Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  “So you sprung the ambush too soon.” His father’s voice was steely.

  “I acted as a gentleman, father.”

  “I placed you under the orders of Captain Molders and expected you to obey him.”

  Otto’s resentment boiled over: “Father! The man is a mercenary! He knows nothing of honour. Listen to his accent, he sounds more like a Bretonnian! You know the trouble these locals cause you. Brigands, as much a thorn for us as for their enemies. How can he be trusted?”

  His father banged his fist on the table, silencing him. He was about to speak and then passed his hand wearily across his brow. Otto regarded him warily. He did look tired. These past months since he had been appointed warden must have been hard. Battling orcs or defending against beastmen in the east was arduous but at least you knew where you stood with an orc. Here the damned locals on both sides of the border were always feuding, raiding and seemingly caring little for Emperor or King.

  “Father, I am here to serve you loyally.”

  The Graf returned his earnest gaze. “I know, Otto, but war isn’t like the ballads or the parade ground. Molders is no knight but he is a veteran of this border squabbling and I’ll stake my sword he is not false. I’m far from sure about just how chivalrous this opportunist the Duke de Boncenne is. What I am sure of is that the Emperor runs the South March on a tight purse and I have precious few forces to impede Boncenne. If he pushes up to the Grunwasser, he’ll lodge himself like a halfling in a bakery and be twice as difficult to shift.”

  Listening, Otto was a tumult of emotions: shame yet resentment at this chastisement, worry for his father and a tingling sense of excitement at being involved in such tense matters.

  “I must have more information,” his father was continuing. “Molders will report as soon as he arrives. Meanwhile bring me the knight and I will question him.”

  “Yes, father. Will he be dining with us?”

  “No he will not!”

  Otto winced. “I will fetch him at once.”

  As Otto left, Molders was just coming into the tent. The pistolier captain pulled his shoulders back even further than normal and gave a strangled snort as he passed. The young noble glared at him before stiffly walking to his tent.

  When he arrived, the Bretonnian was sitting by the fire, wrapped in Otto’s second cloak and thanking Henryk who had just topped up his goblet. The knight looked up, “Ah, greetings, Otto. I compliment you on your hospitality.” He gestured with his goblet.

  “I fear I must interrupt your rest, Sir Guillame. My father…” Otto hesitated slightly, “My father desires to speak to you. I am sure he will not detain you long. I will wait until you return and we can dine together. I shall escort you to the Graf at once.”

  Otto’s plans to dine were to be frustrated, however, and scarce three hours later he was in the saddle again.

  Otto prided himself on his horsemanship and was indeed reckoned a natural in the saddle, but he had never encountered riding like this before. Throughout the scant hours of darkness that were left they pressed on like men possessed. There was no moon and Otto wondered how his horse could see to pick his way over the rough hillsides, never mind how Molders was guiding the troops. Dawn brought easier going as they reached the moorland plateau which marked the no-man’s land on the south march between Bretonnia and the Empire, but there was no change in pace. The pistoliers dispersed themselves more widely but they did not even stop for breakfast, the men sipping from their flasks and eating on the move instead.

  Otto was very weary but inside he was a conflicting mass of emotion. Pride that his father had seen fit to dispatch them to check his own theory and scout for a Bretonnian force coming over the moor. But there was anger at Molders’ barely concealed contempt for what he saw as a wasted errand. The captain firmly believed that the main Bretonnian attack was coming by the southern route. The man was mad, or worse, an enemy agent. How could he doubt the honour of knights such as Sir Guillame? No! They would locate the Bretonnian force, his father would marshal his troops and battle would be joined on the moor.

  It would be Otto’s first battle. Not a large one admittedly, in fact more of a border skirmish over a couple of valleys and those wretched coal mines, but what mattered the size of the conflict when true honour was at stake? He had heard the pistoliers talk of the Duke of Boncenne as an upstart, keen to get his hands on the profits of those mines. How could they think so of a duke? They were the mercenaries! More likely the duke viewed the whole venture as a test of honour, an adventure to prove himself in his new post of march warden and quite right too! Any noble of courage and mettle would do similarly.

