04 - Grimblades

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  The outhouse was ahead, little more than a silhouette, like a piece of driftwood sticking up from a clinging sandbank. The earth around it, despite being sheltered by the canopy of the forest, was sodden like a quagmire. Brand trod lightly and swiftly once away from the shack and in the open.

  He barely noticed the rain anymore as he approached the door. Somewhere behind him another door was banging. It was hard to hear, muffled by the weather. The door to the watchtower was unlatched. Easing it open with his foot, Brand drew his dagger. Inside, Keller was waiting.

  * * *

  Nearly slipping several times on the mud, Karlich reached the watchtower a little out of breath. He drew his sword, vaguely aware of the others behind him. Throwing open the door, he rushed inside expecting to see Brand murdering Keller. It had taken him a few days, but he’d realised there was something between the two men. He didn’t know what precisely, but suspected it had something to do with Varveiter’s death. He’d watched Brand ever since, but had let him slip from his sight when his guard was down.

  Keller was dead, but not from Brand’s dagger. He swung by a rope tied around his neck. A stool lay on its side nearby. The tips of Keller’s boots barely scraped the floor. By the pallor of his skin, he’d been dead for some time.

  Brand was sitting on the floor, sobbing into his hands. For a moment Karlich was taken aback. He’d never seen the man cry. Ever.

  The others were coming in from the outside.

  Karlich slammed the door in their faces, locking it shut.

  “Get out! Go back to the hut,” he said, shouting so they wouldn’t question him. Someone tried the door. He heard Lenkmann’s voice but the meaning of his words was lost in the rain. “Do it now. That’s an order.”

  When he was sure the others had gone, Karlich turned back to Brand. His gaze drifted upwards to Keller’s swinging body. The rope groaned with the weight. In that gruesome moment he realised what must have happened at Blosstadt.

  Keller had murdered Varveiter in retribution for humiliating him at the camp, and the guilt of it had driven him to hang himself. Brand had known it too, much sooner than Karlich, and had planned revenge of his own. Only Keller had robbed him of it, too afraid to face the consequences of his actions.

  “I would’ve done it,” sobbed Brand, as all of his grief flooded out. “I wanted to do it.”

  Karlich sheathed his sword and knelt down beside him.

  “I know, brother.” He made to touch Brand’s arm but stopped short, letting his hand fall to his side. When soothing a wounded wolf, it’s wise to keep your hands to yourself. Karlich had heard that spoken in Middenheim once. “It’s all right.”

  They sat like that in the silence and the dark for a while, until Brand stopped crying and Karlich decided to cut Keller down.

  No one would ever know the truth, nor would they ask for it. The Grimblades had been through much together and knew when to leave things alone.

  Keller was dead. Karlich had told them he thought the man simply couldn’t take the pressures of the war and the burden placed upon them by Ledner, and it was left at that. All had noticed how withdrawn he’d become since their first engagement at the slaughtered village. It wasn’t so beyond reason—men had taken their own lives for less.

  An unmarked grave was Keller’s only legacy. Volker had found a suitable spot in the forest that was shaded and the soil less like the sucking bog surrounding the watchtower. Masbrecht had delivered a short sermon, a soldier’s prayer. Rechts had stayed, but made his discomfort obvious. It wasn’t that the drummer didn’t believe in Sigmar, far from it. His faith had been shaken, yes, but it was priests and dogma he had issue with. Karlich knew that, and recognised himself in that conviction. It was why he tolerated the outbursts and the drunkenness.

  Even Brand had attended in the end. Karlich assumed he had his reasons.

  When it was done, when Keller’s bones were laid to rest, Rechts had sung a solemn lament. It was a marching song of Reikland, My brother in our Land, one that commemorated the fallen and asked their comrades to remember them. The rain had persisted until morning and framed a sullen scene around the grave.

