03 - Call to Arms

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  “I’ll see you all later. Sigmar willing.”

  The situation was as dire on the western perimeter as it was everywhere else inside the encampment. Rushing through the camp with the other men of his file, Dieter saw the same scenes of disorder repeated in a dozen varying locations.

  Outside a supply tent, a sergeant commanding a unit of handgunners argued heatedly with a quartermaster as he tried to requisition a supply of black powder for his men. Elsewhere, a great cannon had slipped its axle in the middle of one of the thoroughfares through the camp, blocking access; its gunners appealed fruitlessly for help in moving it, but no one listened. Nearby, a messenger dashed from tent to tent and regiment to regiment, searching for a particular officer with a vital dispatch, only to learn no one could help him find the man he was looking for.

  The army seemed less a coherent whole, and more a collection of confused individuals. Everyone was caught up in their own personal dramas, following a tangled web of contradictory and frequently out of date orders.

  Dieter found it strange that the army’s senior commanders were almost nowhere to be seen. It was now, when the army was in crisis, that their role was paramount. In their place, it had fallen to individual sergeants and captains to try and make some sense out of the confusion around them. It was plain they were doing the best they could, but with no clear strategy or coherent plan to follow, their efforts were often incompatible and frequently at odds.

  “Look at this,” Hoist grumbled as they hurried to find the rest of their regiment. “Someone needs to give the entire army a kick up the arse, sort things out.”

  “So says General Hoist,” Rieger said, beside him. “Perhaps you should take matters in hand. ‘Sort things out’, as you put it.”

  “I couldn’t make a worse job of it than whoever’s responsible for this mess,” Hoist snorted.

  “Careful what you say,” Gerhardt cautioned him. “Whatever you may think, you are talking about our commanders. Remember, the punishment for insubordination is having your tongue drilled through with a hot iron.”

  “Do they really do that?” Dieter asked. He was out of breath from running, but the idea was so gruesome and frightening he had to hear more. “Helmut told me about such things, but I wondered sometimes if he wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “Exaggerating? Hardly.” Hoist shook his head. “I’ve seen it done. You wouldn’t believe the stink of hot fat and burned flesh when you drill a hot iron through a man’s tongue. It takes seven men to do it: three to hold the victim down, two to force his mouth open, another to pull out his tongue with a pair of pliers, and the seventh to wield the drill. Even then, the victim’s troubles aren’t over. A quarter of them don’t survive it: they die during the punishment, or afterwards from infections.”

  “It’s a bad business,” Gerhardt agreed. “The hole they drill in the tongue never heals fully, so the man speaks with a whistle forever after. That’s why they use it as a punishment, as an example to others. You’ve heard the expression ‘mind your tongue’, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Dieter.

  “Well, now you know where it comes from.”

  They had reached the spot where the rest of their regiment was stationed. Bohlen ordered the men of his file to join the ranks while he went to consult with the other sergeants.

  “Talking of bad business,” Hoist said, once they had greeted their comrades and taken a place to the left of the regimental line. “I feared for the worst when I heard Captain Harkner say he had posted the regiment to plug the gap between two groups of spearmen. You know there are hard hours ahead when a regiment of swordsmen are posted to the front of the line.”

  Dieter immediately understood what he meant. The second they joined their regiment it had become clear the Scarlets had been stationed in the front rank of units positioned to guard the western approaches to the camp. The fact they had been stationed so far forward was a sign of the confusion in the Hochlanders’ battle line.

  Thanks to Helmut Schau’s frequent lessons on strategy and tactics, Dieter knew exactly how the army should have lined up. There was no great secret to the battle plans used by most provincial armies, including Hochland’s. Most generals favoured one or more solid blocks of infantry at the centre of their line, supported by cavalry and missile troops on either wing. Other generals preferred to make use of a central body of knights, or alternating blocks of infantry and cavalry set behind a skirmish line of missile troops, but the current absence of the army’s knights left no place for such delicate variations. By necessity, the battle line would have to be built around the infantry.