  The day wore on. They had halted briefly but Molders was relentless, and by late afternoon they had picked up the cart road which ran from Dreiburg across the border. The pistoliers followed the road but were still well spread out in a long skirmish line. Otto looked to his right where Lutyens was riding, blonde hair streaming out behind him in the stiff breeze, his huge form dwarfing his small mount. It was worrying how the giant had always been somewhere near. Had Molders posted the big man to keep a special watch over him? Was the pistolier captain aware of Otto’s suspicions? Anxiety twisted in his stomach. If the pistoliers proved to be traitors it would be very easy for them to kill him. He would stand no chance against so many. A cloud passed over the sun and the wild, open landscape of the moors seemed suddenly bleak. The craggy rock outcrops took on the guise of sinister watching heads, roughly haired with heather, peering at Otto. The incessant chatter of the chill streams, a babble which had once echoed Otto’s bubbling spirits now seemed to mock him as they approached the rise to the scarp edge where the moor descended in a rocky jumble to the Bretonnian plains. Here Molders halted his men, and, leaving most with the horses, led a few forward on foot to look out over the land ahead.

  The captain signalled that Otto should come too, and again the young man was irked to find himself chaperoned by the hulking Lutyens. Using the rough, boulder-strewn slope as an excuse, Otto tried to pick a route that led him away from his unwelcome shadow but wherever he moved Lutyens’ slow footfall followed. Otto’s heart beat faster, faster than the climb should have occasioned, as he wondered what lay at the scarp edge. Would this be the scene of his death at the hands of traitors? A supposed accident on the cliff edge? Apprehensively his hand rested on his sword hilt but he felt powerless. He hung back when, approaching the skyline, the pistoliers dropped and crawled towards the edge. Lutyens stopped beside him. Ahead, Molders was cautiously peering through the gap between two rocks. He reached down to a pouch at his belt and pulled out a small brass tube. A spyglass, an item of expense and rarity, looted doubtless! The captain scrutinised the land ahead.

  There seemed to be a ripple of expectation amongst the pistoliers. Several glanced back. Their faces showed interest, expectation. Were they Molders’ most trusted henchmen, here to witness Otto’s murder? The captain turned impatiently and even behind that spade of a beard, Otto could clearly detect a wolfish grin. He gestured imperiously for Otto to come forward. The young noble moved forward, tensed for action. There was a touch on his shoulder and he whirled, sword half-drawn before his arms were caught in Lutyens’ iron grip.

  “Get down, by Sigmar! You will reveal us!” the giant hissed.

  Shaking, bewildered, Otto crawled to where Molders beckoned with his spyglass. There was a glint in the captain’s eye as he gestured to Otto to look ahead. Heart pounding and trying to watch the pistolier out of the corner of his eye, Otto glanced around the boulder in front of him.

  He gasped at what he saw and his fears vanished in a rush of vindicated pride. Some distance from the bottom of the slope a long line of horsemen was trotting towards them, the sun glinting off their helmets and spear points. Squires screened the advance of the main force which was arranged along the road behind. He had been right! He glanced over to where Molders was lying but the captain did not look round. Molders was scrutinising the slowly advancing Bretonnians. Otto
looked at them too. The main force was quite a distance away and some dust was rising but Otto could see a collection of bright banners floating above the head of the procession and beneath them a splash of colour he took to be the caparisons of the knights’ chargers. Behind marched a column of infantry, a mixture of archers and men-at-arms most probably.

  Molders just kept staring through the spyglass and the outriders were nearly at the bottom of the slope before he made any move, silently gesturing to Meyer, his lieutenant, to take the glass. Otto smiled to himself. Most probably the captain was sour at being proved wrong. Meyer looked for some minutes before lowering the instrument, his thin lips pursed and dark brow creased with concern. He passed the glass to Lutyens with a soft oath, “By Sigmar! A ruse.”