  There was no time to tarry. As soon as Rechts was done they left the roadwarden’s rest and headed back to Mannsgard. The mood was grim, but Eber, at least, had shown some signs of life. Masbrecht had performed his task well. The burly Reiklander would live.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MARSHALLING FOR WAR

  The town of Mannsgard, Averland,

  383 miles from Altdorf

  An army was growing outside the town by the time the Grimblades returned. Imperial banners caught on the wind, snapping against their poles as if fighting to be free. Soldiers in the colours of Averland, Middenland, Reikland and Carroburg gathered. There was a hubbub of voices and the dull clang of metal from breastplates and tassets as the soldiers slowly formed into regiments. The lines of men filing from the gates seemed endless. An entire town emptied, leaving only its graven citizens behind.

  Karlich would later remark that he couldn’t tell if they were pleased or distraught to no longer be harbouring soldiers.

  Pikemen, spear, swordsmen and halberdiers stood shoulder to shoulder with archers, crossbowmen and handgunners. Militiamen roved in loose bands until their sergeants bellowed for order. To their credit, the free companies made rank and file quickly. Mules dragged baggage caravans or hauled cannons and mortars, gunnery crews shadowing them like dutiful hounds. Engineers rode in the wagons themselves, together with their best journeymen. Karlich saw one muttering to his war machine and smoothing the barrel in the same way he’d stroke a beloved pet.

  Madmen, he thought. Blackpowder was as dangerous as sorcery. Only the insanely brave or the bravely insane dallied with it. Exploding shrapnel could kill a man just as easy as a blade or bow and before an enemy had even deigned to launch its first attack. He remembered an incident a few years back when a gunner had lost his head to a spinning axle flung from his machine when it misfired. The irony of it was the battle was already won, and the guns were being fired to salute their victory. Since that day, Karlich had vowed to give war engines and their like a wide berth.

  Mad they may be, but compared to the footsloggers the gunners looked positively sanguine. Most of the infantry were drawn and pale, moving with the uncertain purpose of condemned men. It wasn’t so far from the truth.

  Karlich had yet to see the cavalry as he and the others walked past the processional exodus from Mannsgard. He assumed they’d be last, after the foot soldiers were readied to march.

  It was mid-morning, the sun was rising quickly and the last of the night patrols were returning. Karlich had blended his own troops in with them, so as not to arouse suspicion. Passing the last of the thronging soldiers on their way through the gate, he noticed Von Rauken and his “Carroburg Few”. The hoary old veteran nodded with the slow certainty of iron. Karlich returned the gesture and tried to hide his nerves. Though he was the last man he wanted to see, he had to find Ledner and tell him what had happened.

  Karlich found the spymaster at the counting house where they’d met in secret two nights ago, gathering up maps and charts from the desk.

  It was still gloomy, though the window slats were open and allowed a little light in. Dust whirled about the air in thick, grey clumps. Karlich coughed, giving away his presence.

  Ledner did well to mask his surprise when he looked up at him.

  “It’s done.” Karlich was in no mood for niceties. He wanted to get away from this man and this place as soon as possible. He was alone, having left the others to find the rest of the regiment. If Captain Stahler asked, Karlich was giving his report to one of Wilhelm’s scriveners for the prince’s perusal later.

  “Fine work,” said Ledner. Something flashed behind his eyes. Karlich thought it was amusement, but the kind of emotion shown by a snake as it circled a plucky mouse.

  “Not without cost.”

  “Yes, I heard you lost a man. And th
e one who was injured?”

  “He’s with the chirurgeon. He’ll live, but won’t fight at Averheim.”

  “You’ll miss his blade.”

  Karlich was downcast. “Aye, I will.”

  Ledner went into a drawer in the desk and tossed a heavy-looking bag in front of Karlich.

  “What’s this?” he asked, not bothering to keep the angry tone from his voice.

  A few coins spilled out onto the desk, the weight of the pile inside the bag pulling it over.

  “Your payment.” Ledner didn’t look up as he sorted the last of the charts and scrolls. “There’s five crowns each in there. Two more for you as sergeant.”

  Karlich dumped a large bundle on the desk. It struck the bag of coins and scattered them over the scarred wood.

  “Your guns and blades,” he said.

