the men in the encampment. This was what they needed. From somewhere amongst the press of troops, orders were barked. Infantry began to swarm up towards the rocks. Kruger was at the forefront, his armour still glinting in the poor light, his charger labouring up the slope.

  ‘Keep your formation!’ shouted Magnus again to the gunners, but his words were ignored. More rockets screamed into the sky, bathing the land around them in fresh layers of harsh colour. The attackers were exposed. With all the energy born of days of pent-up frustration, the defenders broke out. Murderous oaths were sworn, and a savage light was in their eyes.

  Powerless to prevent it, Magnus spat a curse and joined the surge up the shallow slope. He kicked his horse viciously. He must have presented a tempting target so high above the shoulders of his men, but he didn’t care. Someone had usurped his authority and fired rockets. He didn’t know whether to feel angrier with himself for not thinking of it, or his subordinates for going behind his back.

  ‘Messina,’ he hissed to himself. ‘Those are Tilean flares. No one makes them like that.’

  Then he was amongst the fighting. The snipers on the ridges had been surprised. The enemy. Face-to-face at last. They hastily tried to withdraw. With their positions exposed, retreat was impossible. The knights had been primed, and were heavily engaged, hacking and slashing from their steeds. The halberdiers, desperate for a fight, had joined the fray. In the blood-red light, the combat was murderous. Men grappled against each other like daemonic creatures, their eyes staring with hatred. The chance for revenge had come, and they were seizing it with both hands.

  Magnus drew his sword, and rode into the morass of grappling bodies. A man leapt up at him, using his long riflegun as a club. Magnus swung the blade, feeling its keen edge snag on flesh and bite deep. Blood spat up, smearing across both him and his steed. It was hot and thick. The smell was overpowering. It took him back instantly to the battles he’d fought as a young man, back when he’d still eagerly rushed into combat, the thrill of it running through his veins. Before he’d lost his nerve.

  Magnus ploughed onwards, swiping with his sword like a harvester in the fields. The snipers were pitifully unprepared. They’d expected to release a few rounds of shot into a supine enemy, then shrink back into the darkness. Many of them didn’t even have swords with them. Just guns. And they were next to useless in a close press.

  More rockets screamed into the sky above them. Fresh explosions detonated, showering the scene with more light. It looked as if blood was raining down from the heavens. Magnus pulled his horse round, facing a terrified enemy gunner. The man dropped his weapon and raised his hands. He was unarmed. Scared. Alone. For a moment, Magnus met his gaze. The gunner was a Hochlander, just like the ones running amok amongst his comrades. For this evening at least, he’d picked the wrong side.

  Magnus rode him down, blocking the screams from his ears as the horse’s hooves trampled the man into the ground. Another sniper emerged, and he cut him down too. There was no honour or glory in it. The tables had been turned, and the hunters had become the prey. As Magnus hacked and stabbed with a vicious fury, there was one nagging thought at the back of his mind. The victory hadn’t been his doing. When this was over, there would have to be a reckoning.

  The fires still burned. Some of the knights had yet to come back, and were pursuing their prey as far as the rockets would allow them. In the rest of the camp, raucous songs rose bawdily into the night. Ale had been released from the supply wagons, and the officers let their men indulge in it. After so many days of hardship, a victory, even a minor one, was worth celebrating.

  Scharnhorst sat on a low stool by his tent, feeling a cold satisfaction within. They were nearing the end of the long trek north. After so many days in the wilderness, Morgramgar was now in range. Their losses had been serious, but not out of the ordinary for a major campaign. Perhaps two hundred had been slain in the raids, mostly gunners or poorly armoured flagellants. More had died on the ascent, and there had been some desertion. They could absorb that. More importantly, they had struck back at last. The price in dead was immaterial. It was the effect on morale that was important. When the morning came, they would march to the citadel walls, knowing that the enemy was vulnerable.

  His captains stood around him, sharing in the satisfaction. They had all been involved in the rout. Many had flagons of ale in their hand, and blood on their tunics. Now they looked like real soldiers. The Tilean engineer, Messina, held pride of place amongst them. He had drunk deep, and had a ruddy glow in his lean cheeks.

