04 - Grimblades

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  Salted pork and grain had been all Wilhelm needed to sustain him on the long journey from Kemperbad. It was at risk of being shown again to all present, such was his disgust at Dieter’s brazen opulence. The toadies were artisans and craftsmen; a tailor examined the fit of his latest creation upon his Imperial master. In relation to its provincial brothers, Stirland was a poor state but one of solid men with strong characters and hardy hearts. Dieter, as its elector count and now Emperor, had risen high and yet, at the same time, fallen far.

  The four nobles acknowledged the Emperor immediately as he approached, bowing as one.

  “My lord—” Wilhelm began, stepping forward, before Dieter gestured for him to be silent. He held up his finger, glaring through small, widely spaced eyes that glittered with some private amusement. An inane smile rippled across a face fattened by decadence and largesse. His aquiline nose appeared to point upwards as if he was always sneering down at those beneath him. Clean-shaven to the point of pre-adolescent smoothness and with blond curls spilling down from his head to rest upon his shoulders, Dieter had the look of an overweight child about him. In many ways, he was exactly that.

  Dieter shushed his obsequious entourage with an angry hiss, and then sent them scurrying away into numerous anterooms flanking the audience hall with a flick of his other wrist. His finger was still upraised as if he were remonstrating a naughty child, and Wilhelm reddened with anger.

  As soon as the doors to the anterooms closed and the toadies were all gone, fresh footsteps filled the brief silence that followed their departure. Looking over Dieter’s shoulder, Wilhelm saw four burly men, strapped in arms and armour bearing the red and blue state colours of Altdorf. Between them they hefted a large, ornate throne, carved from Hochland cedar, lacquered and furnished with gold. It could not have been an easy burden, and the men sweated and heaved as they carried it across the length of the hall. Dieter never even glanced at his retainers as they set the throne down. They merely bowed and left again as the Emperor took his seat.

  After a bout of shuffling to get his corpulent behind in just the right position, Dieter let his hand fall and looked up.

  “Be seated,” he beckoned with a mirthless smile.

  All four of the nobles sat down.

  “My lord,” Wilhelm began again, unable to conceal his frustration. “War comes from the east and yet our combined armies remain listless and profligate behind city walls, in barrack houses and bastions. We must act against this threat,” he implored.

  “I know of no threat, cousin,” said Dieter. His mood was idle as he rubbed the rings on his fingers with his thumb. “I hear… talk. Rumours of a rabble come through Black Fire. A pass, I’d like to note, that is supposedly guarded by the dwarfs, our sworn allies since the time of Sigmar.”

  All except Todbringer muttered a small prayer at the mention of the man-god’s name.

  “It is worse than that, Emperor,” Wilhelm persisted. Despite the fact they were related, the Prince of Reikland observed due deference. “I’ve sent numerous letters and petitions to your court here in Altdorf, and all were either ignored or rebutted. You’ve forced me to ride over three hundred miles from Kemperbad—”

  “Well you needn’t have come so far, dear Wilhelm,” Dieter interjected, his tone innocent and benevolent. “I told you a place was set for you here. Simply because I have moved west, does not mean you need move east. Altdorf is large enough to accommodate both its Emperor and its prince.”

  “I moved to Kemperbad to better watch the border, but that isn’t the point. Why did you ignore my petitions?”

  “We are constantly at war, cousin. If the Emperor were to leap up and rally his armies at every drawn sword, every razed village, his armies would be quickly exhausted and his elector counts as dependent as a newborn calf. I saw no need to reply.”

  Exasperated, Wilhelm got to his feet. As he did, he noticed one of the statues shift at the side of the room. It was then he realised that the penumbral shadows between the lamps held more than carved effigies. Armoured knights were poised in the half dark too. And was that movement he heard from the balconied gallery above them, and the suggestion of a crossbow cradled by a marksmen’s silhouette? Dieter was as paranoid as he was decadent it seemed.

