“And you think it is Dag? You think he only pretends to be mad?”
“No. But I can’t be certain. It could be any of them. And if it is him and word gets back to Manfred that I killed him…”
“He’ll think you discovered his spy and killed him,” said Franka, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Any of them? We’ll have to watch our tongues.”
“Aye,” said Reiner. “No talk of running away, or killing Manfred, or flushing the poison from our veins.”
Franka groaned. “We must find out who it is, and quickly.”
Reiner nodded. “Aye.”
They stared into the dark corners of the tent for a moment, thinking, then Reiner noticed that their shoulders were touching. He turned and his lips brushed Franka’s hair. He nuzzled her neck. “Let’s have a kiss.”
Franka jerked away from him and punched his shoulder. “Don’t be daft. Do you want to be caught?” She rolled over and pulled her blanket up over her shoulders. “Go to sleep.”
Reiner sighed and lay back. She was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to control himself. It was going to be a very long journey.
THREE
The Finest Army in the Empire
They reached Averheim without further incident. Whether Dag had been cowed by Reiner’s scolding, or it was just that there was nothing to tempt him to violence, the boy remained calm and cheerful, watching the clouds and whistling tavern songs.
At twilight on the fourth day they passed close enough to Nuln to see the orange glow of the great furnaces illuminating the undersides of the black smoke that belched from its many hundred forges. There had been a time, thought Reiner, that the city known as Karl-Franz’s anvil, the city that made the guns and swords and devastating cannon that protected the Empire, and that housed the College of Engineers and their wondrous weapons of war, had filled him with a sense of pride. Its superior warcraft was what set the Empire above all other lands. Now, however, the place only inspired in him a chill of dread. All the smoke and flame reminded him too much of the last time he had seen such furnaces and such forges. He could almost feel their heat, and the walls of that terrible red cave closing in on him again.
Two further days of dusty roads and sunburned necks, and they saw at last the grey stone walls of Averheim rising behind bare-branched arbours and patchy wheat fields. The spires of the temples of Sigmar and Shallya, and the towers of the elector count’s castle, jutted over the walls and glinted in the noon sun.
Reiner stopped the Blackhearts before they came within view of the main gate. “Right, lads,” he said. “Here’s where we part company. I don’t want the recruiters to know we know one another. Too suspicious if we come in as a group. Sign up where you fit. Pavel and Hals as pikemen, Karel as lancer, and so on. Franz will play at being my valet. When we get to the fort, talk to your comrades, listen, and if you hear interesting things—murmurs of mutiny, treason, what have you—you will ‘befriend’ Franz in the mess and tell him what you have heard, and he will relay it to me. Are we clear?”
A chorus of “Ayes” answered him.
“Then luck be with you. And remember,” he added, “no matter how tempting it might be to escape with my eye not upon you, Manfred’s poison is still in our veins. His leash is still around our necks. It would bring you up short if you ran. It would choke the life out of you.”
The Blackhearts nodded, grim.
Reiner smiled, trying his best to look the brave commander. “Now be off with you. When next I see you, we will all be honest soldiers again.”
An hour later, Reiner and Franka rode through Averheim’s broad city gate and began winding their way through the cobblestone streets to the Dalkenplatz, the great market in the city’s centre. There in the shadow of the city jail was spread a sea of bright stalls and tents where one could buy fruits, vegetables, freshly butchered meat, and meat on the hoof. There were knife sharpeners, candle makers, tanners and cloth sellers, farmers, fishmongers, potters and tinsmiths. Bread and pastries were for sale, as well as sweetmeats, cider and beer. Rotund halflings from the Moot rolled wheels of cheese almost as tall as themselves through the crowd. It made Reiner hungry.
“Franz,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Go and buy us some meat pies and a jug of cider.”
“What’s this?” said Franka, looking up sharply. “Putting on airs?”
Reiner smirked. “If we are to be master and servant, we should practise a bit, hey?”
Franka rolled her eyes. “Trust you to take advantage.” She dismounted and bowed flamboyantly. “As your lordship desires.”
