“Red sun is falling, old Morr is calling,” Hoist said, indicating the sunset. “I remember I heard that once, from a farmer or shepherd—I don’t recall which. I suppose it’s what you’d call a country wisdom. Farmers and shepherds are full of such sayings. It’s always beware ye this, or beware ye that. And who knows what any of their nonsense means? Granted, you hear these things and they stick with you. But most of these sayings are meaningless.”
“And yet you decided to share one with us anyway?” Rieger asked, his voice friendly but gently mocking. “I suppose your mind is so full of wisdom, it should come as no surprise that something occasionally spills out.”
“Kiss my arse, Rieger,” Hoist grunted back. “I didn’t say it was important. I was just trying to make conversation. I take it you’d prefer it if we trudged along in silence?”
Hoist had become somewhat crotchety since they had resumed their journey. With the arrival of his regiment, he now walked by the side of one of the carts, guarding its flank as it trundled slowly toward camp. Hoist had been compelled to give up his comfortable position in one of the carts by the fact he had now returned to duty, but Dieter had given his own place up willingly to allow a wounded man to ride in his stead. Beside which, now the Scarlets were there, he wanted to be in their company.
They were not quite as he anticipated. Dieter had not given much thought to it on his way from Hergig, but he supposed he had expected something more in line with his childish imaginings. He had thought the members of the 3rd would be well groomed, their uniforms immaculate, their armour and weapons polished to a gleaming shine.
The reality was less impressive. The sword was a weapon that required more skill to use effectively than a spear or halberd, and, as swordsmen, the Scarlets were counted as an elite among the infantry. They walked with a natural swagger as befitted their status, but their uniforms were hard-worn, even threadbare in places. Their breastplates and the blades of their swords were blackened, daubed with mud he supposed so they would not reflect the sun in situations when stealth was needed.
Dieter understood the realities of campaigning. He knew war was a harsh, dirty business that bore little resemblance to the fine tales of the storytellers and the balladeers. Still, he had idolised the idea of the Scarlets since childhood. The realisation they were simply soldiers, no different from fighting men anywhere else in the Empire, seemed almost disappointing.
“Hoist says you are the son of Helmut Schau?” Gerhardt said to him.
“Not his son. But he raised me. My mother died when I was an infant. Helmut and his wife Marta took me in. They brought me up alongside their own children.”
“A good man,” Hoist said. “Did you know I saved his life?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Rieger interrupted. “Hoist didn’t serve with your foster father, any more than the rest of us did. Helmut Schau was retired by the time we joined the regiment. We only know of him because his name lingered on in the tales of some of the old-timers.”
“You are mistaken, Rieger,” Hoist shot back. “I remember the event clearly. It was at the Battle of Tannesfeld—”
“Again, another lie,” Rieger shook his head. “I have heard Hoist tell the same story of the Battle of Tannesfeld more than two dozen times. Depending on who’s listening, he claims to have saved the life of Helmut Schau, Captain Harkner, Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the poet Felix Jaeger, or even the Emperor Karl Franz himself. The story is usually followed immediately by an attempt to borrow money from the victim.”
“You know, you talk too much, Rieger,” Hoist frowned petulantly. “How’s a man to keep himself in the style he’s accustomed to when you keep scaring people off? ‘Oh, don’t lend money to Hoist,’ you say. ‘He’ll only go and spend it.’
“It’s got so there’s no one left I can turn to when I’m a bit short.”
“Have you considered I might be trying to save you from yourself?” Rieger replied sardonically. “You borrow money easily enough, but it’s the repayment of the loans that always gets you in trouble. What about that last tavern brawl in Hergig? The one that left you invalided out of the regiment for a month? Wasn’t that about money?”
“Only peripherally,” Hoist sniffed. “Those bastard halberdiers had the effrontery to suggest I’d been cheating at cards. Of course, after that, I had to fight them. The honour of the regiment was at stake. Anyway, who appointed you as my conscience? If I wanted a priest to be my confessor, I’d go find one.”
