The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  Magnus’s incredulity turned quickly into rage.

  ‘So that’s what he’s been doing!’ he cried, his fists balling in impotent fury. ‘The little bastard! He has no idea what he’s doing. It doesn’t work! If he tries to use it–’

  His tirade was broken by a fresh blast of trumpets. Scharnhorst had given the signal. The barrage was to begin.

  ‘Where is he?’ hissed Magnus, his cheeks red with anger.

  ‘You’ve got no time,’ said Thorgad. ‘The order’s been given.’

  Magnus looked around him. The gunnery captains looked back at him. For a moment, he considered leaving them in Hildebrandt’s hands. He needed to track down Messina before he did anything stupid. But it was impossible. Scharnhorst’s eyes were on him. His duty was clear.

  ‘Damn it all,’ he muttered. ‘Messina can wait. He can’t have done much with the pieces yet.’

  He rose to his full height, and turned to face the waiting gunners.

  ‘On my mark!’ he cried, his harsh voice echoing down the lines of artillery.

  The crews sprang forward, flaming brands at the ready. The spongers and master gunners stood back. Their work was done.

  Magnus took a last look at their trim and angle of the guns, and the position of the barrels. There was nothing out of place. He looked up at the walls. They were as blank as ever, dark and sheer. Only the blast marks near the parapet gave away the effects of their raid.

  ‘Fire!’ he cried, and his voice bellowed out down the lines.

  As one, the crews ignited the fuses. There was a short gap as the cord burned down. But then, one by one, the mighty engines let loose their deadly cargo. Mortars sent their charges looping high into the clear air. They rained down on the battlements heavily. There was no Tilean fire in them this time, but honest explosive charge and searing grape. Stone cracked and buckled under the onslaught.

  With a screaming whoosh, the Helstorm rockets streaked towards their targets. Most hit the target, spinning into the gatehouse and exploding in a messy plume of fire. Only a few careered off course, slamming into the ground before the walls, or spinning wildly off into the skies before fizzling out and falling to earth in the far distance. The Helblasters joined in, sending ranks of piercing heavy iron shot against the distant gates, slamming into the stone and metalwork with a series of heavy, echoing blasts.

  The ridge was engulfed with drifting smoke. Crews battled to reload their weapons amid the eye-watering clouds. Those soldiers closest to the artillery lines shifted away nervously, holding their ears against the splitting cracks and booms.

  ‘Maintain your fire!’ cried Magnus, though his voice was hardly audible in the cacophony. ‘All guns to be aimed at the gates!’

  Finally, as if held in reserve to remind all of their peerless power, the last of the great cannons were unleashed. Massive, ground-shaking booms rang out as the fearsome machines of war detonated, sending their iron shot spinning across the open ground. The noise of impact resounded heavily between the valley walls. Round after round slammed into the gates. Huge metal shot alternated with explosive rockets and dispersed grape. The citadel was being battered into submission.

  Along the ranks of waiting soldiers, a low murmur began to pick up volume. There was no response from the fortress. It was as grim and unmoving as ever. But damage was being done. The rounds of stone-tearing ammunition kept hitting. The master gunners had done their targeting work well. Cracks began to appear in the masonry. The wolf’s head lost its flame.

  ‘Keep firing!’ bellowed Magnus.

  As he spoke, there was a shuddering crash to his right. He whirled around to see one of the Helblasters listing to one side, its barrels split open and steaming. A man was trapped under the wreckage, squealing in agony. Others rushed to pour water on the red-hot metal and haul the man free. Hildebrandt left his station to oversee the withdrawal of the piece. Magnus turned his attention back to the firing.

  ‘Keep at it!’ he cried again. ‘No respite!’

  The heat of the guns was now almost tangible, even in the ice-cold air. Another round slammed into the distant walls. All along the ranks of the army, men strained to see the results of the battery. Still there was no answer from the citadel. Their teeth had been drawn. The gate was defenceless against ranged fire. Magnus felt a grim sense of satisfaction. It was almost too easy.