  Ledner barely glanced at the leather skin binding the weapons together.

  “And the cloaks?” he asked, rolling up the last of his scrolls.

  “We’ll keep ’em, if it’s all the same to you. Nights on the Averland plain can be cold. You can keep the blood money.”

  If Ledner felt the barb, or even cared, he didn’t show it. He ignored the scattered coins, too.

  It would be just like the man to leave them out of spite or to demonstrate just how much higher in the Imperial hierarchy he was, thought Karlich. We are little more than insects to men like him. He suppressed the urge to punch Ledner in the face. Karlich fancied his dagger-like nose would break fairly easily.

  “There’s more?” asked the spymaster, when Karlich didn’t leave.

  “Don’t you want to know about the assassin?”

  The sergeant was genuinely nonplussed.

  “You stopped him, that’s all that really concerns me.”

  “The assassin was female, a Tilean by her cast and features.”

  Ledner kept silent, inviting more.

  “She was a sell-sword hired with freshly-minted Marienburg gold but then I suppose that doesn’t really surprise you, does it?” Karlich couldn’t keep the sneer from his tone or his face.

  Now Ledner looked up at him. “And what makes you say that, sergeant?”

  “Only that you know more than you’re telling me.”

  The spymaster laughed wryly. “You knew what was needed,” said Ledner. “A little information can be a dangerous thing, especially if it is heard out of context. I’m sure you’re aware of that, sergeant.”

  Karlich felt a sudden chill enter his spine. He swallowed hard. Did Ledner just allude to something in his past?

  Does he know about Vanhans?

  The look of playful humour vanished off Ledner’s face, as if deciding he’d pushed far enough for now.

  “You should get back to your regiment,” he said, returning to the scrolls. “If you’re late for mustering, questions might be asked.”

  Recovering his composure, Karlich said, “Well then, let me ask you one more thing.”

  Ledner peered up at him from the table. “Go on.”

  “What was Count Pfeifraucher’s answer?”

  “You’d like to know your sacrifice wasn’t in vain, that the prince’s journey wasn’t a needless waste of time and effort?”

  “Just tell me.”

  Ledner snorted at some private amusement. “Have you looked around the town or at the army gathering outside? What do you see, sergeant?”

  Answering questions with questions, how like a spy-master.

  “I see nothing different, except perhaps a few more unhappy faces.”

  Ledner collected the scrolls and charts under his arm. As he walked past Karlich on his way out, he said, “Well then, there’s your answer.”

  Karlich really wanted to hit him now. He clenched his fists and it took all of his considerable willpower not to do it. He realised Ledner was trying to goad him. Execution was the punishment for striking a senior officer and Ledner knew it. So instead, Karlich kept his back to him and let the spymaster go.

  “I’ll send someone back for those pistols, unless you want to take them?” Ledner didn’t wait for an answer, the sound of the door closing echoed in the man’s wake.

  “I have somewhere you can put them…” Karlich snarled at the gloom. He waited until he was sure Ledner was gone then left the counting house to go and find his regiment. Any longer away from the gathering army and Stahler might begin to miss him.

  Captain Stahler couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Judging by the reaction of Prince Wilhelm’s other officers, neither could they.

  “So we’ll return to Reikland then, fortify our borders,” said Captain Hornschaft, “and consolidate our forces with the Averlanders,” he added when he caught a petrified look from Baron Blaselocker. The Yellow Baron, as he was now known around the camp, was really just an officer in name only. He had no troops to command, save his own retinue, and his position on the field would be at the rear, near the war machines where he could cause the least amount of trouble.

  Prince Wilhelm had pointed it out on one of the maps before him only a few moments ago. It was a few moments after that when he idly—let slip that Wissenland had refused all overtures of alliance with Reikland and Averland. Just as before, they were alone in the liberation of Averheim.

  “Why do you think we are going over strategic plans of attack, Hornschaft?” asked Preceptor Kogswald. The Griffonkorps captain had a way of making even the simplest question sound like an impatient challenge. His mood was sour, and he flushed angrily behind his oiled moustaches—Kogswald had vehemently opposed the prince’s diplomatic mission to Wissenland.

