[Von Carstein 03] - Retribution

by Steven Savile - (ebook by Undead)

  “Damn it,” he muttered, bending down to tear off a handful of grass to staunch the blood. He caught something, a smell on the wind, and then a scurry and a splash as dirt and pebbles spilled back down into the river. He saw the fleeting shape of a shadow loom over him and threw himself to the left, hitting the ground hard.

  Brandt’s man, soaked from head to toe from the river, carried a wickedly curved dagger.

  Vorster saw three more dark shapes emerging from the water: assassins.

  He screamed as he hurled himself forwards. The assassin’s blade sliced into his shirt, cutting into his left arm. Ignoring the pain, he rammed his own dagger into the man’s throat. It was a brutally efficient kill. The assassin clutched at his neck, gargling blood as he tried to hold back the inevitable. Vorster didn’t give the man a second thought—he was dead. The others weren’t. He drew his sword and charged along the riverbank, yelling himself hoarse as he charged the nearest of the men coming out of the water.

  He splashed into the river, slashing at the man’s gut. His opponent hissed in pain and countered, a wicked backhand cut that took a chunk out of Vorster’s cheek as he reeled away from the blow. He was bleeding but he didn’t have time to worry about it. The ground beneath his feet shifted. He slipped. His ankle turned as the riverbed of stones betrayed him and dumped him on his backside. Moving silently, his opponent leaned in for the kill. A black rag covered the man’s face. Vorster rolled away, scrabbling back through the long grass. The blade flashed down. He managed to deflect it with the side of his own blade. Before the assassin could finish him he jerked back, a black-fletched shaft protruding from his shoulder. That moment of pained surprise gave Vorster the chance he needed. He rammed his sword straight up between the assassin’s legs and buried the blade deep in his gut. The dead man’s weight tore the blade from Vorster’s hands as he fell across him.

  Vorster wriggled out from beneath the corpse in time to see two more assassins taken down by crossbow bolts. The metal tip of one bolt burst out through the back of the first assassin in a spray of arterial blood. The second bolt took its target in the cheek, piercing the man’s mouth and burrowing deep into his brain. Both died silently.

  Vorster pulled his sword out of the dead man. A horn sounded behind him. He knew what it signified—the oncoming storm. Brandt’s main force was gathering. The assassins had been sent to weaken them, paving the way for a quick confrontation. Brandt, like any good leader, obviously hoped to minimise the losses among his men. Chance put paid to that.

  A flaming arrow lit up the sky, blazing a trail like a comet.

  It was obvious they weren’t waiting for sunrise. A second arrow and a third arced high, lighting up the bridge. Dark shadows moved, the men of Averland, creeping up on the stoneworks. Swords danced in the moonlight. They came in a silent rush.

  The men of Stirland met them head on in a clash of steel and blood. The first flush of the conflict was savage. Two men fell, three more spilled in through the gap they left. The defenders drove Brandt’s men back with brutal efficiency, the first rank of spearmen holding their line against the dirt-smeared black clad warriors, while behind them five crossbowmen ratcheted volley after volley of bolts into the front ranks of their opponents.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Vorster rushed to join his comrades on the bridge. They were outnumbered and it was only going to be a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

  Vorster was not a devout man but he prayed for a miracle. Without one, the battle for Legenfeld Bridge would almost certainly be over before dawn.

  His cries were echoed by the defenders.

  More flaming arrows lit the sky, streaking down far behind their lines. He saw the blue and red banner of Averland, snapping on a high pole, jostling in the midst of the oncoming tide of men, its once golden sun blanched of all colour by the moon.

  Vorster breathed deeply, drawing on the calm centre of his being.

  “It begins,” he muttered to himself.

  The old soldier beside him hawked and spat a wad of yellow mucus and backhanded his mouth clean. “Let’s hope it ends, too. I’d hate it to go on forever.”

  Three men came at him.

  One took a crossbow bolt in the groin and fell before he had even taken four paces. He lay convulsing as the remaining two stepped over him.