  Molders grinned harshly at Otto before wriggling backwards with Meyer, gesturing to Lutyens to pass the glass to Otto. The young noble paused to admire the instrument. It was crafted exquisitely; dwarf-made, Otto thought. Lutyens was impatiently signing to him to hurry so he lifted it to his eye. It took him a second to focus it and when he did he let out an involuntary whistle, immediately cut short by a vicious jab from Lutyens. The image was miraculous, far superior to that given by his father’s own prized telescope, one of the best the craftsmen of the Empire could produce. He could see every detail of the faces of the horsemen, now beginning to pick their way up the long slope, and he was surprised at what an unkempt crew they appeared. This was nothing to the shock he got when he trained the glass on the knights leading the column further back along the road. He picked out the Duke by his banner and horse trappings but through the Dwarfish instrument he could see that the figure on the charger was not the darkly handsome, moustached warrior he’d heard of. Indeed it was only a young stripling of a youth, gawky and pale. The rest of the procession was equally startling. There was the occasional warlike veteran but most seemed youths or old men and many of the spearmen seemed armed with farm implements, not weapons of war. Lutyens was tugging at his boot. His mind in turmoil, Otto squirmed back and then ran over to where Molders was issuing a furious stream of orders.

  The captain was addressing Meyer. “Make sure they see you. Act just as if you had contacted their real force. Don’t get too close, so that they stay confident we haven’t spotted their ruse. You’ll not have trouble with their skirmishers if you keep back, they’re only there to try to make sure we don’t get close enough to spot their damned deception. The rest of us must get back to the main camp at once. Sigmar knows, this will be too close!”

  The ride out had set a hard pace; the ride back was punishing. They slowed to a walk only where the going was so rough as to demand it, otherwise it was a constant gallop. Otto, who had been disdainful of the pistoliers’ wiry mounts, was forced to concede that even if the small horses looked rough, their endurance was exceptional. His mind was filled with the face of the youth that had been masquerading as the Duke—and under the Duke’s own banner! What perfidy! He felt almost physically sick when he thought of the base nature of the trick. Even now the Bretonnian force must be advancing unhindered, probably by the southern route, as Molders had predicted, damn him! Otto shivered when he thought of the implications for the honour of the Empire and for his father. How wrong he had been! He looked ahead, to where Molders was riding, resolute but seemingly unperturbed. A blush of shame coloured the young noble’s face as he remembered his judgement of the pistolier captain. By the Hammer, what were they to do?

  The long summer dusk was just deepening into night proper when Molders barked a curt command and most of the pistoliers wheeled off towards the south. There were only six of them now, still pressing on towards his father. Some of Otto’s old anxieties resurfaced. Where were the others going? Was he now riding with traitors who would turn on him to ensure the news of the Bretonnians’ vile trick never reached his father? Once more his hand toyed with his sword hilt and he began to try and scrutinise his companions as best he could in the closeness of the night. Each seemed entirely oblivious of him, silent automatons ploughing through the gathering darkness. He was exhausted and his mind was whirling. Would they be in time? Again he felt nauseous. How could a man fight with honour in times like these? The jolting as the horse pushed steadily over the rough ground seemed to shake him to the bone. Each shock from the saddle emphasised the jarring of his thoughts: perfidy, treachery, failure, dishonour! By Sigmar, they had to be on time! Instinctively he tried to spur his mount faster but the horse tossed its head and whinnied in protest.

  “Patience!” came Lutyens’ slow voice out of the darkness from Otto’s left. “The horse won’t rush the broken ground in the dark.”

  “Sigmar!” Otto hissed bitterly, “What kind of world is this, where even a horse can act more aptly than I can?”

  The nightmare hours dragged on, the ground studded with rocks, the miles with self-recriminations and doubt as Otto desperately tried to picture where the Bretonnians might have reached and their possible plans. If they successfully pushed through the southern passes onto the flat lands along the Grunwasser all would be lost! The Graf’s ill-assorted force of light troops, even stiffened by his own household halberdiers, couldn’t face Bretonnian chivalry on the plains. Chivalry! The word had bitter ring to it now. Would they be in time? Otto’s thoughts whirled on. The pistoliers were supposed to be able to doze in the saddle. He couldn’t have slept now for worry even if he could keep his seat. Where was the camp? How much further?

  The challenge from their own picket lines came suddenly and Otto almost cried aloud with relief. They hastened to report to his father. “Fresh horses and prepare yourselves to be away again at once,” Molders ordered before he dismounted and strode into the Graf’s headquarters. Confused by a sense of mingled anxiety and shame, Otto thought of returning to his own tent, but instead he trotted after Molders.