“You needn’t worry,” Rieger smiled. “I’m not trying to save your soul, Hoist. Nor dissuade you from further sin. That is a task beyond even our Lord Sigmar himself.”
The lead elements of the caravan had reached the perimeter of the camp. While Gerhardt went forward to consult with the sentries guarding the camp’s approaches, Dieter cast his eyes over the camp itself.
The magnitude of the camp was the first thing that struck him. He had heard the Count of Hochland had called up twenty thousand men, a sizeable complement. Only now, confronted by the scale of their encampment, did he believe it.
The camp was on a low rise, allowing him to take in much of its breadth in one vision. At its outskirts the camp was protected by a ring of pickets, sharpened wooden stakes set close enough together to deter the attack of enemy cavalry, guarded by a mixed sentry force of handgunners, halberdiers and spearmen.
Reinforcing their efforts, Dieter saw that several cannons had been situated at regular intervals in protected positions behind the pickets. All around the perimeter, a wide corridor of the forest had been cleared, creating open territory designed to offer no cover from the camp’s artillery. Dieter did not doubt that any enemy assaulting the camp would be made to regret it.
Ahead, at the point where the trail they had been following crossed the camp’s perimeter, Dieter saw Gerhardt was in deep conversation with the captain of a unit of handgunners on sentry duty. A temporary wooden barricade had been laid across the trail, blocking progress to the camp. With a gesture from the handgunners’ captain, the barricade was lifted from its position and moved aside to allow entrance.
The caravan resumed its journey. As they passed by the men guarding the barricade, the Scarlets traded insults with the handgunners. It all seemed in good humour, but Dieter heard comments bantered back and forth that he was sure would make the most boorish man in his village back home blush. In particular, the two groups of soldiers seemed to delight in insulting each others’ prowess, whether in military matters or more private areas.
Having passed into the camp proper, the caravan moved toward a broad, flat area set aside for carts. Finally ensconced in the safety of the camp, the victuallers began to draw their wagons to rest, removing the dray teams from harness and seeing to the men wounded in the beastman ambush. Surgeons were summoned, and stable masters, to see to human and equine needs.
Having consulted at length with the captain at the barricade, Gerhardt had returned. The Scarlets gathered around him expectantly, Dieter with them.
“All right,” Gerhardt said. “You’ve got an hour to yourselves. Clean up, then go to the kitchen tents and see if you can scrounge some food.”
He turned to Dieter as the other men dispersed.
“Not you. You’re coming with me to see Captain Harkner.”
“So, you know Helmut Schau? What did he tell you to say to me?”
Ten minutes later, Dieter found himself in the tent of the regimental commander, Captain Harkner. The captain was a burly man in his late forties, his blond hair and full beard starting to grey with age. He stared at Dieter intently, clearly trying to size him up.
“Well? Orc got your tongue, boy?” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “I asked you a question. Obviously, the bastard Schau would have told you to say something to me when we first met. What is it?”
“I…” Dieter had rehearsed the moment in his head a hundred times on the road, but now it was upon him his mouth felt dry. “He told me to say you are a son of a whore and you cheat at dic
e.”
For a moment, there was silence in the tent. Then, much to Dieter’s relief, the captain laughed.
“I see nothing has changed with the old scoundrel, then? Still moaning over his gambling losses, is he? He was so piss-poor when it came to games of chance, it always surprised me he ever managed to build enough of a stake to retire from the army and go into business. What profession did he choose in the end? Tavern keeper?”
“Miller. He bought the watermill in a village named Bromstadt. It’s a good ways south of here, in the country east of Hergig.”
“A miller?” Harkner raised an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d hear Helmut Schau had chosen a life grinding flour. Still, I suppose it’s a living.”
The captain shrugged.
“So, you said you had a letter for me? Let’s see it.”
