Thorgad looked at Valramnik steadily. He gave nothing away.
‘How do you know this?’
Valramnik laughed, and his barrel chest shook.
‘Never you mind how I know,’ he said. ‘I speak to many folk, dawi and umgi. You can listen and profit, or ignore me and your grudge will never be erased. The Empire is no place for you, Grimgarsson. You should listen to advice when it finds you.’
Thorgad grunted, trying not to show his interest too much. He began to clean the gore from Glamrist. Inwardly, however, his heart had begun to race.
‘If this is true,’ he said carefully, ‘I will be in debt to you twice over. A chest of gold would be too little reward.’
Valramnik laughed again. His warriors had all returned, and he put his helmet back on.
‘Don’t incur debts you can’t pay!’ he said. ‘But if you wish to clear them, look for me in Karak Hirn. Until then, Grimnir be with you.’
With that, he turned back into the shadows and stalked off. His entourage went with him, and soon they were lost in the darkling trees.
Thorgad stood silently for a while, pondering the strange ways of fate. After some time, he collected himself, and slung Glamrist across his back. His face gave little away. Despite the grobi, despite the unexpected reprieve, despite the tantalising news, his expression remained stony. With a halting limp, he turned west, and began to plough through the forest once more. The coming days would determine the truth of Valramnik’s news. But it was worth following the lead. At least it gave him some purpose. After weeks in the wilderness, now Hergig awaited him.
Magnus came round. The world gradually made its presence felt. It was cold, pale and unpleasant.
He half-sat up in bed, and took a look about him. He was in his garret above the blacksmith’s. It was filthy. Dirty linen was strewn across the bare wooden floor. Harsh light fought its way through the narrow, grimy window ahead of him. In the corner of the room, a pile of heavy, huge chests sat, covered in rumpled sheets. They were the only items of any worth in the chamber. The wood was oak, dark with age. All were banded with iron, and there was a strange rune on the lock. Dwarfish make. Despite hundreds of years of artistry in the Empire, still nothing could compare to them when it came to making things to last.
Magnus pushed the sheets from him, and carefully rubbed his chin. It was thick with stubble. A line of drool ran across one cheek. His breath was foul. The room stank. His temples began to hammer.
Shakily, mindful of his eggshell-weak head, Magnus staggered to his feet and headed for the chamber pot. A wave of nausea lurched across him. When done, he shuffled to the window, shoved the rotten frame outwards and hurled the contents into the street below. There was an outraged curse, followed by raucous laughter.
Magnus smiled grimly. He still felt sick. Most of his clothes from the night before had been thrown across a rickety chair. He pulled them back on. Their stale aroma blended artfully with the other malodorous smells in the room. The icy morning air, now rushing into the bedchamber through the open window, did little to dent the seamy atmosphere.
There was a metal bowl on a shelf next to the chair, and a chipped pitcher of water. The surface was lined with scum. Magnus poured it into the bowl, dipped his head towards it and splashed his face. The chill water brought a rush of blood to his face, and his head thumped more strongly. He shook it, and his unruly hair whipped across his cheeks.
Magnus took a deep breath, feeling himself gradually come back together. He looked out of the open window. The sun was still low in the sky, but it must have been at least mid-morning. His room was on the second floor of the blacksmith’s rambling house, and he could see a landscape of sloping roofs in every direction. Mud-coloured smoke rose lazily into the pale sky. The chatter of the street filtered up towards him. It was lively, vital, obscene, good-natured. Everything that Magnus wasn’t.
He opened the draughty door to his humble chamber, and stomped down the creaking stairs. Two storeys below, the forge was clearly at work. With each clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, the veins in his forehead gave a sympathetic spasm of pain. Wincing against the hammering, Magnus entered the wife’s private domain in the floor above the forge.
As he stumbled in, Frau Ettieg turned to greet him. She had been cooking, and her cheeks were crimson from the heat of the oven. She wiped her hands on her grease-stained apron, and frowned.
‘Drunk again?’ she asked.