  The captain was sitting on a stool in the foyer talking hurriedly with Otto’s father. The Graf paced in front of him while old Gunther served the pistolier a hasty meal of bread and cheese. Otto studied his father nervously. His shoulders were still squared and he stood straight but his face was drawn and his fists were clenched. Once Otto would have bristled with indignation that a mere mercenary captain should sit while his father stood, but now the young man just waited awkwardly, the sick feeling in his stomach stronger than ever.

  His father heard him enter and turned. “Sit, Otto,” he gestured to a stool by Molders, “and eat quickly. Gunther, send word to Otto’s manservant to prepare for his master to depart again quickly.” He resumed talking to Molders. “So, an elaborate ruse! You were right to suspect them. We may just be able to stop them if we despatch a fast force at once. I have the troops ready. It all hinges on how far the Bretonnians have proceeded on the southern route.”

  “If they have taken that route,” Molders said through a mouthful of bread, crumbs falling from his beard. A twinge of Otto’s old resentment returned. Such familiarity from a mere captain! The Graf showed no resentment, however, and spoke, even respectfully, to the pistolier.

  “No, they will have. You are right about that too, I am sure. Besides, the Magister of Dreiburg is well placed to intervene in the unlikely event they have swung north.” The Graf clenched his fists. “It is a matter of timing. I’ll send ahead yourself and your men, two hundred of the Stirlander archers, all of the hackbut men who have mounts, von Grunwald with his light guns and fifty local horse. The Stirlanders will have to manage on foot or double up on horses; they’ve done it before. You will attempt an ambush in the foothills. I have alerted Dreiburg and I will follow you with the remaining hackbut men and the halberdiers. We will take up a defensive position at Ravensridge, should you need to fall back. If you are caught on the plain, it could go very ill for you!”

  “We must hope against that, my lord, but by my reckoning we have a good chance of getting there.” Molders looked at Otto sarcastically. “The lads set a good pace when their lives and booty depend on it.” The captain took a swig of ale a
nd, standing up, abrupt as ever, continued, “Right, swilling ale doesn’t prime pistols. We’ll be off.” He stared pointedly at Otto again. “Besides I can’t afford to fail you, I haven’t had my full pay yet!” He gave a strangled noise that might have been a laugh and went out.

  “Sigmar go with you!” the Graf called after the pistolier. Otto felt himself flush at the memory of his mistakes as his father turned to him. There were traces of worry around the Graf’s eyes but there was no reproach in his face as he said, “You had best hurry and join them, my son. You will acquit yourself well, I am sure. My thoughts go with you.”

  Otto stammered, “I am… sorry, father.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Sorry for my misjudgement.”

  “We all misjudge things, lad. You are here to learn. Now go.”

  “Thank you.” Otto turned.

  “Otto, one other thing. Sir Guillame has disappeared, and so has your best palfrey. I fear the two disappearances may be connected. Don’t blame Henryk. It is I who should have ensured a stricter guard.”

  This news stung Otto more than anything he had yet heard. “But… but he was a knight, a man of honour!”

  His father shrugged. “You can’t keep ward over the honour of others. Just keep your own intact, son—and your hide! Now go and serve your Emperor and your father.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Otto was perplexed as he left the tent. The man whom he had trusted, looked to as an example of chivalry, had coldly manipulated him. Duped him! As he made his way to join the pistoliers, he felt sick in his heart.

  It was another tough ride and, in truth, Otto was weary to his very core as they trotted through the darkness. This time they had a road to follow, albeit a rough one, and Molders was driving his men hard. Otto rode at the front of the column in the same group as the captain. To his discomfiture, even through his tiredness, he noticed Lutyens was still his shadow. Now, though, the discomfort wasn’t fear of treachery but bitterness that he could have been so wrong. Lutyens was his chaperone—not to cloak some dark plot, but instead to look after him, and he had needed him! The memory of Lutyens saving him in that first action returned with the sharpness of a spear thrust and he squirmed in his saddle. The whirling succession of tortured thoughts returned again: perfidy, treachery, failure, dishonour! Above all was the incessant question: would they be in time?