Torveld paused. He could sense the danger, the potential violence of this man. It made even his northern blood run a little colder.
“Torveld,” said the gruff voice of Sturnbled from behind him. The grey-haired sergeant looked as grim as ever. He needn’t say anything further. Muttering beneath his breath, Torveld turned and walked away taking the other Steel Swords with him.
“They are belligerent bastards,” said Lenkmann when they were gone. The others looked around at him. The standard bearer rarely swore, but he was clearly shaken and angry at what he saw as a breach of the soldier’s code. Men who had fought side-by-side, shed blood together for the same cause, should have respect for one another. It offended his sense of honour and propriety that the Middenlanders did not.
“What did you expect,” said Karlich, stepping in amongst his men. “They are northerners.”
Lenkmann saluted crisply at the sudden return of his sergeant. The others mainly nodded. Brand just looked him in the eye. Rechts lazily waved a hand.
“So what now, sergeant,” asked Volker, “or should we call you ‘captain’?”
The corner of Karlich’s mouth twitched in what could have been a grin. “You sorry lot aren’t shut of me yet,” he replied. “I’m still a Grimblade, thank Sigmar.”
“When will Altdorf and Nuln join us?” asked Lenkmann.
“They won’t,” Karlich answered flatly, not waiting for questions or protests. “We march on to Averheim to death or glory, by the grace of Sigmar.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON THE ROAD TO AVERHEIM
Near the town of Streissen, Averland,
378 miles from Altdorf
The way to Averheim was paved with misery and hopelessness. The closer they got to the capital, the more frequently they came across bedraggled regiments in Averland black and yellow. In truth, they were scraps of soldiers. Most were deserters or utterly routed troops. Encountered at a distance on the opposite side of the Aver, the broken merely trudged onwards, aimless and despairing. Those on the same side of the river fled like scared rabbits when they saw the column of Reikland troops. They wanted neither succour nor aid, instead fearing to be pressed into service by another lord. Many were wounded. Some carried dead and injured comrades over their shoulders, ignoring the stench of gangrene and decomposition.
There were human refugees too, alone and alongside the broken Averland troops, much like the ones the foot regiments had met earlier when Stahler was still in command. Dour priests of Morr walked with them, ministering to the dead and dying, flocks of ravens shadowing their every step.
Amongst a copse of trees, the army’s scouts found a trio of hanged soldiers. From the scattered rocks beneath their dangling, bootless feet, it appeared they had committed suicide. Two more Averlanders were found slumped against the bole of the hanging tree. Their wrists were slit and bloodied daggers lay in their dead hands. Evidently, the desperate men had run out of rope for all five of them and didn’t want to cut down the others to reuse what they had.
Mercifully the army did not meet any more orcs, nor did it stop at any other villages, empty or not. Deserters, refugees and suicides were not their only encounters, however. Late into the evening, just before the captains announced they would break camp, a single rider and a ragged band of followers on foot joined them, having come from the west.
Karlich shuddered inwardly when he recognised the same witch hunter from Hobsklein. The man had almost forty degenerates in tow. Around half were armoured to the hilt and carried an assortment of weapons. An eclectic mix, including a pair of dwarfs and several dark-skinned men foreign to the Empire, they could be nothing other than mercenaries. The rest were made up of flagellants and seekers, the latter being the homeless, pitiless wretches who had lost everything to the dark creatures that predated on the innocent and weak, and who longed only for vengeance or death. Dangerous men all, but nothing compared to their mounted leader.
“In search of gold and retribution,” remarked Volker from the second rank when he noticed Karlich looking at them. The Grimblades marched in column, three files wide, like the rest of the foot regiments. They were midway down the order of march, unfortunately, right behind the Steel Swords.
“Aye,” Karlich replied, keeping his feelings hidden from his men. “Not a good combination.”
“Parasites and degenerates,” muttered Rechts to the sergeant’s right, spitting out a gobbet of phlegm.
“Undesirable allies, indeed,” noted Lenkmann.