  Then, at last, it came. One cannonball, hurled far into the air and sent hurtling towards the gates, found its mark perfectly. The edifice, weakened by the ferocious waves of shot, crumbled. A huge cheer went up from the assembled ranks. Despite the drifting layers of smoke, they could see what was happening. The lintel had fallen. The arch was going down. The gates were broken.

  More projectiles were hurled. Rockets spun into the ruin. Mortars sent their deadly contents into the breach. Flames sprang up as the entire gatehouse slid into rubble. On either side of its mighty frame, the walls began to splinter. All of a sudden, Morgramgar looked vulnerable. The way was open. The wolf had been thrown down.

  Trumpets sounded once more from the command group.

  ‘Cease firing!’ cried Magnus.

  It took a while for his order to be heeded. Some of the more enthusiastic crews managed to get another round away before they were dragged back by their counterparts. The smoke rolled across the vista. Morgramgar was revealed again. Its walls were still smooth and unbroken. But where the gates had stood, there was now a gaping hole. The doors had been utterly destroyed, and the pillars on either side of them were bent and sagging.

  Magnus smiled thinly. He had done what was asked of him. Now the army could be unleashed at last. He looked over at Scharnhorst, and nodded.

  More trumpets rang out, and a series of signals passed along the ranks. With a roar, of relief as much as anything else, the long held-back ranks of footsoldiers were loosed. Like a herd of wild beasts, they rushed forward, brandishing their weapons in the harsh morning sun, yelling and shouting with abandon. At their side were the flagellants, outdoing all others in ferocity, scourging themselves into a frenzy even as they charged headlong towards the breach. The handgunners advanced too, keeping further back, held from the vanguard by their stony-faced commanders. Slowly, cautiously, Magnus gave the order for the artillery to be hauled to closer quarters. There was still work for them to do, but they would need to be nearer.

  At the very centre of the huge mass of bodies, the Knights of the Iron Sceptre were the foremost. Their long black pennants streamed outwards as their steeds tore up the stone from under them. The noise of their massed hooves rivalled the blasts of the smaller guns. Magnus could see Kruger at the forefront, his standard held high, his black helm catching the sun and glinting like polished onyx. Despite himself, Magnus felt his heart surge. The sight was glorious. After so long trudging through the passes, hauling the machinery, putting up with one slight after another, the moment of release had finally come.

  But just then, even as the vanguard thundered towards the gates and the hordes of men followed eagerly in their wake, there was a gigantic, resonating boom from the citadel. Silent for so long, it suddenly burst into life. Fires were kindled, and flames shot up from the battlements. Rows of archers appeared along the lower walls. From the gate there came the sound of brazen trumpets. Drums started up, beating wildly and echoing from the valley walls. As if waiting for Scharnhorst’s men to commit themselves, Morgramgar finally stirred. The army it had been cradling within its deep vaults, so long rumoured, was finally disgorged from the broken gates.

  With a blood-freezing shout, ranks of black-clad infantry poured from the breach to meet the onslaught. They kept coming. Rank after rank. There were gunners amongst them. The crack of their shots was audible even over the tumult. And there were mounted soldiers, armoured in plate and wearing black death’s-head emblems. They looked as well armed as the Iron Sceptre knights, and charged towards the invaders with as much fe
rocity.

  Still they kept coming. There were marching ranks of halberdiers, pouring from the shattered gates like ants spilling from a disturbed nest. The gap between the two armies narrowed. There was no let up. Each hurled themselves towards the other as if the End Times were upon them. Magnus narrowed his eyes. The vanguards would clash while still a long way from the gates. Had the enemy intended this? Why had his forces been kept in reserve for so long?

  He turned back to the guns.

  ‘Haul them faster, damn your eyes!’ he bellowed, urging the men on. It took time to drag a whole artillery line into a new position. The guns needed careful handling. The barrels were red-hot still, and the horses were nervous and skittish from the explosions. The longer the crews took, however, the longer the footsoldiers were without heavy artillery cover.

