[Florin & Lorenzo 01] - The Burning Shore

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  The next man turned in time to snap out a quick punch, the hard knuckles of his fist crunching into the gristle of Florin’s nose. But even before the first trickle of blood, the Bretonnian had ducked inside the man’s reach, close enough to smell the stink of his sweat as he raised a knee in a vicious jab that doubled him up with a howl of pain.

  Ignoring the copper taste of blood and the sting of tears Florin fought on, ducking a punch, taking another on his shoulder. A knee drove into his thigh with a numbing thump that sent him staggering back into grappling hands.

  With the wild energy of desperation pumping through his body he jabbed his elbow back, connecting with what might have been either a joint or a skull. But before he could strike again a fist stabbed into his stomach, ripping a terrible cry from his throat.

  Through the pain and the nausea he forced himself into the attack. For a moment it seemed that he was alone, surrounded by a mob of Kislevites. But then, stamping on one man’s knee and jabbing the eye of another, he suddenly found himself beside Lundorf.

  Although his face was streaked with shockingly bright splashes of blood, the Marienburger was fighting like a beast at bay, roaring with what might almost have been joy as he cracked skulls and ribs.

  Despite the crush of bodies, Florin felt a terrible grin starting to spread across his face, the rush of adrenaline bunching his cheeks even as an elbow thudded into his face, leaving an immediate bruise.

  He was beyond pain now. Even as the mob of Kislevites battered and kicked him from one side to the next he thought only of the next temple to crack, the next knee to pop or finger to snap.

  Vaguely, a thought of no more concern to him than the colour of the serving girl’s hair came to him: he wondered if he’d die here, beaten to death by men who were supposed to be his comrades.

  At least they had almost gained the door by now. At least they could use it as a pinchpoint, a funnel to stop their enemies surrounding them. At least…

  Lundorf grunted with surprise and collapsed onto him like a felled tree. The two men lurched to one side, the heel of someone’s palm flashing forward to crush Florin’s nose as he caught his friend.

  The Kislevites, seeing their advantage, surged forward. But a second later they stopped and pulled back, tumbling out of the tavern.

  Florin, half crazed with the rush of combat, jeered at them.

  “What are you waiting for? Cowards! Women! Come here and I’ll break your heads!”

  But the only reply came from Lorenzo. “Come on, boss,” he said. “Give me a hand with Lundorf.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Organising our escape. Smell it?”

  Through the blood and snot of his crushed nose Florin couldn’t smell a thing. He could feel it, though, hard on the back of his throat. Taste it once and acrid smoke of burning thatch could never be mistaken for anything else.

  A glance upwards revealed tendrils of white smoke weaving down from the thatch, the heat of the fire gathering its strength for the holocaust to come.

  “Let’s go,” he said and, dragging Lundorf between them, he and Lorenzo fled from the fire that secured their retreat.

  * * *

  The reveille was not a happy affair. It was held in a loading area of Swamptown’s harbour, a venue which had cost van Delft dear in bribes. And even though he had mercifully called it for mid-morning, late enough for the men to rest but early enough to avoid the burning heat of the midday sun, the assembled soldiery looked as wretched as so many re-animated corpses.

  Two of them, at least, had an excuse. The malarial smog and cheap rotgut of Swamptown had succeeded where the voyage had failed. Their bodies lay neatly bundled in sailcloth now, fat blue flies already clouding the air around them.

  Van Delft, resplendent in the neat green and gold broadcloth of his dress uniform, ignored the buzzing of the insects, much as he ignored the stifled groans and the occasional bouts of vomiting which were the only signs of life from his bedraggled army.

  A day and a night were all it had taken to reduce them to this sorry state. A day and a night. And that bloody wizard hadn’t even bothered to turn up.

  The commander, for perhaps the thousandth time in a long and varied career, wished that he’d stayed in the Emperor’s army. How much easier it was to command regular soldiers.