His hand going into his shirt, Dieter pulled out a cowskin wallet. Opening it, he carefully removed a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Harkner. The captain took it without a word. Adjusting his position to stand underneath an oil lantern hanging from one of the tent poles, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
Time seemed to move with glacial slowness. Nervously, Dieter took in his surroundings. Gerhardt stood beside him. Having led him to the command tent, Gerhardt had reported the beastman attack on the caravan to Captain Harkner before introducing Dieter to him. In front of them, spread out over a table with folding legs, a roughly proportioned map of the area had been drawn in charcoal on the smooth side of a large sheepskin.
A sergeant called Bohlen stood on the other side of the table, his hand raised to his mouth to stifle a yawn as they waited for the captain to finish reading. Dieter gathered Bohlen would normally have been commanding the patrol that had saved the caravan from the beastmen’s ambush, but he had been called away to a briefing with Harkner, leaving Gerhardt to lead the patrol in his place.
Harkner continued to examine the letter at no great speed. Trying not to stare, Dieter noticed the captain’s lips moving almost imperceptibly, his mouth shaping the words as he read. Finally, the captain finished.
“Schau didn’t write this letter,” he stated flatly. “The man I knew couldn’t read. Even if someone taught him his letters in the years since, he wouldn’t write so elegantly. This was written by an educated man.”
“The village priest wrote it on his behalf. But it was Helmut who asked him to do it. And he had Father Gottlieb read it back to him when he was finished, so he’d know the priest had written the things he wanted.”
“Hmm, if this letter is to be believed, you have the makings of a fine soldier,” the captain said, his eyes burning into Dieter’s face as though looking for a reason to doubt it. “Of course, Schau and the priest know you. They could be gilding the lily, making you sound better than you are.”
Folding the letter, he handed it back to Dieter.
“What about before you got here? You can’t have come straight from your village to this encampment. You must have gone to the barracks in Hergig first. Did you meet our recruiter, Sergeant Rippner?”
“I did.”
“He wouldn’t have let you go without testing your swordsmanship. He made you fight with wasters, yes—wooden broadswords? Usually, he makes the young bloods fight two or three bouts with him, making sure he gives them a good few bruises. Well? What did he say to you afterwards?”
“I…” Dieter paused momentarily in discomfort. “He said I was a waste of spit and whichever father sired me had no doubt long ago learned to regret it. He said, at best, my swordmanship was passable.”
“Passable, eh? Coming from ‘the Ripper’ that’s high praise. Most would-be recruits are lucky if he gives them anything more than a kick in the jewels for their trouble. You must know one end of a sword from another, then?”
“Hoist said he gave a good account of himself when the beastmen attacked,” Gerhardt offered. “A bit cocky and flash, perhaps. But nothing that can’t be drilled out of him.”
“I see,” the captain nodded. He glanced over his shoulder. “What about you, Bohlen? What do you say?”
“We are short-handed anyway,” the sergeant shrugged. “If he turns out to be no good, we can always put him at the head of the line, let the orcs solve the problem for us.”
“A vote of confidence all round, then?”
Turning away, Harkner walked over to a large travelling chest and opened it. Fishing inside, he brought out a parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink and took them over to the table.
“All right, do you know how to write or should I make your letters for you?” he said, setting the items down.
“I know how to make my name,” Dieter told him. “Father Gottlieb taught me.”
“Good.” The captain spread out the parchment, dipping the quill in the ink. “Sign your name here. The rest of it is already made out.”
Dieter recognised the crest of the Count of Hochland at the head of the paper, but the rest of the parchment was a mystery to him. He scratched his name at the place where the captain’s finger pointed, the quill quivering in his hand as he performed the unfamiliar task.
“Good enough,” Harkner said, inspecting Dieter’s handiwork. Putting the parchment carefully to one side to avoid smudging the wet ink, he pulled a drawstring purse from inside his tunic and took out a shilling.
