Magnus put the sphere away carefully.
‘Two dozen men. Six armed with these, the rest with pistols and knives. Any more than that, and we’ll need a bigger breach. Come out into the level immediately under the main walls, and we’ll fight our way to the guns. We’ll lace the lot of them with these bombs, shoving them into the breeches, and then withdraw. By the time they know what’s going on, they’ll have a brace of exploding barrels to contend with. Then we’ll be out of the tunnel and away.’
Magnus sat back, satisfied.
‘Scharnhorst liked the idea,’ he said. ‘He’s asked me to pick the men.’
Thorgad glowered.
‘That’s a damn fool plan, if ever I heard one,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve no idea what that place is like inside. For all you know, we’ll break into a guardroom stuffed with soldiers. Then your precious bomb-toys will be little use.’
Magnus looked at the dwarf tolerantly. He hadn’t expected effusive praise from Thorgad. That wasn’t really his way.
‘We have old plans of the fortress,’ he said. ‘Scharnhorst and I looked over them. And you claim to know this citadel too, though Sigmar only knows how. If you can bring us up under the left-hand side of the main gates, we’ll come through into one of the store chambers. There won’t be guards there. Who’d expect an attack from beneath them? The soldiers will be up on the walls, and in the tower garrisons, and manning the forges. If we move fast, we can hit them hard and get out again. From the store levels, a spiral stair takes us up to the main ramparts. We’ll need a bit of luck from there, but those gun platforms are big. We should be able to see them as soon as we’re in range.’
Thorgad gave Magnus a sidelong glance.
‘Your optimism commends you,’ he said. ‘But that’s if all goes well. You’re just as likely to be killed as you emerge, like rabbits from a warren.’
Magnus wasn’t in the mood to be deterred. With war, there was always risk.
‘They won’t know a thing about it,’ he said, confidently. ‘We’ll go in and then get out. Just as they did to us in the mountains. But they’ve got nowhere to go. Once those guns are out of action, we’ll see how cocky they are.’
Thorgad frowned.
‘I’ll keep digging,’ he said. ‘If that’s really what you want, then I can get you under the gates by dawn tomorrow. I don’t like your plan enough to let you go in there alone, though. When the rock’s breached, I’ll come in with you. Glamrist is aching to cut flesh, and I won’t dull its edge on this rock.’
Magnus grinned.
‘That’s good to hear,’ he said, his eyes glinting in the darkness. ‘They’ll not expect to hear Khazalid, and an extra pair of hands will be useful.’
He turned around clumsily, and made to shuffle back down the tunnel towards the cold night outside.
‘Send word when you’re nearing completion,’ Magnus said. ‘I’m heading back to the camp to train up the attack party. Those bombs need some experience to handle.’
Thorgad nodded.
‘I’ll let you know,’ he said, casting a critical eye over the men hammering away at the rock face.
When Magnus had moved back up along the narrow way and was beyond earshot, the dwarf shook his shaggy head.
‘Damned fool umgi planning,’ he muttered, walking back over to the head of the mine. ‘This grudge had better be worth it.’
And then he was at the raw edge of the rock again, directing the work, striding back and forth like a general. Slowly, achingly slowly, hidden in darkness and sheathed in solid granite, the tunnel snaked on towards its destination.
Messina placed the papers down on the table with a flourish. There were several sheets. Scharnhorst took his time to leaf through them. Silvio could sense Lukas’s agitation from next to him, but paid it no attention. The boy was a sack of nerves.
They were alone with the general in his tent. From outside, Messina could hear the routine noise of the camp. Fires were being laid, weapons sharpened. Raucous cries and insults ran back and forth amongst the men. There was even the sound of an obscene song drifting across from the other side of the sprawling settlement. Messina, though he normally enjoyed such things, was glad that the words were impossible to make out. He doubted that Scharnhorst appreciated the finer points of the tavern singer’s art.