  “If you won’t acknowledge the severity of the threat facing us, then at least commit some troops,” he said, easing down again. “The few state levies and Griffonkorps at my disposal aren’t enough. Altdorf and Nuln have the largest and best-trained standing armies in the Empire—they must march east to the aid of their beleaguered brothers.”

  Dieter looked unimpressed. “Have you seen this greenskin horde for yourself? Do you know first hand what threat they truly possess, Wilhelm?”

  The prince had to bite his tongue for a moment before he replied. “No, I have not. But there are reports—”

  “Not worth the tongues that gabbled them or the muddy parchment on which they are writ.” Dieter flapped his hand in a lazy, dismissive gesture. “The orcs and goblins will turn to squabbling soon enough and this whole crisis will blow itself out.”

  “When? At the point where our villages and towns are ash and ruins? The Empire is burning, my lord! If you don’t believe me, then listen to the testimony of your other nobles.” He gestured to Krieglitz, who cleared his throat before speaking.

  “It’s true, my liege. The river patrols have seen orc and goblin warbands marching uncontested. Averland is under almost perpetual siege, Wissenland cannot be reached and has shut all lines of communication behind border walls and watchtowers, and more greenskins pass through my borders daily. Only Sylvania is untouched, but then no sane creature would ever wander there without good reason,” he added gravely.

  “Refugees dog the edges of Talabecland,” Feuerbach said. “I have no wish to see Stir folk flooding my hinterlands, poaching and begging. I have enough peasants.” He glanced daggers in Krieglitz’s direction. The Lord Protector of Stirland clenched his fists and looked about to draw his weapon again. Were it not for the crossbowmen above, he might have.

  Instead he stood.

  “My lord,” he said to the Emperor. “I apologise, but there is urgent business that requires my attention in Stirland. It cannot wait and I beg your leave.” A hot vein of fury laced Krieglitz’s forehead, directed at the slightly smirking Feuerbach.

  Dieter waved a hand impassively, acceding to the lord protector’s request.

  “I’m sorry, Wilhelm,” said Krieglitz in an angry whisper as he turned to leave the chamber, “but there can be no alliance with Talabecland. None at all.”

  Krieglitz left and Wilhelm sighed in his wake. His case was growing thinner with each passing moment. Even if he could convince Dieter to act, there was nothing to say his provincial brothers would take up arms together. Right now it seemed just as likely they would kill one another before marching under the same standard. In spite of it, he went on.

  “So far, the greenskins are at large in most of the east and north-east provinces,” he said. “If we unite our armies now and march to the orcs, they will get no further westward. They cannot simply go unchallenged. I beseech you, Emperor, unleash your armies and ally this nation under a banner of war.”

  Dieter appeared not to notice the prince’s urgency and instead gazed around the room. “Do you like what I’ve done with your audience chamber, cousin? I thought it too stark and utilitarian before, not fit for royal habitation.”

  Wilhelm shook his head incredulously. Even Todbringer exchanged a curious glance with Feuerbach.

  “What possible bearing does my opinion of your decorations have on the war that will soon be at our borders?”

  The mood changed abruptly. Dieter exchanged languor for anger. “It will endure,” he said darkly. “When the war is done and all the dead are accounted for, all of this,” he spread his arms to encompass the room, “will still be here. I will still be here. There are deeper matters of state for me to consider. This greenskin rabble does not warrant Imperi
al attention. What’s more, I tire of this conversation.” He glared at Wilhelm intently. “Your request for troops is denied. The provinces must look to their own borders. I cannot rescue them at every calamity.” He turned and showed his cheek. “Now go.”

  Exhaling his anger, Wilhelm rose without another word. His jaw was gritted so hard he thought he might snap a tooth. Feuerbach was the next to leave, bowing swiftly and getting on his way. Perhaps he hoped to catch Krieglitz and continue their feud on the duelling field after all. Todbringer followed, utterly unmoved and unconcerned.

  As Wilhelm turned to go, he was stopped by a final few words from his Emperor.

  “This matter is concluded,” he said. “Don’t return to Altdorf, Prince Wilhelm. Her gates will be barred to you.”