Then she stuck out her tongue and disappeared into the confusion of tents.
After they had finished their snack, the two sought out Gutzmann’s recruiters. They were not hard to find. They had taken over a tavern on the side of the square, a sway-roofed two storey building with mullioned windows. Tall banners had been raised on either side of the door—the griffin of the Empire and the white bear on deep blue that was Gutzmann’s standard—and a cheerful, bearded fellow in a shining breastplate and blue breeks and doublet stood outside, looking every young man who passed in the eye saying, “Yer a strapping lad. How’d you like to string yer bow for good old Karl-Franz?” and “Three squares a day in General Gutzmann’s army. And a bonus just for making yer mark.”
There were precious few young men left in the local population, which seemed almost entirely made up of women in widow’s grey, children and old men. Still, there was a slow, steady stream of volunteers shuffling through the tavern’s doors. Some indeed were young men—some too young by far—but many more were hardened professional soldiers, wearing the colours of every city in the Empire, men with missing eyes and ears and fingers, men with hard-used faces and well-used swords, who wore their leather jacks and their dented helmets and vambraces as if they had been born in them. And there were some of an even rougher sort: gaunt, thick bearded villains in buckskins and rags, with no weapons but bows and daggers, men with the clipped ears and noses of felons and clumsy burns meant to cover the fact that they had been branded murderer, deserter or worse.
As Reiner and Franka rode up to the tavern the friendly sergeant saluted, grinning. “Welcome, m’lord. Come to lend a hand?”
“Aye, sergeant. That I have.”
“Yer an officer, m’lord?”
“Junior officer,” said Reiner as he and Franka dismounted. “Corporal Reiner Meyerling. Late of Boecher’s pistoliers. Seeking active duty.”
“Very good, m’lord. Right this way.”
Reiner handed the reins of his horse to Franka. “Wait here, boy.”
“Wait…?” Franka’s fists curled, then relaxed as she remembered her role. “Yes, my lord.”
The sergeant ushered Reiner through the tavern door, elbowing aside the lesser recruits. Reiner saw Pavel and Hals in the line and gave them a wink. They hid their smiles.
The pikemen’s line led to a table where more smiling soldiers in polished armour talked to each recruit in turn, asking them where they had fought before and why they had left their previous service. The recruiters didn’t seem too picky. A majority of the men were asked to raise their right hands and pledge to serve the Empire “unto death,” then sign their names in a big, leather-bound book, or at least make an X if they couldn’t write. Once pledged and signed, they were given a few coins and a blue and white cockade to pin to their caps. Only a few men were turned away. A few others were taken away in irons, cursing.
The sergeant led Reiner around this scene to a table at the back of the tavern where a lance corporal sat with his spurred boots up, tapping his teeth with a quill pen. At Reiner’s approach he abruptly sat up and affixed a big smile to his face.
“Corporal Bohm,” said the sergeant, “may I present Corporal Reiner Meyerling. A pistolier.”
“Welcome, corporal!” said Bohm, sticking out his hand. “Matthais Bohm, bugle with General Gutzmann’s third lance.” He was a handsome youth with a swoop of brow
n hair over bright, eager eyes. He had the height and brawn of a knight, but not yet the hardness or gravity that came with experience.
“Well met, sir,” said Reiner, shaking his hand.
Bohm motioned Reiner to a chair, and they sat on opposite sides of the table.
“So,” said the youth, opening a small leather book. “You wish to sign on with us?”
“I do,” said Reiner. “Can’t have my barking irons rusting, can I?”
Bohm laughed agreeably. “Well, we can help you there, I think. But if you wouldn’t mind telling me of your previous service. And, er, your reasons for coming here.”
“Certainly,” said Reiner, relaxing back into his chair. Manfred had ordered him to assume a false identity for the mission, and Reiner had spent much of the journey thinking of the tale that would be most pleasing to Gutzmann’s ears. “Before Archaon’s invasion, I was stationed with Boecher’s Pistols at Fort Denkh, and when that monster Haargroth came racing through the Drakwald on his way to Middenheim, we joined with Leudenhof’s army to stop them. Quite a set-to as you can imagine.”