  But to hell with that, he thought stoically, I regret nothing.

  Anyway, at least the dwarfs seemed to have stayed in shape. Incredible, really, given the amount of ale they’d drunk. They stood in three neat ranks, the stubby block of their cannon resting to one side of them. The muddy sunlight glinted on its barrel, and gleamed on their guns, and shone on their axes.

  The commander was impressed. Even their beards were well tended, trimmed and squared below eyes that were merry with contempt for their human comrades.

  The last of the captains, Graznikov, reeled off what passed for a report. Had van Delft held an Imperial rank, and had Graznikov been his commissioned subordinate, the bleary-eyed Kislevite would have been awaiting his displeasure in the guardroom right now. Not because rumour suggested that he’d set fire to the town; a fire which still smouldered amongst the ruins of a dozen hovels. Not even because he’d incited his men to assault two brother officers.

  No. The worst part of Graznikov’s outrage had been that he’d assaulted two men with twenty, and lost.

  Mercenary or not, van Delft had considered having the man flogged. Or demoted.

  Or perhaps even quietly removed.

  But for now the commander just gave a curt nod of dismissal. He waited for the sorry excuse of an officer to stagger back to his company before strutting forward to address this ragbag of an army.

  They stood before him, a hundred and twenty men, give or take. They came from every corner of the Old World, from the perpetual winter of the far north, to the perpetual summer of the south. But for now, through strange alchemies of greed and desperation, they were all comrades. Brothers.

  They might not know it yet, but van Delft did. Once they entered the jungle Kislevite and Tilean, Bretonnian and Marienburger and dwarf, all these labels would become meaningless. They would be soldiers, that was all. Nothing more and nothing less.

  And if they don’t unite… well, the commander thought, if they don’t unite in life then they most certainly will in death.

  He allowed himself a smile of grim good humour at the thought before he began to speak.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying with a practiced ease. “We are gathered here on the verge of a great adventure. In a little more than a week we will set sail once more, following the coast down to a river. And it is at the end of that river that our goal lies.

  “And our goal, as you all know, is gold. Perhaps more gold than any of us will need in this lifetime.”

  “I doubt it,” somebody called out to muted laughter.

  “I did say ‘perhaps’,” van Delft shot back, to more, louder laughter.

  Only the dwarfs didn’t laugh. At the mention of the wealth their faces had darkened with concentration.

  Good, thought the commander, seriousness is what mercenary armies usually lack.

  “The jungle will be hard work. It is thick. It might contain dangers. I commend you to your officers, who will spend the next five days preparing you for what is to come.”

  Here he couldn’t help glancing at Captain Castavelli, and the score of Tileans that stood behind him. In marked contrast to the stained and stitched rags that served most of their comrades for uniforms, the Tileans wore luxuriantly coloured and elegantly tailored fabrics. Even the poorest of them had a wide, well tooled leather sash upon which to hang a rapier, and a broad-brimmed slouch hat forested with long white feathers.

  Deep in the grim fastness of his Sigmarite heart van Delft was almost looking forward to seeing what the jungle made of their foppery.

  “Let me remind you, too, that whilst our paymasters back home have generously provided for your food and pa
ssage, your weapons are your own affair. That being the case, from now on there will be daily inspections of all arms. Now, do we have any questions before we consign these, our two fallen comrades, to the ground?”

  He paused for a moment, but the only answer came from the hum of the flies.

  “Very well then. Captain d’Artaud, you look full of the joys of life this morning. Fall the men out.”

  Florin, every muscle feeling bruised and every bone feeling broken, lurched to the front and croaked out the single word “Dissssssss—missed.”

  The effort was almost too much for him.

  The shop wasn’t so much a building as a stall that had gradually evolved. Its walls had been made by the two men who had built shops on either side, and the rustling palm thatch of its roof seemed to have grown pretty much by itself.

  Still, despite the cramped conditions, it was a relief to be beneath its shade. The disturbing smells of the place were a small price to pay for a moment’s respite from the midday heat.