  It was the precise composition of the infantry forces making up the battle line on the west of the camp that had caused Hoist’s disquiet. Ordinarily, units of halberdiers and spearmen would be placed at the front of the line in order to meet the enemy’s charge with a forest of spearpoints and the longer reach of their weapons. Regiments of swordsmen were used to support these front rank units, either positioned just behind them as a mobile reserve, or divided into smaller detachments assigned to fight in unison with larger groups of spears or halberds. The fact that the Scarlets had been pressed into service as a front rank unit was a measure of the confusion and desperation currently convulsing the Hochlander army.

  “We’ll just have to make the best of it,” Gerhardt said. He looked at Dieter, standing beside him.

  “You know, you don’t have to stand here at the front of the line with the rest of us old hands. You’re new, and you haven’t been drilled. You can take up a position in the rear rank of the regiment, further back from the action. You needn’t worry about repercussions. No one will think bad of you because of it.”

  “I’m not worried,” Dieter told him. “But I’m not moving.”

  “You see?” Hoist said, almost fondly. “I told you the boy was all right. He’s like a young bull. He’s got balls the size of—”

  “Quiet, Hoist,” Gerhardt cut him off.

  He stared at Dieter intently, as though trying to search out any hidden defect of character from among the angles of his face.

  “Understand, this is serious, Dieter Lanz. As far as I’ve seen, you’ve not put a foot wrong as a soldier. You’ve done everything that’s been asked of you, when it’s been asked, and you’ve done it well. You’re handy with a sword. That’s good. You’ve got brass and iron inside you. That’s even better. But, so far, you’ve only faced skirmishes. This is a battle. A real battle. It’s a different kettle of broth entirely.”

  “It makes no difference,” Dieter replied. “We’re in the same file, so that means we fight side by side. Unless I hear differently from an officer or a sergeant, I’m not moving. I’ll hold the line with the rest of you.”

  “Big as cannonballs,” Hoist said, proudly. “You have to admit I unearthed a diamond this time, Gerhardt. Of course, he’s a fool for wanting to stay in the front rank when he could go rearward. Then again, we’re all fools. You have to be to join the infantry. Now, if I was a knight, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be far away from this battle, along with the rest, on whatever easy errand General von Nieder sent them on. And, to make it even sweeter I’d be sitting on a horse’s back, letting him take the strain rather than relying on my poor, tired feet.”

  “An unlikely scenario, Hoist,” Rieger put in. “You have to be of noble birth to become a knight.”

  “And who says I’m not? Didn’t I ever tell you the story of my dear mother and her encounter on a Talabec riverboat with the Graf Erich von Doppelfell?”

  “Better leave it until later,” Gerhardt told him. “The enemy seem set on interrupting your tale.”

  There was movement from the tree line. Watching wide-eyed while the other men talked and argued amongst themselves, Dieter had seen shadowy figures moving through the forest. A group of orcs riding on the back of enormous boars emerged from among the trees. As yet, he could see barely a handful of riders, but the crashing sounds and boarish snorts coming from the forest beh
ind them indicated they were only the advance party of a much larger force.

  “Looks like they’re going to hit us with some of their best fighters first,” Gerhardt said. “They know they have the advantage and want to make the most of it.”

  “But I thought orcs were supposed to be stupid?” Dieter said. “From the way you talk, you make it sound like they know what they’re doing.”

  “They do know,” Gerhardt grimaced. “Don’t ever believe anyone who tells you that orcs are stupid. Granted, they’re not much good when it comes to building towns, planting crops, making pots or doing any of the other things that human beings rate themselves highly for achieving. The truth is, orcs have no interest in those things. They’re only clever when it comes to the areas they are interested in. Which, generally, means fighting and killing their enemies.”

  “Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to see our army is in trouble—not even an orcish one,” Rieger commented, agreeing with Gerhardt. “The second they caught sight of our camp, the orcs would’ve noticed our lack of cavalry. Once they saw that, it stands to reason they would’ve decided to send their boar riders forward, to try and roll us over.”

  The number of orcs visible at the tree line was growing. As Dieter watched them, he became wary of the size of the enemy forces arrayed against them. The greenskin army they had seen crossing the river had been huge; big enough to outnumber General von Nieder’s army, even before the knights were sent away.