Under the thick canvas sheets, the general’s tent was as austere as his character. There was a thin roll of fabric laid on the ground against one edge, no doubt for sleeping on. A simple table next to it held a wooden bowl and a pitcher of water. There was a heavy ironbound chest in one corner, and a simple desk and chair. Messina had seen generals’ accommodation before, and most often it was like being in a temporary palace, stuffed with flagons of claret and barrels of fine meats. Scharnhorst, whatever his faults may have been, wasn’t one of those gluttons. He slept on the stony floor like the rest of his men. Messina wondered if he even took off his sword belt.
The general sat at the desk, while Messina and Lukas stood before it. Herschel’s head scraped the fabric ceiling. Like so many Averlanders, he was too tall for his own good. Scharnhorst took his time, turning the fragile sheets of parchment carefully. Some of them were very old, and flaked away in his hands as he did so.
‘I won’t pretend I can read all of these plans,’ he said, lifting his severe face from the drawings. ‘It looks to me like some kind of many-barrelled cannon. With wheels. No doubt you’re here to tell me more about it.’
Messina nodded.
‘It is a weapon, sir,’ he said, ‘but not like the ones you’ve seen deployed. You have heard of the steam tank of da Miragliano? This is a lesser device, though it operates on similar principles. But, if constructed right, has properties all of its own. It has two barrels, linked together and capable of being swivelled and targeted with great accuracy. It needs crew of only one to operate, although there is room for more. The gunner sits in this chair – here – and directs the firing mechanism. Loading of charges is automatic, performed by this hydraulic mechanism. I will not go into all the details, but the system is quite ingenious. The ammunition is fed in here, and the circulatory system channels it straight to the breech. Jams are prevented by means of the steel…’
Scharnhorst held his hand up impatiently.
‘I don’t need to know how it works, man,’ he snapped. ‘Just tell me what it can do.’
Messina felt his cheeks go hot. He had to remember than not everyone found the details of gunnery as interesting as he did. Even a first-year engineering student could have grasped how revolutionary the machine on the drawings was. Scharnhorst, however, like most men, had little patience for such things.
‘It is battlefield piece,’ said Messina, checking his enthusiasm. ‘It cannot bring those walls down by itself, but it can bring havoc against enemy troops. The Blutschreiben, as I call it, can fire into massed infantry once every minute. The rate of fire is only matched by its power. The barrels are capable of tearing plate armour as if it were matchwood. With its unique targeting quadrants, it will hit even distant objects square on. Once the proper battle is joined, this machine is the one piece of artillery capable of turning the sea in our favour. Trust me, general. Whatever weapons they have hidden away inside that fortress, it is as nothing compared to this.’
Scharnhorst rubbed his chin absently, looking at the plans with care.
‘And you say you can have this assembled soon?’ he said.
Messina nodded.
‘Very soon,’ he said. ‘Many of the components are prepared. They just need putting together, basic assembly and linking to the barrels of our cannons. Herschel and I have already identified two of our iron-belchers which we can use to construct the Blutschreiben. It will mean losing them, of course. But when you see the difference this machine will make, I tell you, you will never regret it.’
Scharnhorst looked up from the desk. His pier
cing eyes fixed on Messina firmly.
‘What does your officer, Ironblood, make of this?’
Messina felt his palms quicken with sweat. This was where the deception lay.
‘He is in agreement with me,’ Messina said, working hard to keep his voice nonchalant. ‘He is now fully occupied with the dwarf Thorgad on plans for the siege, and so delegated this task to me. Herschel and myself are quite capable of constructing the device. Once you give order to advance, it will be ready.’
Scharnhorst maintained his steady gaze, and Messina felt a trickle of sweat run down the base of his spine. Lukas’s face was white. It had been a mistake to bring him along. The boy would ruin everything.
Eventually, Scharnhorst sighed.
‘Listen, I don’t care what politics are still brewing between you,’ he said. ‘If you think I’ve any interest in trying to sort out feuds within the gunnery companies then you underestimate how busy I am.’
The general rolled the parchment up and handed it back to Messina.