  The captain from Auerswald balked a little before the knight’s ire. He removed his wide-brimmed hat to mop his brow. “Without Count Pfeifraucher, we are badly outnumbered.” He appealed to Wilhelm who was watching his officers keenly. A general could tell a lot about the men of his command when they were under pressure. Who would fight, who would rather flee to die another day. He was still undecided about Hornschaft.

  “And yet, here we are,” said Vogen. The captain from Kemperbad stabbed a gauntleted finger down onto the map, which showed the lay of the land near the outskirts of Averheim, as if to suggest that battle was now a formality in his eyes.

  Wilhelm smiled privately. A fighter, that one.

  “So, what’s to be done?” asked Stahler, displaying the earthy pragmatism he was known for. Truth was, though, he agreed with Hornschaft. Marching on Averheim with an under-strength force was near enough suicide. The difference was, Stahler’s pragmatic streak also manifested as a stoic adherence to duty.

  At that moment Ledner entered, throwing a shaft of light into the darkened confines of the tavern. Wilhelm had hastily summoned all of his military officers to his temporary lodgings in Mannsgard. He’d hoped against hope that Wissenland would answer the call to arms and fight beside its brothers. But instead of solidarity in the face of a common enemy, all Pfeifraucher had offered was a provincial mindset that saw him shutting his borders for good. Well, at least until the orcs moved farther south-east and tore them down.

  All of the captains were present, including Engineer Meinstadt who’d remained in pensive silence since the council began. Preceptor Kogswald of the Griffonkorps was seldom far from his prince’s side if he could help it, and represented all of the templar knights in the army. Vanhans and his “soldiers of faith” were, obviously, excluded.

  Of the others, Father Untervash was outside the town leading his fellow priests and novitiates from regiment to regiment, offering blessings and instilling the courage of Sigmar where it was needed. The wizard had removed himself, meditating in solitude to consolidate his magical strength. Apparently, his powers were all but returned since the exhausting battle near the Brigund Bridge.

  The light died quickly as Ledner shut the tavern door, as did the warmth in the room. Fear mongering and disinformation were the man’s stock-in-trade, and rolled off him like a mist wherever he went.

  “Apologies, my liege,” he said to Wi
lhelm in his familiar rasp, the other officers parting to allow him a place at the strategy table. “A matter arose that required my attention. Also, I needed to gather the additional charts and scrolls for our quartermasters.”

  The prince nodded once, in a gesture that all was well, before Kogswald outlined the plan of battle.

  “There is an army within Averheim. Trapped behind its gates, there is little it can do but defend the walls,” he said, taking a nub of charcoal from a clay pot on the table. “Our force is not insignificant,” he added, starting to draw. “We bring the greenskins on to us with artillery fire, archers and shot…” Crosses represented the missile troops. Three arrows, arcing from where Averheim was depicted on the map to the crosses he had just drawn, represented the enemy’s movements. “Thus leavened, the wall guard can be thinned, its surplus used to form a large sortie in the courtyard.” Kogswald looked up and smiled. The expression was a grim rictus, framed by his moustache. Steel coloured the emotion in his eyes.

  “No less than five knightly orders are holed up within Averheim. By pulling the greenskins towards us and using our cavalry to cut a path through to the gate, we can unleash them. Caught between a massed force of knights and the infantry, the greenskins will soon become disorganised. Rout, after that, is inevitable.”

  Kogswald stood straight after leaning over the table for so long. He looked pleased with himself.

  Prince Wilhelm waited patiently for the reaction.

  The other captains were nodding. Vogen folded his arms to suggest it met with his approval. Even Hornschaft looked mollified by what he’d heard. Stahler had to admit it sounded like a winning strategy, but he also saw the burden it would place on the infantry. When the orcs came at them, goaded by the guns, it would fall to the foot soldiers to hold them off and prevent the line from being overrun. Despite his ardent loyalty to the cause, he was starting to find the role of punching bag a little wearisome.