  “Well that evens it up,” the old soldier grinned. “Let’s see if we can’t help these boys find their way to Morr, shall we?” The expression was horribly out of place, but if they were going to survive the day it was exactly the kind of black humour that would see them through.

  He was a tempest of blind fury as he threw himself into the fight, crying: “For Stirland! For liberty! For honour! For Martin!”

  Vorster fought like a cornered beast, lashing out reflexively. His sword bit into flesh and bone. His injuries burned. He lost his sense of self. Around him steel clashed, people—friends—screamed and fell. The old man fought beside him, matching him blow for blow. He talked incessantly, urging Vorster on, yelling when it looked as though a blow might slip through his guard, cackling when one of their enemies fell. It was desperate, and yet Vorster was dislocated from it, cocooned in the anger he felt at Dietrich Jaeger’s abandonment. A commander went down with his men. That was the way of it. He didn’t run like a coward.

  Time stretched out like molasses. The sun was high in the sky before he realised it had even risen.

  The dead lay in pools of blood at his feet.

  “What price victory?” he muttered bleakly, taking advantage of a lull in the fighting to catch his breath. As he looked up a blow cuffed him around the ear, staggering him back. He barely deflected a second, more ferocious attack, parrying the blade even as it lunged towards his heart. It was instinctive. Any level of thought between eye and hand would have been a death sentence. Where his enemy would have expected him to remain on the back foot Vorster twisted to the left and lunged forwards, impaling the surprised man. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, sucking air as Vorster wrenched his blade clear. The man’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees.

  Vorster stepped back and swung, bringing the blade around in a savage arc. It cleaved through the man’s neck, severing his head. It hit the floor and rolled to his feet, eyes still wide with shock and fear. Vorster had heard stories from people who had been to beheadings—supposedly the severed head could still think and feel for up to a minute and a half. He looked down at the accusing eyes and kicked the head away. He didn’t want to know what the dead man was thinking after he had killed him.

  There was space around him for the first time in what felt like an age.

  A horn sounded, blowing three times, sharply, recalling the attackers and offering Vorster and the others a moment’s respite.

  He looked around. Where there had been friends there were corpses. Forty-five men had guarded the bridge. He counted ten still standing. They had given a good account of themselves. Averheim had lost as many again and would lose more before the day was out.

  But the bridge would fall. It was inevitable.

  It seemed like an odd thing to die for: bricks and mortar. It wasn’t heroic. It wasn’t something to inspire a balladeer. No one would sing songs of their last stand. Now, had it been a woman, a great beauty, the daughter of a nobleman they had been fighting so desperately to save, that would have been different. But it wasn’t a beauty. It wasn’t anything of real value. It was a damned bridge in the middle of nowhere.

  Bitterness clogged his throat.

  He had never imagined his life would be traded for a bridge on the hinterlands between Stirland and Averheim.

  It felt so utterly pointless, ludicrous really.

  That, too, was the nature of war. There was no art or artifice to it. It was kill or be killed, die or die trying and all of those useless clichés. It was a senseless waste.

  When the next charge came it would be the end.

  “Why are they letting us rest?” It was one of the younger m
en, blooded for the first time.

  “No need for “em to rush it, lad. We ain’t going nowhere and they know it. Ten of us against four hundred of them: it don’t matter how narrow the bridge is, we ain’t gonna hold “em up for more than a few minutes, if we’re lucky.”

  The young soldier said nothing.

  Vorster took pity on him. “What say you and me stand at the front, eh? Meet them head on and make the bastards pay a hefty bleedin’ toll to cross our bridge?” He smiled, but even as he did he knew he probably looked manic.

  “I’ll be right beside you,” the old soldier said, coming up to stand next to him. He spat on his palm and held it out for the younger man to shake. “Last one to ten gets the beers in when we get back to Wurtbad, deal?”

  “Deal,” Vorster agreed, spitting on his own palm and shaking. “Anyone else want in on this, Elias is throwing his money away.”