‘You have my leave to construct this,’ he said. ‘If what Ironblood tells me is true, you have at most two days before the citadel is stormed. Make the most of it. If you haven’t finished by then, I’ll need you to marshal the artillery with the others. Can you do that?’
Messina swallowed. That was hardly any time. There were still aspects of the mechanism he didn’t understand. But it was still possible. Everything was possible.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said, taking the roll of parchment from Scharnhorst’s hand. ‘So I’ll deliver you a weapon the likes of which even your Marshal Helborg wouldn’t dream of.’
Scharnhorst didn’t look pleased by that. As ever, his expression remained thunderous.
‘Get on and do it, then,’ he snapped. ‘When the time comes, report to my aide-de-camp. You’d better be right about this. You’ve already failed once. Don’t let me down again.’
Messina bowed, and withdrew from the tent. Like a scared child, Herschel followed him, tripping over his feet as he stepped through the canvas opening. They hurried away from the general’s quarters.
‘I still don’t think this is wise!’ the boy hissed as they walked. ‘You’ve no idea how to make that thing work.’
Messina rounded on him, jabbing a finger against Lukas’s chest.
‘Stop your whining!’ he growled, his eyes savage. ‘You did agree to work with me on this thing. If we get it right, we will walk away from here heroes. The mortars will be forgotten. We will have made our titles. What are you so worried about?’
Lukas looked daunted, but he held his ground. The men lounging around them on the rocks took little notice of the discussion. Arguments broke out all the time across the camp, and were hardly worth remarking on.
‘There must have been a reason Ironblood didn’t want it used,’ Lukas insisted. ‘You heard what he said to Hildebrandt. If Scharnhorst tells him…’
Messina laughed scornfully.
‘Why would he do that?’ he said. ‘You heard the man. The sick blood between me and that ubriacone is none of his business.’
Messina felt his temper boil, and had to work to quell it. He stopped, took a deep breath, and some of the irritation left his face. There was no use getting angry with Herschel. The lad was just naïve, and he’d be needed to help build the weapon.
‘Scharnhorst’s no one’s fool,’ said Messina, more calmly. ‘He will be happy to see rivalry between his engineers as long as it doesn’t harm his own position. He will not tell Ironblood. And as for the danger, you must learn to live with it. Ours is a dangerous trade, ragazzo. Always it has been. If you can’t live with that, you would be better off doing something less arduous.’
Lukas looked only half-convinced. There was still indignation in his features.
‘Come on, lad,’ said Messina, adopting a more fatherly tone. ‘This will be good exercise for you. We will together see if we can make sense of Ironblood’s plans. If we can’t, then we must stop work. What do you say?’
Lukas hesitated, his open face clearly torn. For a moment, his eyes flickered over towards the edge of the valley, where Ironblood toiled under the earth with Thorgad. Then they flicked back to the rolls of parchment. His mind was being made up.
‘We’ll give it a go,’ he said at last, though with no great conviction. ‘But if we can’t make it safe, we should stop. This is my first battle. I don’t want it to be my last.’
Messina felt a wave of relief pass through him. Most likely the Blutschreiben would be mortally dangerous. But from the drawings he could see it would also be murderously powerful. Some gambles were worth taking.
‘Of course,’ Silvio said, comfortingly, putting an arm around Lukas’s shoulder and steering him back towards the artillery lines. ‘We’ll take it slowly, checking every stage as we go. But remember – we have to keep secret from the others. Ironblood and Thorgad will not be a problem for us, but we’ll have to stop that big man Hildebrandt from nosing around. He’s too loyal to be brought along. Can you do that?’
Lukas nodded.
‘I guess so,’ he said.
Together, the two men headed across the camp, through the rows of idle men and towards the artillery pieces clustered at the rear of the army lines. There, Ironblood’s stock of chests lay hidden. Once they had contained the plans and parts for the Blutschreiben. Now they held only straw and stones, the locks having been expertly picked and resealed. The prior contents were now in Messina’s possession, carefully unpacked and ready for assembly.