“We’ve heard stories,” said Bohm, enviously.
Reiner sighed. “But though I did my part,” he coughed, “and I think I can modestly say that I pulled more than my weight—I continued to be passed over for promotion.”
“Why so?”
Reiner shrugged. “I hate to make a charge of nepotism against so august a name as that of Lord Boecher, but it seemed that his sons, and his sons’ circle, won the lion’s share of honours and commands. And when I was foolish enough to bring a complaint, it only got worse.” He spread his hands. “The Meyerlings are a small country family. No influence at court. Not enough money to buy what can’t be honourably won, and so when I at last realized that there would be no advancement for me under Boecher, I took my leave.”
Bohm shook his head. “You’d not credit how often I hear that tale. Good men ignored in favour of bad. Well, you’ve come to the right place. General Gutzmann knows too well the perils of politics and preference, and has made a vow that merit only will be the way of advancement in his army. We welcome all who have felt slighted in other regiments and companies. We are the home of the dispossessed.”
“That is why I sought you out,” said Reiner. “Lord Gutzmann’s fairness is spoken of across the Empire.”
Bohm beamed. “It is gratifying to hear.”
He turned the little book toward Reiner. “If you would put your name and rank on this line, and pledge to serve General Gutzmann, Sigmar, and the Empire to the best of your abilities unto death, you will be instated in Gutzmann’s army at your full rank, privileges and pay.”
“Excellent.” Reiner raised his right hand and made the pledge, smiling inwardly as he noted that General Gutzmann came before Sigmar and the Empire.
After he had signed Bohm’s book, the young corporal shook his hand, smiling broadly. “Welcome to the finest army in the Empire, Corporal Meyerling. It is a pleasure to have you with us. We leave tomorrow morning from the south gate. Be there at daybreak.”
Reiner saluted. “A pleasure to find a home, corporal. I will be there without fail.”
As he was leaving, Reiner bumped into Karel coming in. The fool boy grinned at him and almost spoke, but Reiner kicked him in the shin and he yelped instead. A born spy, that one, Reiner thought.
The next morning, Reiner rode, slumped miserably in his saddle, through winding cobbled streets to Averheim’s southern gate with Franka at his side. A moist, pre-dawn mist made looming half seen monsters of the brick and timber tenements that leaned their upper storeys over the narrow lanes. The fog without was mirrored by a fog within. Reiner had hoped, since he and Franka were separated from the others, that they would at last be able to get a room together alone, but maddeningly, there had been no private quarters available. With all the recruits in town, and it being market day, the city had been full to bursting. Even with all Manfred’s reikmarks, Reiner and Franka had had to settle for sharing a cramped room with four longswords from Talabheim who spent the night singing marching songs. Reiner had drowned his frustrations in too many jars of wine, and now had a throbbing head as thick as army porridge.
He was not alone. Gutzmann’s recruitment bonus had been nicely calculated to be just enough to get drunk on but not enough to tempt one to leave town, so the men who formed up before the tall, white stone gate under Gutzmann’s banners and amidst supply wagons loaded with sacks of wheat, barrels of cured meat, apples, and cooking oil, as well as bags of oats and bales of hay, were a sad, quiet bunch, clutching heads and puking behind rain barrels. The sergeants, so friendly and cheerful the previous afternoon, were showing new faces now; pulling barely conscious recruits out of doss houses and taverns and bullying and kicking them into line. Other soldiers herded reluctant groups of fellows who, having thought better of joining up, had tried to sneak out through other gates, but hadn’t been wise enough to remove the blue and white cockades from their caps.
As they made their way through the crowded square, Reiner saw a few of the other Blackhearts. Giano gave him a wink, and Abel a slight tip of the head. Pavel and Hals were hanging on their pikes like they were all that held them up. Hals had a black eye.
At the head of the line, Reiner joined Matthais and Karel and the other junior officers.
“Good morning, Meyerling!” said Matthais cheerily.
“The only thing good about it,” said Reiner, rubbing his temples, “is that it will eventually be over.”