  Magnus looked back. Thorgad had scrambled on top of a pile of ammunition kegs to get a better view. He looked anxious to join the fray. The knights had reached the front lines of the advancing enemy. Behind them, footsoldiers piled in. Horses slammed into the front ranks, tearing a swathe through the oncoming infantry. Steel clashed against steel. The crack of long guns opened up from the right flank, and more men stumbled into the dust of the field. The pungent aroma of blood was mingled with the bitter stench of the blackpowder. The drums rolled. The fires burned. The war machines roared.

  Battle was joined.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Guns! Explosions! The smell of fire and fear! Gentlemen, there is nothing better, nothing on earth. What sport would war be without it? They say that the age of Sigmar was the age of heroism. Don’t believe a word of it! These are the days of glory, my friends! The time of blackpowder and steel! May it last forever!’

  Reported last words of Master Gunner Augerich von Mettelblicken

  Messina and Herschel were still working. The thunder of battle was all around, only slightly muffled by the thick canvas about them. The whine of rockets and the thud of the mortars broke the uniform clamour of arms. Below it all, the distant machines under Morgramgar still turned, and the heavy drums still rolled.

  ‘Nearly there…’ said Messina, clambering over the huge frame of the Blutschreiben. He had two different gauges of spanner in each hand, and was tightening the last of the bolts on the exterior of the wooden skeleton. Against all the odds, it looked like they would make it. The chassis was complete. The furnace was stoked, and thick black smoke was pouring from the rear stacks. It billowed out of the open tent doors. There was now no hope of secrecy, but the need had passed. The machine was functional. Its time had come at last.

  ‘Is the locomotive bearing connected correctly?’ asked Lukas, his voice sounding thin and scared. ‘I don’t think we’re ready for this, Silvio.’

  Messina laughed. His spirits had not been as high for days. Ironblood may have been a tyrant and a drunkard, but he knew how to build a war machine. The Blutschreiben stood nearly ten feet high at its tallest point. Its four massive wheels, adapted from the largest of their wagons and studded with iron spikes, turned effortlessly at the press of a lever. The enormous power of the furnace made the whole structure vibrate, like an animal eager to be released. Atop it all, the confusion of piping, bracings, gun housings, armoured plates, pulley mechanisms and gear chains, was the glory of the thing. A rotating chair, set on a ring of brass and festooned with controls of every sort. Though it was mostly constructed from wood taken from common wagons and iron stripped from existing artillery pieces, it was finer to his eyes than all the golden thrones of Araby.

  Messina clambered into it, dropped the spanners and took control of the main set of levers. With a judder and a gout of soot, the machine rolled jerkily forward.

  ‘She moves!’ cried Messina, wild with triumph. He felt the same way he always did at the prospect of a fresh new conquest, of whatever sort. He could sense the enormous latent power of the machine beneath him. ‘A work of genius! Why did the old fool not build it?’

  Lukas hung back still.

  ‘Are you really taking it out there?’

  Messina looked down at him scornfully. He felt like some obscenely powerful potentate of the lands of legend, housed in his own steam-powered device of ruin.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he said, witheringly. ‘Why would I build it, if not to use in battle? We aren’t too late! This is our time!’

  ‘There’s been no testing!’ cried Lukas, suddenly looking angry with his mentor. ‘Ironblood knew there was something wrong with–’

  Before he could finish, one of the gaskets within the maze of piping blew. A column of scalding steam shot backwards. The chains driving the wheels shuddered, then went limp. The smoke coming out of the main furnace began to splutter and spit out dark gobbets of oil.

  ‘Shut it down!’ cried Lukas. ‘It’ll blow!’

  Messina, flustered, pulled a couple of levers in front of him and depressed a great brass-tipped column. The engine heaved and coughed, then went dead. Slowly, with a last parting shudder for good measure, the contraption came to a halt.

  The air was thick with smoke. Soot had caked the entire rear end of the machinery. Steaming water leaked from the pipes under the chassis and pooled against the rock. The thing seemed to sink back a little into the earth.

  Messina peered over the edge of the turret, his spirits still high. It was a setback, nothing more.