The blacksmith’s wife was a solid, heavy-boned woman with a face like a man’s. She rarely lost her frown, which made her look even more masculine. Magnus felt sorry for her. Her husband, the swarthy, violent Herr Ettieg, had been enjoying the favours of the maid Brigitta for some time. It was common knowledge in the neighbourhood, especially since the plump, bright-eyed Brigitta was pretty indiscreet about the whole thing. In Frau Ettieg’s situation, Magnus wouldn’t have looked his best either.
He ignored her comment, and sat heavily at the table. The smell of oily pancakes wafted from the oven.
‘Anything to wet a man’s lips?’ Magnus said. Even he was surprised at how gravelly his voice sounded.
Frau Ettieg shook her head disgustedly, but got him a cup of small beer from one of the cupboards. She put it down in front of him, still shaking her head.
‘It’s not good for a man to drink all day and all night,’ she said. ‘You’ll end up in the gutter. And you owe Pieter a month’s rent. He won’t wait forever.’
Magnus took a swig of the weak, foamy beer. It tasted more like dirty water than ale, but he felt his body respond almost instantly nonetheless.
‘I’ll be fine soon,’ he said, without much conviction. ‘I’m waiting for something to come in. Trust me.’
As he spoke, Magnus dimly remembered something about last night. Some promise of money. He frowned, and pushed his hand through his oily hair. What was it?
Frau Ettieg sighed, and went back to the oven.
‘A man came for you this morning,’ she said, absently. ‘He left you a message. It’s on the table.’
Magnus winced. People calling for him was never a welcome sign. He looked across the table. There was a roll of parchment lying on it, bound by a leather cord. There was a seal. Count Aldebrand Ludenhof’s seal.
His stomach gave a sudden lurch, and the small beer rose uncomfortably in his gorge. It all came rushing back. Grotius. The assignment. That was why he’d got so drunk.
Magnus reached for the parchment and unrolled it. There were letters of commission from the count’s private office, all signed in sweeping flourishes of black ink and stamped with the official marks. Grotius had written him instructions. The Hochland Grand Army’s store yards in Hergig had been alerted to the situation. He was expected to pay them a visit at noon. General Scharnhorst was also down to meet him in the afternoon.
Magnus rolled his eyes. Grotius had been nothing if not efficient. The little worm.
‘What time is it?’ he asked Frau Ettieg, leafing through the dense roll of orders and instructions.
‘Late,’ she replied, keeping her attention on her cooking. ‘You’ve been snoring like a pig for hours. Do you want a pancake?’
Magnus shook his head, and rose from the table.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘You should have told me about this earlier.’
Frau Ettieg turned, placing her hands on her barrel-like hips crossly.
‘And go up to that pile of filth you call your room?’ she asked. ‘Not likely. If you’re going out, I’ll get that little slut to clean it.’
Magnus swallowed the last of the beer, spat into the corner of the room and brushed his clothes down casually.
‘Tell her to keep away from the chests,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back at the end of the day.’
Frau Ettieg came up to him. She frowned, and flicked some of the detritus of the night from his leather overcoat. S
he could be strangely maternal at times.
‘Take this,’ she said, pressing a steaming pancake into his hands. ‘You’re a disgrace. Your father would weep to see you.’
Magnus shrugged. Once so many people told you the same thing, it lost its power to shock.
‘Thanks,’ he said, munching on the cake. It tasted of fat and curdled milk. ‘I’ll enjoy it on the way.’
The vast mass of the Kristalhof loomed into the pale grey sky. Its enormous walls sloped slightly inwards as it rose from the chaos of the streets around it. Its dark flanks were brutal in their simplicity. There was no adornment, no decoration. It had been built for war. The towers at each corner were broad and squat, banded with lines of granite. If the count and his court were inside, there was no visible external sign. A few crows flapped lazily above the keep. They were mere specks against its bulk.
Magnus looked up at it grimly. In an ugly town, it was the ugliest building. It might have even been the ugliest building in the entire Empire, although there were plenty of contenders for that crown. He was glad he was not going inside. The store yards of the Hochland Grand Army were in a compound under the shadow of the Kristalhof.