  “As you wish,” Wilhelm said through clenched teeth. Just as he was passing back through the entrance way, he heard the double doors at the back of the audience hall open again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three men enter, nobles by the look of their lavish attire. There were enough gemstones and gilding upon their vestments alone to buy a small town, lock, stock and barrel.

  “My lords…” He heard Dieter declare with false bonhomie, before the door was closed and the rest of the meeting left a mystery.

  He met Todbringer on the other side, talking quietly with one of his aides. “Markus…”

  The Count of Middenland turned at the sound of Wilhelm’s voice. They shook hands, favouring the warrior’s grip.

  “I had hoped for more support from you,” said Wilhelm honestly. Todbringer released his grasp.

  “I’ve already committed all the troops I can afford to your army, Wilhelm,” he answered. His voice was cold and gravelly, as if it had been hewn from the rocky steppes of the Fauschlag itself. “Averland and those other peasant provinces are far from Middenland. When the City of the White Wolf is in danger, then I’ll act and bring the fury of Ulric down on the greenskins’ heads.”

  “You sound no better than Feuerbach, full of provincial rivalry and bad blood,” Wilhelm accused.

  “Had the Emperor agreed to go to war, I would have backed you brother, but the fact is we are divided and noble as your spirit is, you cannot bring us together. If the greenskins rampage through the east and northwest, so be it. By the time they reach Middenland, my army will be ready and they will be worn down from fighting the other states.”

  “So you’ll wait in Middenheim until the enemy is at your gates and crush them after they’ve spent their wrath killing your Imperial kin.” Wilhelm shook his head in disappointment. “I had thought better of you, Markus.”

  “I’m a pragmatist, just like you, Wilhelm,” said Todbringer, starting to turn away. “You do what you feel you must to protect the Reikland, it is no different for me and Middenland.”

  “I assume your troops will be feeding your generals regular reports of the greenskins’ martial strength and advance.”

  “You know they will.”

  With that, Markus Todbringer showed his back and walked away with his aide in tow. “Good luck, Wilhelm,” he called.

  Wilhelm sagged, feeling the weight of his armour and his runefang as never before. He couldn’t let the Empire burn, nor his brothers struggle. The campaign would go ahead as planned.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Ledner, the captain approaching silently despite his armour and other trappings.

  “We must join our forces, Ledner. Victory can come no other way,” said Wilhelm without looking at him. “But it cannot work like this.”

  “Then what must be done?” asked Ledner in his rasping voice.

  Wilhelm looked around. “There were Altdorf soldiers and Dieter’s lackeys everywhere. Walk with me.”

  After passing through a number of corridors that led them back out of the palace and into the wide esplanade of a courtyard, Wilhelm spoke again.

  “Dieter was meeting with more nobles after we left,” he said. “Marienburgers, I think. He’s up to something. The rest of the Empire is slowly being crippled by the greenskins, yet funds are coming into Altdorf from somewhere to gild his rooms and furnishings.”

  “I saw no less than five mercenary companies pass through the palace gate whilst you were gone,” offered Ledner in a shadowy tone. “High price too, by the looks of them. No rabble or criminal sell-swords, they were professional soldiers. Some from Tilea, and with Marienburgers in their ranks to boot.”

  “What is he planning?” Wilhelm asked as they reached the stable yard and their horses. Word had reached the Griffonkorps that their prince was ready to depart and they were already mounted and vigilant.

  “I don’t yet know, my lord,” admitted Ledner, helping Wilhelm into his saddle.

  “Find out for me. Do whatever is necessary.”

  Ledner nodded slowly. “As you wish, my prince.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FIRST BLOODING

  Captain Stahler’s encampment, Reikland border,

  190 miles from Altdorf

  Rechts woke to a murderous hangover. After leaving the campfire, he’d found two more bottles of Middenland hooch in his belongings and drunk them both. Masbrecht’s presence, his predilection towards religion, had stirred up some uncomfortable memories for him. Crackling thatch, plaintive screams and the stench of burning flesh had come to him in his drunken dreams. His tunic and hose were sodden, and not just from alcohol sweats.