  “The old fool hasn’t got two beans to rub together,” Klemens, a bear of a man, said, coming up behind them. “I wouldn’t trust him to buy the lad’s beer. Reckon I better stick close to the boy to make sure Elias coughs up what he owes, come the end of the day.”

  Vorster smiled. “You keep one eye on him and I’ll keep another on him. That ought to be enough.”

  “You think? Last time Elias promised to get a round in, Sigmar was wet behind the ears.”

  “Knowing my bloody luck the old git will get himself killed right as he’s about to dip his hand into his pocket,” Ueli said, joining them.

  “I’m surprised he’s wearing trousers with pockets!” Klemens grunted, laughing at his own joke.

  The moment passed quickly. They all knew what this was: the calm before the storm.

  The horn would sound again and…

  Vorster saw him first—a lone rider under the white flag of truce. The horseman rode into the centre of the great stone bridge and reigned in his mount, waiting.

  “Who speaks for you?” the rider called. Vorster knew the man immediately. It was Ackim Brandt himself. He was tempted to order the commander’s execution. It would have been an easy thing to do, but he refused to lower himself to that.

  “I do,” Vorster said. Klemens nodded, as did Ueli.

  He walked out to meet the rider halfway across the bridge.

  Brandt dismounted. He teased off his metal gauntlet and offered Vorster his hand. Vorster hesitated a moment before he took it, expecting treachery. It took him a second to remember that Ackim Brandt was not Dietrich Jaeger.

  “You have fought well today,” Brandt said.

  “For all the good it has done us.”

  “By my count enough people have died here today to satisfy Morr for a month. Now I would bury my dead.”

  “It would take you a quarter of an hour, less, to finish us off. There are ten of us to your hundreds’

  “Will you lay down your swords? I am a civilised man. You will be given a head start to return to your loved ones.”

  Vorster shook his head. “As much as I am tempted, no; we are all men here and we know what we face. When it comes down to it, we face it with pride. Despite your numbers, you have yet to cross our bridge. We are the reason for that.”

  “Indeed you are, soldier. Indeed you are. You have done yourselves proud here. There is honour in that. I have to admit I admire your tenacity. In different circumstances I would have been proud to fight at your side. As it is we find ourselves on different sides of this battle, but that does not mean we have to be barbarians. If you will not surrender, consider this: with your permission, I would collect our dead. In return, I offer you and your men one more night of life in honour of your stand here. You will not be forgotten, soldier. On your word we will stand down ’til dawn.”

  “And we live to fight another day.”

  “It is a fair offer. As you say, the dead aren’t going anywhere. I could easily have you put out of your misery. Instead, one more night with friends, one more sunrise. You deserve that.”

  “Another night of dread expectancy? Another night of gnawing fear?”

  “One more night to listen to the beauty of the world, to feel cold water on your face, to wake up to bird song,” Brandt countered.

  “Another night to make peace with Morr?”

  “Indeed, but who couldn’t use another night?”

  Vorster looked back at his rag-tag group of survivors. How could he deny them one more night of life? He looked at Elias, standing with his arm around the youngster, Zechariah. “Until sunrise?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Thank you, commander,” Vorster said.

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider surrender? You seem like a good man, I would hate to kill you for nothing.”

  Vorster smiled, an echo of Elias’ black humour sneaking into his voice as he said, “Well, just between us, Brandt, I hate to die, but it won’t be for nothing. I will promise you that. Victory or death,” he said, nodding back towards the Stirland standard, the flag rippling lazily in the slow breeze.

  The Averlander nodded, understanding. “What is your name, man?”

  “Vorster Schlagener.”

  “Well, Vorster,” Brandt said, “fare thee well, soldier. I will say a prayer for you tonight. Let Morr know that you are a good man, and that you and your friends deserve honour in death. May Sigmar have mercy on your soul.”

  A flurry of black wings caught Vorster’s eye. Three ravens had settled on the stone abutment behind Brandt. It was not unusual, considering the blood spilled already. What was unusual was that these three were the only carrion eaters that had begun to gather.