The ‘Grand’ Army was nothing of the sort. Unlike the drilled perfection of the Reiksguard or the massed ferocity of the Middenheim regiments, the Hochlanders were slipshod and slovenly. The store yards were a case in point. Piles of halberds and pikes lay across the muddy yards, their tips gently rusting in the damp. Blackpowder kegs were left next to bales of dry straw. Rows of cannons had been left exposed to the elements with not so much as a sheet across them. As he toured the yards, Magnus’s temper worsened. By the time he came across the quartermaster, his mood had become black.
‘Who’re you?’ said the quartermaster, a thick-set man with weaselly eyes and a broken nose. He looked hostile and dishonest, much like quartermasters across the whole Old World.
Magnus handed him his letters of warrant from Grotius.
‘This place is a disgrace,’ he said, looking sourly at the chaos around him.
The quartermaster looked back at him stupidly. Despite the letters of warrant, he looked deeply suspicious of Magnus.
‘You’re an Ironblood?’ he asked, leering with his tiny eyes.
Magnus glared at him.
‘I am,’ he growled. ‘If you knew anything of your trade, you’d know that. Look at those guns! You’re a damned fool.’
Magnus walked up to one of the great cannons. It had a long iron barrel, about six feet. It was functional rather than decorative, but well made. He ran his finger across the pitted outer surface. A Gottekruger, a minor marque from Nuln. Solid, dependable, accurate. It deserved better treatment. The rim of the gun had corroded, and the axle had rotted almost entirely away. It would need a week’s work before it would fire again.
Looking insulted, the quartermaster limped after him.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said, disingenuously. ‘We don’t get the funds we need. What are you after?’
Magnus gave him a withering look.
‘Everything that works,’ he said. ‘Which I’d say is about half of what you have. We need as many heavy cannons as you’ve got. The bigger the better. They’re for breaching walls. I was told you have rocket batteries and volley guns too, though Sigmar only knows what condition they’re in. Is this true?’
The quartermaster looked evasive.
‘You mean the Helblasters?’ he said. ‘We might have two left. I’d have to look in the sheds. It’ll take time. Of course, I’d go a lot quicker if you could see your way…’
The man squinted at Magnus, and didn’t finish his sentence. Magnus felt his heart sink even further. The quartermaster was as corrupt as a Tilean. On another day, Magnus might have paid him something, just to oil the wheels of business. But the quartermaster had picked the wrong time to angle for payment. Magnus’s headache had settled into an acute, stabbing pain behind the eyes. He needed another drink.
His temper snapped. Magnus suddenly swept down on the quartermaster and grabbed him by his collar. He pushed his grizzled face into his, knowing that his breath would still be as foul as a gnoblar’s crotch, and bared his teeth.
‘I don’t know what kind of peasants you’ve been used to dealing with,’ Magnus hissed, keeping his gaze locked on to the other man’s irises, ‘but fool around with me and I’ll tear your eyes out for shot. My papers are from Valerian von Grotius. Give me any trouble, and I’ll be straight on to him. He’ll be glad to deal with any parts of you still remaining alive after me and my lads have given you a proper going over. Is that understood?’
The quartermaster’s eyes were now filled with fear.
‘Yes, sir,’ he squeaked, and his body went limp.
Magnus let him go, and brushed his coat lapels down.
‘I’ll leave the list with you,’ he said, coolly. ‘You have until sundown to prepare an inventory. I want everything specified on the list to be ready for when the army leaves. If you have to get help in, that’ll come out of your own fat pocket. You’ll get your fee when I’m happy, and not before.’
The quartermaster looked at him with an expression of pure loathing.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said once again, bowing unsteadily.
Magnus turned away from him imperiously, and walked back past the lines of decaying ordnance. The quartermaster looked spiteful enough to do something to the guns in revenge, but hopefully his fear of Grotius would put some speed into the man’s work. For the first time that day, Magnus felt something approaching pleasure. His blood was pumping, and his head was clear. He still had it, despite everything.