“All faithful men are soldiers of Sigmar,” said Masbrecht. “We should not judge them harshly for that.”
Rechts glared over his shoulder at the man. “Shut up, Masbrecht! No one cares what you think.”
“Both of you be quiet,” snapped Karlich, quickly nipping the situation in the bud before it could develop. “Silence until we break camp,” he added afterwards.
The witch hunter and his “soldiers of faith” joined the rear of the column, happiest with the militia companies and baggage train. Runners informed the prince of their presence. Encouraged by Father Untervash, Wilhelm tolerated them. He needed every man he could get if he was to lift the siege over Averheim.
Once they were out of sight, the rest of the army almost forgot about them. All except Karlich that is. The image of the witch hunter, attired in black and carrying his silver talisman like a death warrant, was burned into his mind. He could no more forget the man’s presence than he could his own name. Was it just war and suffering that had drawn him to them, or did the Templar of Sigmar ride the plains of Averland for another reason? Was he, in fact, looking for someone?
Karlich did not consider himself to be a paranoid man. He met fate head on and didn’t look over his shoulder for shadows in the night. The appearance of the witch hunter from Hobsklein had changed all that though.
Baron Ernst Blaselocker lolled in his saddle like an overweight klown. His steed, a stubby-legged mare, was as bulky as her master. Its bright yellow caparison hurt the eyes if looked at too long. Rings filled the baron’s fat fingers and a great golden amulet rested on his breastplate which stuck out on account of his girth. A peppering of stubble swathed his triple chins but made him look neither swarthy nor rugged. All it actually did was to reinforce the baron’s gluttonous image. His yellow and black tunic, echoed by the tiny pennant banner affixed to the back of his cuirass, affirmed his allegiance to Averland. A helmet, its visor raised, sat upon his head and failed to hide his thinning ginger hair. A broadsword sat in a scabbard at his waist which slapped against the man’s bulging thigh in time with his wobbling jowls.
“Prince Wilhelm!” exclaimed the baron, throwing out an arm in over-enthusiastic greeting. “It does my heart good to see that Reikland has not abandoned its brothers.”
The prince rode ahead of the army with Ledner, Preceptor Kogswald and a small contingent of Griffonkorps.
“Ernst,” the prince replied. The man was known to Wilhelm. They had attended Imperial functions together at the Emperor’s Palace in Nuln. Baron Blaselocker was a toady, a lower ranked noble who sought to improve his station by association. More than once he had tried to court the prince’s favour with offers of banquets or rides through his lands around the town of Streissen. Wilhelm had refused every one. Politely, of course. Emperor Dieter’s functions were a trial he had no choice but to bear; Blaselocker’s company was not.
Had he been able to choose his allies, Wilhelm would have placed the baron near the bottom of a long list. But such luxuries were not available to him. Every sword was welcomed to the cause, even Blaselocker’s. To his credit, the baron had brought a decent-sized force with him. True to Preceptor Kogswald’s word, there were a number of temple knights alongside the footslogging state troops. Wilhelm didn’t recognise the order but judged them to be Sigmarite given the blazing comet device on their shields and banner. The rest of the army comprised spearmen and crossbows, with a few free companies. It was about a third the size of Wilhelm’s force.
&nb
sp; “A large army to escort a noble of my mere stature,” said the baron when he saw the marching column of men behind the prince’s small entourage.
Wilhelm’s brow furrowed. “You misunderstand, Ernst. We aren’t here to escort you anywhere. We march to Averheim to try and lift the siege.”
The baron’s ruddy face paled at once.
“We—what? I thought…” The good humour vanished and his hands started to tremble a little.
“We march to Averheim, and so do you,” asserted Wilhelm. “Now tell me, how bad are things at the capital? What forces do we face?”
The baron swallowed deeply and started to shake his head. “N-no, no, no,” he blathered. “You don’t want to go there. We should head west to Reikland. I’m sure the Emperor will grant us protection in Nuln.”
“The Emperor has moved west himself already and resides at Altdorf,” snapped Ledner, “you’ll find no protection there. Now, do as your prince bids before I smack you off that horse, you fat oaf!”