  Then again, Dieter reminded himself of one of Helmut Schau’s tactical dictums - an army fighting from a strong defensive position held the advantage over an attacker, even when outnumbered. But how strong was the Hochlanders’ position, really? Remembering the disorder he had seen in his own army’s encampment, Dieter found it hard to believe they were ready to meet the enemy in battle.

  The horde of boar riders visible at the tree line was growing ever larger. From further along the camp perimeter, Dieter heard the sound of sporadic artillery fire as the few cannons in position tried to put a dent in the enemy numbers.

  The orcs seemed to view it as a sign. Riding into sight before the massed ranks of riders, an orc chieftain galloped to the head of his troops and held up a long spear festooned with skulls. Opening his lips wide to reveal a mouth full of tusk-like teeth, the chieftain threw back his head and screamed out a command in his brutish inhuman tongue.

  It was the signal the orcs had been waiting for. Acting as one, the boar riders spurred their ill-tempered mounts into a gallop and charged toward the human lines.

  “Form a shield wall!” Abruptly, Sergeant Bohlen appeared among the men of the Scarlets’ front rank and began issuing orders. “Second, third and fourth ranks, be ready to push! Rear ranks, be ready to fill any gaps in the line and shore us up at the sides if the other regiments fall back! Musicians, play me a tune! Make it something lively, something to relieve the boredom while we’re waiting for the greenskins to amble their way over.”

  In response to the sergeant’s orders, Dieter heard the regimental fife-player and drummer strike up a martial song as the Scarlets raised their swords and interlocked their shields. Within moments, their efforts were all but drowned out as the orcs galloped closer. Dieter could still hear the drum, just barely, but the thin reedy sound of the fife was lost among the thunder of hooves coming nearer.

  The boar riders were bearing down on them, clouds of dust rising to envelop them as the boars pounded their way toward them.

  “Push!”

  Dieter was barely able to hear Sergeant Bohlen’s voice above the din. The command caught him by surprise. As the orcs closed to melee range, Dieter felt hands on his shoulders, bracing him against the impact as the boars at the front of the enemy charge hit the Scarlets’ shield wall head-on. Feeling the impact judder through his body, unable to escape or turn away due to the hands of the second rank pressing him forward, Dieter felt like the meat in a most unpleasant sandwich. It amazed him that he was not instantly pulverised.

  “Push!” He heard Bohlen’s voice above the sounds of battle. “Push! All hands to the front! Give it some shoulder.”

  Even as he struggled to breathe, caught between the giant boars bearing down on the shield wall at the front and the pressure of his own comrades pushing him forward from behind, Dieter realised the Scarlets’ tactic was working. The support of the second, third and fourth ranks pushing forward from the rear had stopped the orcs from using the superior weight and strength of their mounts to punch through the shield wall.

  Instead, the orcs were caught in a trap of their own inadvertent making. Their advance was stalled, the riders and mounts at the front caught between the shield wall and the other boar riders galloping into the back of them.

  Seeing a boar directly in front of him struggling to extricate itself from the morass of bodies as its orc rider whipped its back in frustration, Dieter joined the men on either side of him in stabbing the creature repeatedly with his sword. Giving an enraged howl the boar collapsed, animal and rider disappearing beneath a flurry of lethal hooves as another boar was pushed forward to take the place of the one that had fallen.

  All along the line, the same drama was repeated. Swordsmen and spearmen stabbed their weapons into the boars and their riders, the enemy rendered all but helpless by the crush of their own bodies.

  It was grim, bloody work, but Dieter did not flinch. Following the lead of his comrades around him, he stabbed his sword backwards and forwards, working the blade with mechanical monotony, attacking any target that presented itself. It was hard to keep track of time, but it seemed to him that within minutes the ground beneath his feet was sodden with the enemy’s blood.

  As further minutes passed, he became acutely aware of the hot, stifling conditions. Caught in the press of bodies, face-to-face with the enemy at the coal face of battle, there was no relief from the butcher’s work of killing. Sweat poured from his body, his muscles ached from the constant effort.