‘Herr Ironblood!’ came a gruff voice from close behind him.
Magnus froze. The pleasure evaporated immediately. Whoever that was, it didn’t sound good. He turned to see a tall, raven-haired man in a long dark green cloak looking at him coldly. The top of the man’s head was bare, and his bald pate glinted dully in the pale sunlight. He was wearing a fine jerkin and cloak. A broadsword rested against one thigh. An exquisite blade. An iron star hung from his breast, bearing the crest of Ludenhof.
So. This was the general.
‘Herr Scharnhorst,’ said Magnus, and bowed. ‘I was on my way to see you.’
Scharnhorst raised an eyebrow.
‘Our appointment was an hour ago,’ he said. His voice sounded like iron scraping across ice. His face was lean and angular. A long, old scar bisected one cheek. ‘I saw you having a discussion with my quartermaster. Is anything amiss?’
Magnus paused. This was their first meeting. Diplomacy was normally a good plan. But the man clearly knew nothing about gunnery. There was no point in hiding the truth.
‘This yard is not up to scratch, general,’ said Magnus bluntly. ‘The ordnance is rotting away. We have a long trek to the Mittebergen. If I’m to deliver you guns capable of breaching the walls of Morgramgar, your man will have to do his job better. And not for a fee.’
Scharnhorst didn’t respond at once, but his thin lips pursed. A crow cawed in the far distance, and for a moment Magnus could imagine the general’s head transposed with it. They were remarkably similar.
‘I see,’ said Scharnhorst. ‘You’re to be commended on your diligence. I’ll have a word with Gruber.’
Magnus bowed.
‘That would be appreciated, general.’
Scharnhorst remained stony.
‘Walk with me, Ironblood,’ he said, and began to amble towards the yard entrance. Magnus fell in beside him.
‘You’ve chosen to be blunt with me, Ironblood,’ said Scharnhorst. ‘I admire that in a man. I’ll be similarly blunt with you.’
He turned to look directly at Magnus. The scar made his face look almost like a death mask.
‘There is a great schism at the heart of the Empire,’ he said. ‘There are those who place their faith in the t
ools of Sigmar. The sword, the axe, the warhammer. You know the sort. But there are also those who have departed from his teaching. They look to the ways of the sorcerer, the scholar and the–’
‘The engineer,’ said Magnus, finishing his sentence for him. A deep weariness had settled within him. He’d heard this speech a thousand times, and from a hundred different soldiers.
Scharnhorst let slip a wintry smile.
‘Quite so. And, in the name of honesty, you must know that I am in the former camp. You people kill as many of our own kind as the enemy. On every campaign I have conducted, some disaster has befallen our engineers. If it were not for the urging of Herr Grotius, I would not have taken a master engineer at all. The cannons would have been under my command. That you should know.’
Magnus bit his lip. That was idiocy. There was probably no one left in Hergig besides him who knew how to transport and deploy the heavy guns properly. Leaving it to a man with ice in his veins and lead in his head would be a disaster.
‘Grotius made the better choice, I’d say,’ said Magnus, keeping his voice just on the right side of insolence. ‘With respect, these things aren’t toys. They can win you a war, but only in the right hands.’
Scharnhorst looked at Magnus doubtfully. His eyes crawled across his mud-streaked coat, and seemed to linger on every patch of grease, every tattered hole.
‘And you have the right pair of hands?’
Magnus could well imagine how he looked, with his ragged clothes and unkempt hair. Scharnhorst couldn’t be blamed for underestimating the command of his art. Only the night before, Magnus had been little better than a vagrant. A commission didn’t change that. It would take time to get back into his old role.
‘I’m an Ironblood, general,’ he said. ‘Ask anyone. Grotius had to search for me by name.’
Scharnhorst looked doubtful.
‘They told me Ironblood was a famous name in your trade,’ he said. ‘They also told me you were washed up. I don’t know about the first of those, but I can see the second is true. You should get yourself cleaned up. You’re a mess.’
The Empire Omnibus Page 3