As quickly as it came, Ledner’s anger subsided, leaving Blaselocker dumbstruck.
“Speak to me, Ernst,” said the prince. “Tell me what you know, and do it now.”
Keller shook the dirt and stones from his boot, sitting by the side of the road and trying not to lift his gaze from the ground. He’d been seeing things in the shadows, in the lee of trees, at the crest of hills, in the cool quiet of valleys. During the march from Blosstadt, he’d noticed a shape flitting occasionally at the edge of his vision. But when he went to catch it the shape had gone, evaporated like mist before the hot sun. He knew what it was and begged for it to stop, before telling himself to get a grip on his senses. The shadow didn’t listen. It dogged him every step he took. It haunted his every waking thought and came again, as a much more grisly apparition, not merely a shadow at all, in his nightmares. Even now, basking in the glory of the midday sun, whilst the regiments from Averland were integrated into the order of march, he felt it. There at his shoulder, he perched like a harbinger of Keller’s own inexorable fate. His penance. Thankfully, none of the other Grimblades had noticed. At least not yet.
They rested briefly in a grassy plain with a few dotted trees and near a shallow stream. It was a minor tributary of the mighty Aver, which was visible as a glittering silver-blue band in the distance.
Almost as long and wide as the Reik, the river was an impressive sight. Ordinarily, skiffs and boats would ply its depths for trade and passage across. The Aver was strangely empty this day, and had been for several days before it. Even the river birds, the fishermen and water-borne creatures were few and far between. It was as if life had ceased to be along its banks, as if the river were abandoned in the face of the greenskin invasion, its own refugee columns passing unheeded in the night.
Rechts stretched his legs, and rubbed at the fading wound in his shoulder. He winced, but the pain was not nearly as bad as it had been. It had been a long march from Reikland and now, closing on Averheim and the enemy, the soldiers of the Empire were starting to feel it. Even Volker, a seasoned ranger and hunter used to trekking the wilds, rubbed at his back and grimaced.
“How much farther to Averheim?” said Rechts.
Though he’d asked no one in particular, Lenkmann took it upon himself to answer.
“Another thirty miles or so, just over that next rise,”—he pointed to the distant horizon—“and we should see it. From there, I’d guess a day’s march, maybe two.”
“Are you keen for a fight or something, Torsten?” asked Volker of the drummer.
“Not especially, but anything is preferable to this.”
“Maybe Eber could carry you,” laughed the Reikland hunter, one eye on Dog who was scurrying around the long grasses chasing imagined prey.
“Strap a cart onto his back and we could all travel in relative comfort,” scoffed Rechts, before leaping onto Eber’s broad back. “To Averheim, beast of burden!” he cried.
The big halberdier laughed loudly, seizing Rechts’ ankles and then dumping him to the ground. “This beast is not for riding,” said Eber, helping the drummer back to his feet, who was rubbing his sore rump.
By now, most of the Grimblades were laughing. Even Lenkmann managed to snigger. It was a welcome relief after the sombreness of Varveiter’s death. Brand was nowhere to be seen, having wandered off. Likely he was sharpening his blades by the edge of the stream where a good number of soldiers were dunking their heads and washing their filthy pits, or refilling skins. The latter seemingly unbothered by what the former were doing in their future drinking water.
“Keller…” Masbrecht began, noticing the down-turned face of his comrade, “are you all right? Not in the mood for banter? If you wish, I can bless you with—”
“Go away!” hissed Keller, risking a glance at a lonely tree a little way in the distance. Its limbs were swaying as if beckoning and a leaf cascaded forlornly from one of its branches. “Leave me alone… please.”
“Sorry, brother. I didn’t mean to cause offence,” said Masbrecht and walked away to join the rest.
When he was gone, Keller looked up.
“What?” he asked of Masbrecht’s departing back, only just realising he hadn’t been alone.