“Are you unwell, sir?” asked Karel, concerned.
Reiner gave him a withering look.
“Reiner Meyerling,” said Matthais. “May I present Captain Karel Ziegler of Altdorf.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance for the very first time, sir,” chirped Karel.
Reiner closed his eyes.
After a quarter of an hour in which Reiner stared blankly into space, the sergeants at last chivvied the supply wagons and the new recruits into a rough marching order, Matthais bellowed “For’ard!” in Reiner’s ear, and the column staggered out the gate and into the fog. Reiner wished he were dead.
Reiner recovered considerably after the first meal stop. Whether Matthais’ claim that Gutzmann’s was the finest army in the Empire was true or no, the general certainly did well by his men as far as rations went. Reiner didn’t know what the foot soldiers were being fed, but Franka served him cold ham and cheese and black bread with butter, as well as beer to wash it down with; all of better quality than he’d had in other regiments. The beauty of the day was a restorative as well. They rode through rolling farmland with the buzz of insects all around them and the young wheat rippling in the breeze. A broad blue sky soared above, piled high with fluffy white clouds.
When he at last felt human enough to talk in complete sentences, Reiner urged his horse up to the head of the line, where Matthais was singing the praises of Gutzmann to the new junior officers with the fervour of a fanatic.
“The Empire has yet to use him to his full potential,” said Matthais, “but rest assured, General Gutzmann is the greatest commander in the field. His victories over the orcs in Ostermark and over Count Durthwald of Sylvania are held up as models of strategy among the knightly orders, and his reduction of the Fortress of Maasenberg in the Grey Mountains when the traitor Brighalter made his rebellion has never been equalled for speed and brilliance.”
“Indeed,” said Karel. “I have studied it myself. The way he drew Brighalter out from cover was masterful.”
Matthais smiled. “Consequently, he has won the undying loyalty of his men, for his brilliance keeps losses at a minimum. No one dies unnecessarily in General Gutzmann’s battles, and the men love him for it. Also, he shares out the spoils with magnanimity. His men are better paid and better cared for than any others in the Empire.”
“Is there anything this paragon doesn’t excel at?” asked Reiner dryly as he swatted at a mosquito on his wrist.
Matthais failed
to hear the irony. “Well, the general is nothing with the bow or the gun, but with sword and lance he is nigh unbeatable. His feats of martial valour on and off the battlefield are legendary. He defeated the orc chieftain Gorslag in single combat and led the charge that broke Stossen’s line at Zhufbar.”
Reiner groaned to himself. And this was the man he must kill if it proved that he meant to betray the Empire? To stem the tide of praise, he decided to change subject. “And what will our duties be when we arrive? What is the situation in the pass?”
Matthais took a sip from his water skin. “I’m afraid there is presently little chance for glory, though that could change. Our little pass is not of the same strategic importance as the Black Fire. It is much smaller and closed for much of the year by snow and ice. And it is buffered from the dead lands beyond by the small principality of Aulschweig, which has been a good neighbour to the Empire for five hundred years, and is enclosed entirely within one valley. We also protect the gold mine situated at the north end of the pass.”
“There’s a gold mine?” asked Reiner, feigning surprise.
Matthais pursed his lips. “Er, yes. The mine is a primary source for the Empire’s treasury.”
Reiner laughed. “And the officers’ retirement fund, no doubt!”
“Sir,” said Matthais stiffening. “We do not joke about such things. The gold belongs to Karl-Franz.”
Reiner straightened his face. Was the boy pretending, or did he mean it? “No. No, of course not. My apologies. A poor jest. But if that’s all there is to our duties, it sounds a bit sleepy. You promised when I signed on that I’d get some use of my pistols.”
“And you will,” said Matthais, brightening. “You’ll not lose your saddle calluses under General Gutzmann’s command, never fear. There are bandits in the hills to be chased down, trading caravans to be escorted across the border, and squabbling among the rulers of Aulschweig to keep an eye on. And,” he grinned, “when there’s nothing else to do, we have games.”
[Blackhearts 02] - The Broken Lance Page 3