  Distantly, he could still hear the sound of music; the lilt and rhythm of fife and drum as the musicians of various regiments continued to offer encouragement to their comrades. Louder still were the other noises of battle. He heard the roars of boars and their riders, screams of pain, the cries of dying men. He heard the clash of steel against steel, the crunch of sinew and bone as they struck against the shield face, the wet ripping sound a blade makes as it saws through flesh.

  Suddenly, just as Dieter had begun to wonder how much longer he could bear it, the pressure around him lessened. Sooner than he would have thought possible, the enemy withdrew. The surviving boar riders turned tail and ran, leaving their dead and wounded comrades behind them, lying in the dirt.

  “Tenth rank, mercy duty!” Sergeant Bohlen shouted once he was satisfied the enemy withdrawal was genuine and not a trick. “First rank, retire! Get the wounded men back to the rear to see the surgeons. The rest of you, step forward!”

  Confused by the staccato series of orders, for a moment Dieter stared dumbly around him, unsure what was expected of him. At the same time, he experienced a rush of relief at having survived his first battle.

  “I wouldn’t stand there taking in the air for too long,” Hoist said. The big man had seen out the fighting mostly intact, as had Gerhardt and Rieger. He favoured Dieter with a broad, personable smile. “Come on, didn’t you hear the sergeant? We are ordered to retire.”

  “I…” Abruptly, Dieter felt himself acutely aware of his ignorance. Even with all the things Helmut Schau had taught him, it was becoming plain there were gaps in his knowledge. “I heard the command. But I wasn’t sure what it means.”

  “It means we are to pull back to the rear of the regiment,” Gerhardt said, chivvying him along. “The men of the second rank will take our place, while the third rank takes their place, and so on. We change ranks this way at regular intervals throughout battle. It allows the men who have done the fighting to take a rest, replenishing themselves before their next turn in the front rank.”

 
; “No, I understood that,” Dieter said. He glanced back toward the killing ground in front of the Scarlets’ position, a place littered with enemy corpses. “But I couldn’t see why we are doing it. I mean, shouldn’t we be pursuing the orcs? The battle’s over, isn’t it? The orcs have fled. We’ve won.”

  “Won?” Hoist rolled his eyes, before looking towards Rieger. “Do you hear that? Sigmar protect us from war virgins and babes-in-arms. He thinks we’ve won.”

  “Hardly that, Dieter,” Gerhardt said, while Rieger looked at him sadly. “Granted, the orcs have withdrawn for now. But it’s hardly the end of the battle.”

  He gazed around him, at the battlefield and their own lines, and his eyes hardened.

  “Believe me, there’s more killing to be done in these fields before the day is done.”

  “Stand fast the 3rd! Stand fast for Hochland! Stand fast the Scarlets!”

  By the time midday came and the sun was high overhead, it seemed to Dieter he had heard those words a thousand times. He was exhausted beyond any tiredness he had ever known. Like the men around him, his face and clothes were daubed with splattered gore courtesy of the countless enemy they had killed already. His hand was sore from holding his sword. His shoulders ached from bracing his shield. His throat was dry. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  And, still, the orcs kept coming.

  Since the first charge by the enemy earlier in the morning, the fighting had continued on for what seemed like hours. With that initial attack, the shape of the battle had been revealed. In the hours since, the orcs had not varied in their strategy at all. They attacked in wave after wave, sending their boar riders to repeatedly assault the same section of the western perimeter.

  For the Scarlets and the other infantry units guarding that region, it had swiftly become a war of attrition. No matter how many times the orcs charged to battle, the Hochlanders held the line—though only at tremendous cost.

  Dieter had barely had time to become acquainted with many of his comrades, but already he had seen several of them die. Breitmeyer, one of the men of his file, had been killed at an early stage of the battle, gored by a boar tusk when a section of the shield wall had briefly given way during an enemy charge. Impaled on the tusk, Breitmeyer had been thrown in the air when the boar tossed its head up. He had landed disembowelled, dying in the stink of his own shit and blood as his intestines unspooled from his belly like a tangled coil of rope suddenly cut in two.