  And the smells were disturbing. The peddler obviously ground up the pastes and potions from which he made his living in this very room. Strings of multicoloured herbs and vegetables hung from the ceiling in a thick forest of raw materials, interspersed here and there with the dried carcasses of lizards, or monkey paws, or other, stranger things.

  Beyond the dangling tendrils of this confusion sat the great stone bowl of the shopkeeper’s pestle and mortar. It squatted against the far wall like some primitive idol, its owner sweating over it like a priest over a sacrifice as he prepared Florin’s order.

  “I wonder if this stuff will work in the jungle?” Florin asked Orbrant, more to make conversation than because he had any doubt. The two of them had already tried out the lotion the day before, applying it to one arm whilst leaving the other clean. The mosquitoes had bitten a painful recommendation of the herbalist’s repellent into their unprotected skin.

  Not that that discomfort could compare with the battered flesh and torn muscle that still had Florin hobbling about like an octogenarian. Even now, almost a week after the fight, the bruises still covered his body in the livid blues and greys of a stormy sky.

  How satisfying it would have been to have unleashed his men’s indignant rage against the Kislevites, he thought. Satisfying but foolish.

  In fact, in the days that had followed the fight, Florin had found that his erstwhile foes had started to regard him with a wary respect, bordering on affection. Some of them had even bought him and Lundorf a drink, although they had laughed uproariously when some of it had spilled from his numbed lips.

  Even Graznikov had sidled up to shake hands, although his good humour had felt as false as a lead crown compared to the rough honesty of his men.

  “I’m sure that it will work for a while, sir,” Orbrant said, breaking his chain of thought. “And anyway, my friends here tell me that in the jungle we will be grateful for any little comfort we can find.”

  “I didn’t know you had friends here,” Florin raised an eyebrow, the gesture sparking off a twinge of dull pain.

  “I met several new brothers at the shrine above the docks. They’re good men, although like all of us they’ve strayed.”

  “How?”

  “That’s their business, sir.”

  Florin turned to regard his sergeant and tried, not for the first time, to fight off the feeling that this grim faced professional should be wearing the captain’s cloak instead of himself.

  “I have often wondered, Orbrant, why it is that you left the priesthood. I imagine that your order felt the loss.”

  “No man is indispensable,” Orbrant said, and stroked the smooth dome of his head thoughtfully. “As to why I left… well, it makes no difference to either you or the men.”

  “I know, but I wonder anyway.”

  Orbrant lapsed back into silence and watched the shopkeeper lean the pestle to one side, wipe his brow, and start to rustle through the hanging larder of his ingredients. After a moment he found the herb that he wanted and, spitting onto his hands with a practiced gesture, he went back to grinding.

  “I am on a pilgrimage here,” Orbrant said, his voice a murmur beneath the grinding of stone upon stone. “You see that my head remains clean-shaven? That is because I have never renounced my vows. I have only taken myself away from the order for a while.”

  Florin waited patiently as Orbrant pursed his lips and gazed at the far wall, as though hoping to find the words he sought there.

  “I needed to hurl myself into this wilderness like a hawk into the void. I wanted to prove that my faith in Sigmar was as true and as strong as the hawk’s faith in the air which bears it up. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Florin admitted and, to his surprise, Orbrant threw back his head and roared with laughter, his white teeth shining in the gloom. It was the first time he’d seen the taciturn warrior so much as smile, and his evident surprise kept Orbrant laughing even longer.

  “I like you, sir,” he confided at length. “You’re the most honest rogue I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks,” Florin snorted, trying to take it as a compliment. For a moment they sat in companionable silence, and then Florin said, “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, by the way.”

  “It’s best that I do. These are irreligious men we have. Lacking the guidance of Sigmar they need plenty of theatre to bear them up, and in that you and I must play our roles well.”

  “But when we’re alone.”