  “And on yours, Brandt. The birds are gathering. Best have your men recover the fallen before they decide to feast.”

  The Averlander nodded, spurred his mount around, and cantered away, back towards his waiting army, leaving Vorster alone on the bridge.

  He walked back to the others.

  “Well, what did he want?” Klemens called before he was even halfway.

  “He wants to gather their dead, and in return offered us respite.”

  “Taal’s teeth!” Elias exclaimed.

  “Don’t get too excited old man; it’s only one more night.”

  “Aye, but that might be all we need.”

  Vorster had tried not to think about it when Ackim Brandt had made the offer, but Elias was right. One more night could be exactly what they needed for salvation. Reinforcements were on the way from Brandstadt and Furtzhausen.

  “Zechariah, I have a job for you. I want you to run like the wind, find Jaeger on the Wollestadt road and get him back here before sunrise. Our lives depend on it lad.”

  The young soldier nodded earnestly, not understanding that Vorster was sending him away so that he might live. “I’ll bring him back, sir.”

  “No need to call me sir, lad. Now go.”

  Zechariah turned and ran, sprinting away towards the trees.

  “That was a good thing you just did,” Elias said, resting his hand on Vorster’s shoulder.

  “Let’s hope it helps us.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant, Vorster.”

  “I know,” he shrugged. “He’s just a boy. I couldn’t very well damn him.”

  “No,” Klemens agreed, “but you were quite capable of damning the rest of us, eh?” The big man chuckled to show there was no malice in his words.

  “Oh, we were damned a long time ago, my friend,” Vorster said, picking away at one of the chigger bites on his arm.

  The bonfires burned on both sides of the river for the best part of the night. Five huge fires lit up the sky turning night into day. The stink of burning flesh filled the air.

  Vorster knelt as close to the flames as the heat would allow. The fire stung his eyes, but it gave him an excuse for the tears of grief he shed. Body by body, they threw old friends onto the fire.

  It was hard, harder than dying.

  That too was the nature of war, being left behind to mourn.

  He didn’t hear them a
t first, because of the snap and crackle of the fire. Klemens came up behind him, dapping his hands vigorously. He looked up from the bodies still lined up, waiting to bum.

  Riders.

  Five of them.

  They had obviously ridden hard. Their mounts looked dead on their feet and the men didn’t look much better.

  “What’s going on?”

  “If I was a religious man, I’d say a miracle,” Klemens said, grinning. His grin was infectious. They’re outriders. Martin’s army is less than five hours away.”

  “Five hours is after dawn, my friend. Still plenty of time for us to die.”

  “Oh it gets better,” Klemens said, obviously enjoying himself. They encountered Jaeger prancing around on the road. Let’s just say they… ahem… convinced him to return. They’ve made camp just beyond the tree line. No campfires, no noise, but believe me, they’re there, waiting. When Brandt comes to take on us few he is going to be in for a hell of a surprise when Jaeger’s cavalry come crashing down on his head. While they are still reeling from that, Martin’s army is going to stride onto the battlefield. Two thousand men, Vorster. Talk about a morale breaker. I’d love to see Brandt’s face when it happens. We did it, my friend, we held the bridge.”

  Vorster wanted to smile but couldn’t because he was all too aware of the cost of the miracle: the bodies at his feet and those being charred to ash in the fire.

  He felt hollow.

  That too was the nature of war.

  THE BLACK SHIP

  II

  Navigating the Reik

  They said that to see the black ship was to foretell your own death, such was the thrill of fear the barque sparked among the living.

  They said it was an omen.

  They pointed at the carrion birds following in its wake and muttered oaths and curses as readily as they uttered prayers and begged boons.

  No one could deny that death followed the black ship.

  In Marienburg three merchants in gaudy silks were left to rend their garments and weep like babes on the waterfront as their women walked willingly onto the black ship, mesmerised by the tall, gaunt figure of Mannfred, on the prow, wind streaming through his long luxurious locks as he beckoned them forwards. Their husbands tried to stop them of course. Their deaths were unpleasant.