“Do you accept the discipline of the Count and his subordinates, including myself and my sergeants?” the captain said, the words evidently learned by rote and oft-repeated. “Do you give yourself to the defence of his lands and his vassals, such defence to be made at any cost, up to and including the loss of your life? Do you accept the strictures of military service, said service to last a period of not less than twenty-five years? To agree, you only have to say yes.”
“Yes.” Dieter had thought forward to this day often. Now it was here, he felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck.
Harkner held up the coin. It was old and worn, but even in the dim light of the tent Dieter could see the Count of Hochland’s profile embossed on its surface.
“There is a protocol to these things, boy. Even now, even though you signed the paper, you can still back out. But from the second you accept this coin, that’s it. You’ll be in the Count’s army. Understand me, you seem a good lad, but there’s no room for kindly feeling in the army. If you fail the regiment, I’ll come down on you hard. If you desert, or show cowardice, you’ll be executed. Other infractions can see you fined, beaten, flogged, or even branded with a hot iron. It’s a hard life. Oh, there’s glory in it for some. But, usually, only after they’re dead.”
“I understand,” Dieter said. “But I know what’s expected. I won’t fail.”
“Brave words.” Captain Harkner stretched out his hand and offered him the coin. “All right, we’ll finish it. Do you accept this shilling, knowing that you are now a soldier? Do you swear, in the name of Sigmar and all the gods of the Empire, to do your duty?”
“I accept it,” Dieter said, taking the coin. “I swear I will do my duty.”
“And what of you?” Harkner turned to Gerhardt and Bohlen. “Do you see this act? Is it witnessed?”
“We see it,” they said in unison. “It is witnessed.”
“Very well. It’s done.”
Smiling, the captain turned back and held out his hand for Dieter to shake it.
“Welcome to the 3rd, lad. Welcome to the Scarlets.”
Afterwards, as they made their way back to the others, Gerhardt tried to explain something of the words the Captain had spoken.
“It’s an old thing, the wording of it,” he said, as they walked through the camp. “They say it dates back to the founding of the regiment, when the 3rd were granted their regimental charter by Count Mikael Ludenhof. Supposedly they were the words Count Mikael used when he recruited a group of survivors from the Siege of Hergig to form the Scarlets. But Helmut Schau must have told you all this?”
“He did,” Dieter agreed.
By then,
he was wearing a new helmet and breastplate, and carrying a shield emblazoned in the regimental colours. Gerhardt had taken him to visit the regiment’s quartermaster in the wake of signing his papers in the captain’s tent.
The quartermaster, an acerbic old soldier named Stens, had also offered Dieter a new sword, but he would not have given up the sword he was already carrying for the world. It was a gift from his foster father, Helmut. A piece of good, long Empire steel, forged by a swordsmith from Reikland called Huber, allegedly a disciple of the master swordsmith Magnin. It was perfectly balanced, razor-edged, and Dieter was well used to it. It was the weapon Helmut had presented him with on his fifteenth birthday, when he judged him fully grown and sword-trained enough to put the half-weight weapons and wooden wasters of his childhood behind.
Helmut had started training Dieter in swordsmanship almost as soon as he could walk. In those early days Dieter had harboured no ambition to be a soldier, but Helmut Schau took the opinion it was part of a father’s task to teach his children to defend themselves. For the better part of sixteen years, he had taught Dieter everything he knew. They had started fencing with willow switches when Dieter was just a toddler, progressing on to thicker lengths of stick over time. From there, they moved on to wooden wasters, then blunt half-weight training swords, and finally the real thing.
As the years passed, Helmut had taught Dieter the use of sword and shield, the sword alone, sword and dagger, dagger only, and grappling. He had even taught him the basics of long-hafted weapons, to guard against the day he might find himself in a position where he was forced to pick up a fallen spear or halberd to defend himself.
Increasingly, as their lessons progressed, Dieter had realised he wanted nothing more than to become a soldier, to emulate the man who had raised him with such care. Inevitably, when he considered a military career, there was only one regiment that attracted him—the same regiment the man he considered his father had once served in.
[Empire Army 03] - Call to Arms Page 5