With a sudden lurch in his stomach, Messina felt his earlier anxiety transform into excitement. The tools were all there. They just had to be put together correctly. And then the stage would be set for the entrance of the most devastating machinery of death ever to grace the battlefields of the Old World. It would be his name, Silvio Pietro de Taglia Messina, not Ironblood’s, etched in the roll of honour in Nuln.
Messina smiled inwardly at the prospect, and felt a glow of pleasure. War could be a dirty business. But at times, just now and then, it was a thing of exquisite beauty.
Chapter Twelve
‘It grieves my heart that the Church of Sigmar distrusts us so. While we remain divided, our enemies muster beyond the mountains, an everlasting tide of darkness that lusts for nothing more than our destruction. What more could we accomplish together! Perhaps the day will come. If the art of the engineer could be allied to the fervour of the noble warrior priesthood, I fervently believe that no force in all the Old World, not even the hordes of Chaos themselves, would be sufficient to stand against us.’
The Notebooks of Leonardo da Miragliano
The torches burned low. The atmosphere was close and stifling. Magnus, Thorgad and Hildebrandt stood with the other men of the raiding party just inside the entrance to the tunnel. There was barely room for all of them. Each could feel the breathing of the others. With the expectation of battle, all hearts beat a little faster.
Night had fallen once more, and Morgramgar was lit by its sinister green light. After driving the men hard for two further days, Thorgad had completed his excavation. Only a thin wall of rock now lay between the hidden workings and the foundations of the citadel beyond. Scharnhorst had given the order to conduct the raid, and now the infiltrators waited nervously, just inside the protective lip of the rock cleft, unwilling to go further. Down the tunnel, the lattice of charges lay.
‘How long were those damned fuses?’ hissed Magnus to Thorgad.
The dwarf scowled in the darkness.
‘Long enough,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t tell me my business.’
Down in the depths, at the rock face, kegs of blackpowder had been laid against the remaining rock, and metal spikes had been driven artfully into the stone. Once the kegs went off, the wall of the chamber would collapse. Sigmar willing, it would also blow a hole in the adjacent citadel foundations large enough
for them to enter by. If not, then all their work would be undone and the surprise would be lost. As he waited, Magnus couldn’t help letting his nerves get the better of him. He knew that once the fighting began he would be fine. It was the hanging around that did for him.
He clutched his torch tightly in his left hand, took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. For some reason, he found himself remembering standing outside the college in Nuln, nearly a lifetime ago. The day before his entrance examination. Was that the last time he’d been as scared? Of course not. He’d been in many battles since. Every one scared him. He was no Helborg. Perhaps that was why he’d been attracted to engineering. You didn’t need to be a hero, although there was a kind of bravery to it. The kind that let a man stand next to a lit iron-belcher and hold his ground. Or ram the shot into a long gun when the wind was blowing the powder across the matchcord. Many a knight would have refused such odds. It was a unique profession, and not without honour. So his father had always told him, anyway. Before he’d died.
Wincing, Magnus brought his thoughts back into the present. At his belt, the rows of little blackpowder charges clustered. In his right hand, his naked sword blade glinted from the flames. All the other men were arrayed in a similar way. The plan was simple. Once a way had been blasted in, they would burst into the fortress, find their way as quickly as possible from the deeps up to the gun levels, lay the charges and withdraw. If they did it quickly enough, they might escape with no need for fighting at all. Magnus knew that was unlikely. Morgramgar may have seemed silent and empty from the outside, but the place was stuffed with Anna-Louisa’s soldiers. They were bound to run into some of them, even if they were quick. It was a fearful risk. Better than freezing to death out in the open, but still a risk.
From far ahead, deep down in the tunnel, the noise of fizzing suddenly echoed back up. Something was happening.
‘Hold your positions,’ he said in a low voice, bracing himself against the rock wall.
Around him, men gripped their swords more tightly, or adjusted their torches, or checked the leather straps on their charges for the final time.
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