The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  ‘Your service to Carroburg, and to the Few, will not be forgotten, Sergeant Karlich.’

  Karlich gripped the greatsworder’s hand firmly and nodded.

  ‘Call me Feder.’

  Von Rauken clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Very well, Feder. I am still von Rauken.’

  At that the two men laughed loudly. There was palpable relief in it, of a battle over and won, of having survived to tell of it and endure the nightmares later. It passed to the men around them and soon Grimblade and Carroburg Few were exchanging names and stories in the way that Lenkmann had expected of the Steel Swords.

  For their part, the Middenlanders were livid. Glory had been denied them, supplanted by ignominy at being part of Blaselocker’s retreating force. They strode across the bridge wearing scowls like masks, not meeting any other soldier in the eye. Sturnbled looked ashamed, but used his pride to conceal it. Torveld was looking for someone to blame for this smear on their honour. His gaze fell upon the Grimblades and was then lost again to the middle distance.

  The battle was done, the greenskin army in full rout. Most of the Empire regiments had given up pursuit and were consolidating at the bridge. Even as they spoke, Karlich and von Rauken were being joined by troops from the north side of the river. The wagons, too, were now starting to move across. Priests of Morr went with them, leather-bound ‘death-books’ clutched in their bony fingers, ledgers for the prince’s quartermasters when they had to reorganise the army in the face of casualties.

  Blaselocker trotted over last of all, his bodyguards surrounding him, glad their faces were obscured by battle-helms. The baron would have to answer to Prince Wilhelm now.

  ‘A pity he did not die in the battle,’ spat von Rauken, his mood souring at the sight of the pompous Averland noble.

  Karlich was a little taken aback by the blatant outburst, even though he felt the same. He supped on his pipe to cover his surprise, but found himself liking the outspoken greatsworder more and more.

  ‘He’ll wish he did if Ledner is allowed at him,’ he replied.

  Von Rauken smiled again, but this time humourlessly.

  ‘Then let us hope for that.’

  Chapter Ten

  Licking wounds

  The town of Mannsgard, Averland,

  383 miles from Altdorf

  Ledner closed the tavern door and turned to face an almost empty room. An iron tub sat in the middle of it where Prince Wilhelm was taking a hot bath.

  ‘How is it?’ asked the prince, whilst a local priestess of Shallya rubbed healing salts into his heavily-bruised shoulder. The charge by the prince and his knights might have been glorious, but the battle to fend off Grom’s shaman and his ‘flying lizard’ was not. The beast had raked Wilhelm’s pauldron before he’d nicked its snout with his runefang and sent it fleeing for the sky.

  ‘Quiet,’ said Ledner. His gaze went to the armour and clothing slumped on a chair near the tub. Wilhelm’s runefang rested on top of it, inside its scabbard. The captain noticed his liege kept the blade within reach. A sensible move. Perhaps the young prince was learning to be cautious after all. ‘Mannsgard might as well be a tomb,’ he went on. ‘The townsfolk that haven’t fled or been killed cower behind locked doors carrying picks and cudgels. The few people we have encountered offer limited services and don’t indulge in much talk.’

  Wilhelm frowned at the annoyance in Ledner’s voice.

  ‘And this bothers you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it bothers me. Where are the peddlers and the whores, the illicit traders and profiteers? War brings death, my liege, but it also brings opportunity for those who have a will and a way to make coin.’

  Wincing with the pain in his back and shoulder, Wilhelm sat up in the bath.

  ‘They’re mostly dead, Ledner. That or they’ve run westward with the refugees,’ he explained needlessly. ‘We are less than ten miles from Averheim. I can almost hear the greenskin chanting on the breeze and smell their spore tainting it. Is it really any wonder that the land, this town, is abandoned, even by its human carrion?’

  Ledner’s face darkened.

  ‘No, my liege.’

  ‘So, how do we fare?’ asked the prince, glancing at the death-books piled in one corner of the room.

  They were in the tavern’s taproom. The floors were timber, the wood stained but worn. A simple bar sat to the left at the back. Most of the alcohol was gone. A stairway curled up to an upper floor. The iron tub had been moved from one of the upper rooms – ‘guest quarters’ a placard read – and brought down to the prince. It looked almost ludicrous in the expansive room, the many tables and chairs that might once have stood there having been either looted or used as barricades.