  “Walk it off, Rechts,” growled a deep voice.

  The Grimblades’ drummer looked up. Through bleared vision he saw Karlich, sitting on the hewn stump of a tree, pipe in hand. The sergeant looked as grey and ragged as he felt.

  “Yes, sir,” Rechts replied, surprised to find his voice so hoarse, adding, “Karlich?”

  Blowing a long plume of smoke, the sergeant regarded him.

  “Have you even slept, sir?”

  “Worry about yourself, soldier. Walk it off. Go on.”

  Rechts did as ordered, aiming himself in the vague direction of cooking smells emanating from the camp. He suspected Volker was up already and preparing breakfast before they marched. Dawn was still a couple of hours off, or just a little less. Rechts would eat and sober up as much as he could.

  Karlich watched him go, taking a long draw from his pipe to still his nerves. He’d watched the witch hunter until he’d finished talking with the priest and entered the village through its stockade wall. After that, he’d found the tree stump, taken a seat and waited the night out. He’d seen daemons in the darkness, heard them whispering to him on the breeze as the boughs of the Reikwald shifted. They were not real, of course, just apparitions from his past, coming back to taunt him, as they always did, when the world was still and peace within his grasp.

  No peace for you, Feder. Peace must be earned and you have yet to pay its price.

  He waited there for another hour, until the camp followers came to pack up tents and clear the pitch for the baggage trains. Stiff from staying in one place for too long, Karlich stretched his unyielding bones and rubbed his legs to get the circulation going again. Wiping the tiredness from his eyes and running a hand through his mousy hair, he started walking to the Grimblades’ pitch.

  On the way, he saw the encampment was busier than before. Several regiments had joined them in the night from the north. Their banners could be seen hanging low, stirred by the faint pre-dawn breeze. Karlich recognised the red and black of Carroburg, their famed greatswords no less, and the deep blue of Middenland. He heard the latter northerners before he saw them, boasting and pushing their weight around.

  “Swordsmen…” he said beneath his breath, noticing their swagger and arrogant nonchalance as they barracked a group of militia huntsmen for some cooked pheasant.

  “You’d be doing a service for the Empire, lad,” a brawny-looking Middenlander was saying to a huntsman with downy hair instead of thick stubble around his chin. The boy must have been all of sixteen and was obviously terrified of the bearded northerner. To the youth’s credit, he was steadf
ast.

  “Get your own meat,” said another boy brave enough to speak up. “This is ours, we caught it.”

  “Ask yourself one question,” invited a different Middenlander, a grey-haired veteran with a bare chin and long moustaches. He was the regiment’s sergeant. “When we meet the orc on the road to Averheim, who will be doing most of the fighting?”

  The youth shook his head and pulled the meat close to his chest as a third Middenlander, blond-bearded with a shaven scalp, spoke up.

  “Hand it over, boy,” he warned in a deep voice. When the youth protested still, blond-beard cuffed him hard around the ear and took the meat anyway.

  “Now we’ll take all of it,” declared the grey-haired sergeant in a low voice.

  “Stay seated,” ordered the brawny Middenlander as one of the huntsmen made to stand. Four more northerners stomped over their camp, taking the cooked pheasant, together with what the huntsmen had flensed onto their clay plates, with them. One raised his voice in anger, pulling a dirk halfway from its sheath only to stop when he felt the touch of cold, Middenland steel at his neck.

  “Don’t make me blood you, peasant,” said blond-beard.

  Karlich was almost to the camp and about to intervene when someone else beat him to the punch.

  “Give it back,” said Volker. He had Rechts and Eber with him.

  “It’s only vittels for the Empire’s fighting men,” explained grey-hair coolly. Karlich saw the Middenlander’s hand had strayed to his pommel. “What need have scouts and peasants for food?” he added. “Let them eat when battle’s begun.”

  “Don’t make me ask you again.” Volker patted the dirk at his belt.

  Grey-hair laughed. “What are you going to do with that? Cut my thumb?”