Karlich had a sour look on his face as he returned to the regiment and his men. He’d been listening to one of Prince Wilhelm’s messengers, who related some change in orders directly from a scroll. The sergeant had neglected to even look at the parchment, let alone keep it, and instead nodded curtly to the runner before showing him his back and walking away.
“News doesn’t look good,” whispered Rechts.
Even from behind him, Masbrecht could smell the alcohol on the drummer’s breath but chose to hold his tongue. It awakened something in him, an old dependency and desire he thought was long buried. Clenching his jaw, Masbrecht pushed it back down into the deep places of his soul where it belonged. Lenkmann, standing rod-straight alongside the Grimblade drummer, failed to notice Rechts’ booze breath. His gaze was fixed on Karlich.
“It will be what it will be,” he replied. “We’ll perform our duty all the same.”
“Definitely not good,” hissed Volker.
They were back in formation and arrayed in column with the Averland regiments. A few of the officers had received messages from the prince and the army was awaiting their return to the ranks before marching on to Averheim.
“Who is that overstuffed peacock riding behind him?” asked Keller. His voice was a little hoarse; he’d barely spoken at all in days.
They all saw the corpulent noble atop his stubby-legged steed swaying behind Karlich. Even mounted, the man was slower than the Grimblade sergeant by a good two strides. Karlich reached the men first as the noble slowed and then came to a stop a few regiments ahead of them, next to Von Rauken’s Carroburg Few. The stern greatsworder champion looked about as pleased as Karlich to be in the mounted noble’s presence, but then his mood was perpetually dour.
“Sergeant,” said Lenkmann, addressing Karlich with a clipped salute.
“You’re probably wondering who that is,” began Karlich, not deigning to wait for questions. “It’s Baron Ernst Blaselocker of Streissen. His Averland regiments are the reason for our swelled forces.”
“Why is he riding with us?” asked Volker.
“He has replaced Captain Stabler,” Brand replied, prompting a glance over the shoulder from Karlich.
“Is he leading us now then?” asked Rechts, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
Karlich was stoic in response. “The baron has command of the Reik and Averland foot, until such time as Captain Stahler is fit to retake the field.”
“And how long will that be?” asked Masbrecht.
“How am I to know!” snapped Karlich. “I have yet to visit the chirurgeon’s tent and enquire after the captain. His screams suggest it will not be before we reach Averheim, if at all.”
“Let’s hope it’s soon…” mumbled Volker.
“I
heard that!”
Volker bowed his head contritely at the sergeant’s reprimand.
“Tender mercies of Shallya, can he even fight?” hissed Lenkmann, as surprised as anyone at his own impropriety.
Karlich knew something of the noble who now led them. He’d heard talk in the Averland camp and knew that some called him the “Yellow Baron” and not on account of his allegiance to the province either. Together with the appearance of the witch hunter, Stahler’s injury and now this, it was turning into an arduous campaign.
Karlich sighed. It was a question to which he suspected he knew the answer already but, for the sake of morale, chose not to voice. Instead he replied with as much tact as he could muster.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
CHAPTER NINE
RIVERS OF BLOOD
Brigund Bridge, Averland,
409 miles from Altdorf
Though not as long or wide as the Reik, the River Aver was still a formidable waterway. Its silvery expanse hugged the northern border of Averland and was as much a defensive barrier as it was a route for trade and commerce coming out of the east. Beyond the capital Averheim and along the edges of the Moot, the land of the halflings, it divided into two large tributaries, the Aver Reach and Blue Reach. Crossing it was a simple matter of securing passage upon a barge or finding a bridge or a ford near one of its narrower junctions. For a large force of men, together with baggage and beasts of burden, it was a more difficult prospect. The fact of the greenskin invasion made that prospect doubly problematic.
Out of tactical acuity or simple wanton destruction, the orcs and goblins in the Paunch’s horde had destroyed most of the major crossing points over the Aver. Bridges were left fire-blackened ruins, ferrymen and their barges slain and burned, fords clogged with rotting corpses and the wreckage of the greenskins’ violent rampages.
[Empire Army 04] - Grimblades Page 11