  Though the day’s march from the Brigund Bridge to the town had proven uneventful, Mannsgard had suffered many attacks since the invasion. The town’s walls were thick, hewn from rough stone taken from the mountains, and overlooked by watchtowers. Its militia regiments had been many, several bands of soldiers seeking refuge had also added to its garrison, but still they had suffered. The cemeteries and mortuaries were full. Even the temples of Shallya, Sigmar and Verena could hold no more bodies. So much corpse traffic had been foisted upon the gardens of Morr that the old prefect had died himself, of a heart attack. Ledner heard talk of a town watchmen finding the poor old bastard, his withering body food for the crows.

  Morr giveth, Morr taketh away…

  A black mood pervaded here, the final rest before the march on Averheim. It was like a funeral veil, only no one had said when they could stop mourning. At least, the presence of the army meant that greenskin raiders would think twice before attacking again. Not that there’d been any sign for several days, not according to Mannsgard’s gate sentries anyway. Ledner supposed the orcs and goblins had been drawn to the Brigund Bridge instead and the army of ‘humies’, as they called men in their crude speech, gathering there. A black stain was upon this place. It was no different to Blösstadt, only unlike the village they’d been forced to put to the torch, Mannsgard didn’t realise it was already dead. Old men and withered women mainly populated the town now, its youth having been cut down in its prime, an end to its legacy and future.

  ‘Adolphus?’ Wilhelm pressed.

  Ledner blinked, recognising his first name, and realising he hadn’t answered the prince’s question. Sometimes the dark moods came when he least expected it. Usually he could master them, the baggage of too many years of war and blood. Occasionally they got the better of him.

  ‘We lost a lot of men at Brigund Bridge. More than we could comfortably spare.’

  ‘Any loss like that is uncomfortable to me, Ledner,’ chided the prince, standing and accepting a towel from the Shallyan priestess.

  ‘I meant no offence, but it’s simple numbers my lord. We can’t hope to prevail at Averheim with the forces we have left. At best our chances are slim and bloody.’

  Stepping from the tub, Wilhelm’s brow furrowed. He looked heavy, as if he still wore his armour. Ledner continued.

  ‘Of course, our dear ally the baron was somewhat instrumental in that debacle.’

  ‘I heard Karlich’s men helped hold the bridge with the Carroburgers.’

  ‘Stubborn bastards,’ muttered Ledner, before a stern look from Wilhelm forced an apology. ‘They are certainly resourceful, and brave, these halberdiers. True sons of the Reik,’ he added, cracking his knuckles, just another of his idiosyncratic traits. ‘Vanhans and his rabble earned their keep, too.’

  ‘The witch hunter?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. They are camped outside the town walls. The templar claims there is only “debauchery and unholy art” to be found within.’

  ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t come in to burn and stake it all then. Watch him,’ said Wilhelm, finishing up drying off. He handed the towel back to the priestess, who bowed and took her leave.

 
; ‘Like a hawk, my lord.’

  A pregnant pause invited Ledner’s next question. He waited to ask it until they were alone. ‘Would you like me to remonstrate with Blaselocker?’

  Wilhelm pulled on his undergarments and hose. ‘If I wanted to find him hanging by his medallion from the rafters or drowned in his own drink, then yes. I’ll deal with him,’ the prince asserted. ‘The Averlanders need a figurehead, even one as craven as he. What of Sirrius?’

  ‘Weak from his exertions. It doesn’t take an augur to know he won’t be fighting again for a few days. Even if we wanted to move on Averheim tomorrow, I wouldn’t advise it, not without the wizard.’

  Wilhelm considered that for a moment before his mind went elsewhere. ‘Any word from the other provinces?’

  ‘Messengers were sent as requested, but none, as of yet, have returned. The scouting parties have come back though, some of them. They report Stirland is under almost perpetual siege and that greenskin armies are as far north as Talabecland.’