  “No, think no more of it. I will call you ‘sir’ and you will call me ‘sergeant’. Trust me, it is better this way.”

  “Well then, sergeant, perhaps you’ll tell me why you so needed to plunge into this void.”

  “Unfortunately,” Orbrant said, his features once more composed into the severity of the parade ground, “we don’t have the time. Look, this good man has completed our order and we’re due back at the companies’ lodging. We have to meet that merchant Ali. Do you remember, sir?”

  “Yes,” Florin agreed, letting the subject drop as he struggled painfully to his feet.

  Ali Ibn Zephier leaned patiently against the crumbling mud brick of the Bretonnians’ lodging. He remained as still as a lizard in the shade of the old warehouse, completely unmoving apart from the working of his plump cheeks as he chewed on a date.

  From time to time his eyes moved in the shadows beneath his broad turban. They flicked from one end of the street to the other, or gazed at the masts of the ships in harbour, or rested on the little knot of his henchmen who stood guard on the handcart that contained their master’s merchandise.

  The blanket that covered his cargo had grown hot to the touch beneath the burning eye of the Lustrian sun, but Ali remained unconcerned. He’d been in this trade for long enough for fear to give way to caution, and for caution to give way to a careless fatalism.

  In this, at least, the sharpness of his wife’s tongue had been a help.

  When he saw Florin and Orbrant come around the corner he spat out the stone of the date he’d been chewing and walked over to meet them. The baggy sleeves of his shirt hung down from his arms as he threw them wide in greeting.

  “My friends,” he called, his singsong accent rich with professional charm. “How are you today? You look very well.”

  A cynical smile pained Florin’s battered face.

  “Really?”

  “Of course, old friends always look good.”

  “But we’ve only known you for a week,” Orbrant said.

  Ali sighed inwardly. These barbarians had no idea of manners.

  “Just as you say, my old friend.”

  “Have you got the powder?” Florin demanded, interrupting the pleasantries.

  “Of course. But, so sorry, noble sir, I have to ask for more than the price we mentioned.”

  “The price we agreed on, you mean,” Florin said, strolling towards the hand-cart.

  “Just as you say,” Ali agreed without missing a beat. “Demand has never been greater.”
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  “How great?”

  “Forty crowns a barrel.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “So sorry,” Ali shrugged, starting to lose patience with this barbarian’s lack of manners.

  Florin sighed. The coin he’d collected from his gunners should have been enough for four barrels of finest black powder. As it was, they’d barely manage two.

  “We shook hands on twenty-four crowns a barrel.”

  “Yes, but then things changed. I give you my oath that if you don’t buy them at forty somebody else will.”

  “A word with you, sir,” Orbrant said and led Florin out of earshot. “I have coin for the powder. We should take all that we can.”

  “You have seventy crowns?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment Florin wrestled with the temptation to ask how a priest, a penitent whose only possessions seemed to be a warhammer, a razor and a frayed old robe, had come by such an amount.

  “We will take a receipt and I will reclaim the money from the company share at the end of the expedition.”

  “Well, yes. All right. Thank you, sergeant.”

  Orbrant nodded and waited for Florin to lead the way back to the merchant.

  “Very well, Ali. Seeing as we’re friends I’ll give you thirty crowns each for the barrels.”

  “Would that I could,” the merchant wrung his hands, pleased that his customer was at least attempting to be polite. “But if my wife found out she would sleep with her legs closed for a month.”

  “Yes, women are never reasonable.”

  “Even if I sold them to you for thirty-eight a barrel she would call me a fool and a squanderer of our daughters’ dowries.”

  “And if I paid more than thirty-two, my men would kill me for a thief as soon as we entered the jungle.”

  For a moment the two men stood and frowned, perhaps saddened by the thought that the world was cruel enough to drive them, two old friends, to such an impasse.

  It was Ali who spoke first.

  “I tell you what I might be able to get away with,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “As well as the powder I have some other things. Weapons of great power.”