  ‘You did well,’ said Scharnhorst, allowing a thin smile to crack across his stern face. ‘If I’d known your rockets were so potent, I’d have ordered them used before.’

  Messina grinned back, his eyes shining with pride and ale.

  ‘They’re of my own design,’ he said. ‘Brought specially in private stores. You won’t see flares like that just anywhere. The recipe is a secret.’

  ‘How many are left?’ asked the general.

  Messina shrugged.

  ‘Not many,’ he said. ‘They will be less good when we lay siege. But they did the job I asked of them.’

  Scharnhorst nodded.

  ‘That they did. You are to be commended. I take it that your superior officer approved these plans?’

  ‘He did not.’

  The voice was Ironblood’s. Magnus pushed his way to the front of the charmed circle of men. His leather coat was streaked with mud and gore. In the flickering light, his face was terrible. His sword was still naked in his hands, and it dripped steadily. He had been drinking. He looked worse than he’d been in Gruber’s yards.

  ‘Put your weapon away, man,’ hissed a voice. It might have been Kruger’s. Ironblood ignored him.

  ‘I authorised no use of rockets,’ he said, staring at Messina with fury.

  Scharnhorst rose from his seat. His satisfaction turned instantly to irritation. The man was a liability.

  ‘You have some nerve, approaching me like this,’ he said, his voice low. ‘You would do well to remember your place, Ironblood.’

  Magnus looked up at him. His eyes were wild.

  ‘Yes, it is important to respect rank, it is not, general?’ he said. ‘If your subordinates start to act without your explicit orders, then there’ll be no discipline left. Isn’t that right?’

  Messina said nothing, but his face was disdainful. At his shoulder, the young Herschel stood, hovering uncertainly.

  Scharnhorst took a deep breath.

  ‘If you’d run your company with more competence, I’d have some sympathy,’ he said. ‘Your men have had to do your job for you. Your comrade has dipped into his personal stores for the cause. As a result of his actions, we have had a victory. Perhaps you should learn from his example.’

  Magnus’s eyes circled around the gathering of captains. He looke
d like a trapped beast, surrounded by hounds. Messina met his stare with a blank insolence. Herschel lowered his gaze. Ironblood looked like he was about to speak again, but then his colleague, Hildebrandt, came bursting out from the circle of men.

  ‘I apologise, sir,’ he said to Scharnhorst, bowing quickly. He grabbed Ironblood’s arm, and began to pull him away. ‘The battle has been hard. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He needs rest.’

  Magnus briefly resisted, sullenly snatching his arm back. But then the fire left his eyes. He looked defeated. With one last poisonous glare at Messina, he let Hildebrandt draw him away. The two of them stalked into the darkness, and were gone.

  For a moment, no one spoke. Even Kossof seemed embarrassed, and stared intently at the ground. The fire crackled. The sound of singing rose into the air from elsewhere in the camp.

  At length, Scharnhorst sat down again.

  ‘A volatile man, that Ironblood,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we will have to look at the division of responsibilities again. Maybe Grotius was wrong about him.’

  Scharnhorst looked up at Messina, who hadn’t moved.

  ‘You seem like an enterprising young man,’ he said. ‘We’re nearly at the point where our engineers will be most useful. Do you have any more ideas for taking the fight to the enemy?’

  Messina smiled, and his eyes glittered darkly.

  ‘Indeed I do, sir,’ he said, his voice glossy with satisfaction. ‘Indeed I do.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Do not trust the seeker after knowledge! The boastful mind is the most dangerous enemy of man. Our proper task is to till the earth and guard the hearth. Those who seek truths amongst the stars or dabble in the new sciences are at the root of our downfall. Whenever a man of learning turns to the dark powers, then the Ruinous Gods laugh at our folly. Each time a child opens a book and is taught to read the signs within, the day of destruction looms nearer. Forget what you have been told by the foolish and the worldly! Ignorance of forbidden knowledge is power. Shun the wizard, the seer and the engineer. Only in faith and labour shall we be preserved!’