  ‘So we are alone in this, after all, just as the Emperor predicted.’ Wilhelm couldn’t hide his bitterness. After buttoning his tunic, he sat down heavily in the chair, his sword and armour now resting against the leg. ‘I love the Empire, Ledner…’

  ‘As do we all, my liege.’

  ‘But I love the Reik more. What are we doing here, old friend? Is this really our war? Was Markus right? Should I be back at Kemperbad, strengthening our border for the inevitable tide?’

  ‘Someone must stand for the Empire when its emperor does not,’ Ledner answered plainly. ‘I am not a righteous man. I have killed and bribed, extorted and committed larceny to keep my province safe. I do it knowing I must live a life of compromise, because that is who I am and my lot. You, my lord, are a righteous man.’ Ledner paused to look outside, an old habit, to make sure no one was within earshot. He looked back at Wilhelm. ‘Dieter is a fatuous emperor. His time is ending. Whatever business he is brokering with Marienburg will undo him, and when he falls the Empire will have need of a decent man, a strong lineage to guide it.’

  ‘I don’t make war five hundred miles from home as part of a bid for succession, Ledner,’ said the prince, slightly perturbed.

  ‘I know, my liege,’ the captain replied, ‘and that is what makes you just.’

  Wilhelm tugged on his boots and strapped on his breastplate. He cinched his runefang to his belt with care. What the sword stood for had faded in the current time, yet the prince still believed. ‘Perhaps, but it’ll all be for nothing if I cannot bring allies to my banner, Ledner. The only Empire left to govern might be a tattered ruin by the end.’

  ‘So you still plan to ride to Wissenland. It’s several days’ journey from Mannsgard. Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Ledner. ‘Send me in your stead.’

  ‘I must go. If Pfeifraucher can be convinced to fight, then it will only be done by my intervention. I’ll have the Griffonkorps to protect me.’ Wilhelm smiled, hooking his cloak to his pauldrons and picking up his helmet. ‘In any event, I need you here to be my eyes and maintain order in the ranks.’

  Ledner bowed. ‘As I knew you would, my liege. As I also knew you would not rest at Mannsgard, either.’

  ‘The soak has eased my bones. How can I rest when my land is in danger? If I am the just and noble heir apparent you say I am, then I must act.’

  ‘Send the count my greetings,’ said Ledner as Wilhelm was making for the door.

  Outside the tavern, a small band of Griffonkorps were already gathering. The prince’s empty steed was with them.

  ‘I want Pfeifraucher to join us, Ledner,’ Wilhelm replied as he was leaving, ‘not lock his gates even tighter.’

  Both men laughed, but their humour was fleeting. A dark road lay ahead for Wilhelm, darker than he realised.

  When the prince had gone, Ledner’s face fell. If they could not unite their provincial brothers beneath one banner, this war would very likely be the death of them both.

  All of the regiments in Prince Wilhelm’s army, together with their officers, were billeted in Mannsgard. Foreign soldiers outnumbered Averland citizens now. They would need to make the most of their respite. Word had already reached the masses that the prince rode with all haste to Wissenland, at least a three-day journey there and back. After that, irrespective of Count Pfeifraucher’s decision, they would march on Averheim and try to lift the siege. Some of the soldiers went carousing in the towns in what many had started to call ‘the last days’. Though most of Mannsgard was empty or simply waiting for death, there were still pleasures to be found, booze to be drunk if you knew where to look. Others sought out notaries and scribes, eager to make their last will and testament before the march. Many went to the temples, to pray for their loved ones or make peace with Sigmar or Morr.

  Keller was not a praying man, though he had given some thought to it recently. Instead, he had found a different vice to assuage his guilt. The One-Eyed Dwarf was one of the few taverns left in Mannsgard that still carried alcohol. Most of the others had already been drunk dry by the nervous townsfolk or their stock carried away in the refugee wagons. It wasn’t a wise move. Orcs and goblins ranked ale and spirits a close second to brawling and rampaging.