  ‘It moves!’ he said again, his face still filled with a childish delight. ‘Help me get it working again!’

  Lukas looked out of the tent entrance, clearly torn between making the machine safe and rushing to help with the fighting. For a moment, he hesitated, a sword in one hand, a wrench in the other.

  ‘Come on,’ said Messina, smoothly, knowing the lad was suggestible. ‘We’ve spent days making this thing. All the problems have been solved. With this, we can turn tide of the battle. If we make a name for ourselves, what is the harm? We’re so close!’

  Lukas looked up at him, and his gaze was accusatory.

  ‘This is all about the gold, isn’t it?’ he said, and he dropped the wrench. ‘Enough. You’ve kept me tied up with this folly long enough. No more.’

  He brandished his sword, and shot one last, dark look up at Messina.

  ‘You’ve taught me a lot, Silvio,’ he said. ‘Perhaps in more ways than you know.’

  And then he was gone, his blond head ducking under the tent flap and out into the camp beyond.

  ‘Come back!’ cried Messina, struggling to extricate himself from the narrow turret. ‘Damn you, Herschel! It’s not about the gold! It’s about–’

  His foot slipped. His hands scrabbled onto the brass lip of the chair, but missed their aim. For a sickening moment, he felt nothing beneath him. Then he was on the hard floor with a heavy thump, his head cracking against the near wheel of the Blutschreiben. His vision went black, and waves of blood-red pain started behind his eyes.

  ‘Mother of Luccina!’ he hissed, getting up with difficulty.

  Messina staggered to the tent entrance. To their credit, the hired guards were still at their stations. They peered at Silvio as if he were some bestial creature from the wilds. The Tilean clasped a hand to his aching head, and scowled at them.

  ‘Do not stand there stupid like Bretonnian pigs,’ he snapped. ‘There is three more silver pieces for each of you if you will come inside and help me get this thing working. Keep your mouth shut and don’t ask questions, and I will make you all rich men.’

  The venality of soldiers was always worth a punt. The three men looked at each other for a moment, then the most senior of them nodded.

  ‘Very well. What needs to be done?’

  Messina smiled through his rapidly developing headache. Who needed Lukas?

  ‘Come inside, my good men,’ he said. ‘Steady yourselves when entering, and I will show you one of the wonders of the Old World.’

  Rathmor
stood on the balcony, high up on the leading wall of the citadel. He gazed over the battle, raging far below on the plain. The wind tore at his cloak, pulling it over his shoulder.

  His expression was sour. There was no art in such warfare. The brutish clash of arms did nothing to stir his sensibilities. Only in the subtle arts of slow pain, or the mighty contest between machines, was there any glory. Above all, he valued the duel between masters of the single-shot gun. That was where the majesty of combat lay. To wield a true-firing pistol against one’s opponent was the highest form of civilised conflict. Almost everything else was tedious barbarism. It was a pity that he’d almost certainly not have the opportunity to indulge his passion in this messy engagement.

  He was shaken from his introspection by a familiar sound. Once more, like a recurring bad dream, Esselman had come to bother him. The man was irritating beyond words. His soldier’s mind was pathetically limited, and his endless interference had become wearing. It seemed to Rathmor as if he’d never be left alone with his high, lofty thoughts. When all of this was over, he would really have to see whether the lady could do any better for her generals.

  Esselman arrived on the balcony, stood beside him and looked over the same scene. His face was grim. There was a lurid weal on one cheek. The results of his last meeting with the lady, no doubt.

  ‘You’ve set the traps, as we discussed?’ he said, his voice clipped.

  Rathmor nodded.

  ‘All the inner levels have been rigged,’ he said. ‘If the need comes, we can turn this place into a pyre. But only if the need comes. The treasures in the forges are beyond price, even for the lady. We’ll never see their like again.’

  Esselman grunted in reply.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘My place is on the field. I’ll leave you to play with your toys.’

  Rathmor bristled at the insult, but said nothing in reply. It was his ‘toys’ that powered the whole enterprise. Without them, Esselman would be nothing more than a provincial commander.