  Rechts was asleep in one corner of the small establishment. He’d kicked off his boots and propped up his bare feet with a stool. The drummer’s drunken snoring echoed around the almost empty bar. Across the room was the tavern’s only other patron, a dwarf with an eye patch, a tramp by the look of his festering clothes. Keller wondered if it was coincidence or whether the dwarf had been there since the tavern existed, hence the name above the door outside. The dwarf held a dead fish in one gnarled hand and piped up when he saw Keller looking.

  ‘Dead fish!’ he raved, in thickly-accented Reikspiel. Obviously he was an expatriate, an exile from the Vaults or Black Mountains. ‘Keeps ogling me,’ he added. With a shout he slammed the fish against the table where he was sitting. Judging by the stains and fish scales in the wood, it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. ‘Not natural when it’s dead.’

  Keller moved on, ignoring the dwarf. There was no barkeep, so he poured himself a drink. The liquor was hot and abrasive when it hit his throat. Coughing, he poured another and then a third. He kept the bottle next to him like an old friend and had drained half of it when someone whispered in his ear.

  ‘Drowning your sorrows or trying to take the edge off?’

  Keller swallowed hard but could no longer taste the alcohol.

  ‘Thought you said you wouldn’t do it in the back,’ he said. His voice came out in a rasp.

  ‘That’s why you’re going to turn around.’

  So he did, and came face-to-face with Brand. Keller gave a half glance at Rechts.

  ‘He won’t help you,’ said Brand, his icy stare chilling Keller to the bone. ‘Shout out and I’ll do it here, now. It’ll be messy, painful.’

  Keller nodded. Tears welled in his eyes.

  ‘Drinking with a friend?’ asked Brand, when he saw the two glasses on the bar. One of them looked untouched and had two shots of grain whisky in it.

  ‘S-something like that…’

  ‘He wouldn’t have drunk with you anyway.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Silence fell in the tavern as Brand stared. His gaze was more piercing than steel.

  ‘Are you sorry for what you’ve done?’ he asked. ‘I am,’ he added, without waiting for an answer. It was the most and the longest Keller had ever heard Brand speak, but he still wasn’t done. ‘I’ve killed men, lots of them. Innocent and guilty. It’s why I joined the army. I could tell you my upbringing was violent or some trauma made me this way, but it isn’t true. I’ve always needed to kill. I’m trying to make up for it, now,’ Brand said, looking over at the empty glass and the empty seat before it. ‘Their faces come in the night, the ones I’ve killed.’ He looked back a
t Keller. ‘Like you’re seeing a face right now, aren’t you, Krieger?’

  Keller nodded meekly. Warm piss trickled down his leg, staining his hose.

  ‘I scream for them. In the night, I find a quiet place and inside I scream,’ Brand said. ‘War is one thing, but it takes a lot to kill a man in cold blood. A part of it clings to you, like their phantom unwilling to let go. It’ll drag you down, Krieger, if you don’t master it. You’re not like me…’

  Krieger was shaking his head. He was crying. When he realised, he wiped at his face.

  ‘You can’t keep the guilt,’ Brand continued. ‘Bloody hands lead to retribution in the end. Mine will come one day. Yours has already found you.’

  Keller pointed feebly at Brand. The other Reiklander nodded slowly.

  ‘I won’t do it when your back is turned, you’re right. You’ll die with a weapon in your hand, but you will die. Varveiter’s honour demands it. Now,’ said Brand finally, ‘take your dagger and come with me.’

  Keller was already standing up, legs shaking, when Eber and Volker came in. The huntsman knew something was up at once.

  ‘Too late for a drink, or are you moving on?’ he asked.

  Eber’s forehead wrinkled, as if he knew something wasn’t quite right but couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Keller sat back down gratefully, trying to obscure the wet patch in his hose.

  ‘I’ll take another.’ He sounded a little breathless.

  ‘Some other time,’ said Brand, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking to Keller or Volker. He was heading for the door, about to leave, when more would-be patrons joined them.

  Torveld, Wode and three other Steel Swords stood in Brand’s path.

  ‘Popular place,’ said Torveld, smiling thinly.

  Brand backed up. So did the other Reiklanders. They moved farther into the room, pushing aside the few chairs and tables as they went.

  The Middenlanders stepped after them slowly, Torveld taking the lead. A few feet of open floor stood between them.