It was over. Even as he watched the last of the monstrous creatures was being butchered from all sides, its doom as certain as that of a lame bull surrounded by a pack of wolves. And beyond, the rest of the enemy army still waited, unmoving.
Schleismann gingerly removed his ruined helmet and used the plume to wipe the blood from his face. Then he heard the drumming.
He turned to see the youth, the man he had saved lying at his feet, his knife sheathed, and a battered old drum slung over his shoulder. Although he was pale and wide-eyed his narrow jaw was set with a grim determination, and Schleismann looked past him to the gaggle of ragged men who had fled long, long minutes ago.
They had been stopped by the steel thicket of pole arms and shields that marked the baron’s army’s vanguard. From this distance it was impossible to see if the routed men were rioting or re-forming. Not that it would make much difference to their usefulness, Schleismann thought with a cheerful contempt.
In any case, he thought, regarding the drummer with a cold appraisal, this lad was too good for the rabble he was with. He made a mental note to find him after the battle, then went to reorganise the survivors of his squadron.
* * *
“Come on, get back into line,” Alter said. Although oblivious to Schleismann’s cold appraisal his neck was burning with shame after the other regiments had witnessed the company’s disgraceful flight.
“Do as the sergeant says,” Gunter boomed, and looked eagerly back to where Dolf was dragging Erikson away from the slaughtered minotaurs.
“Come along, ladies,” Porter added. “You heard the man. Back into… Minsk, where the hell are you going?”
“I’m…”
Porter looked at Brandt, who clapped a friendly paw on Minsk’s shoulder and pushed him back into the mass of his fellows.
“You heard the corporal,” he said.
The regiments who stood behind them had been watching the skirmish between the knights and the minotaurs, but now their attention was back with the Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig as it slowly drew back together. The suggestions came thick and fast, although for once even Porter was too preoccupied to return the favour.
“Listen to the drummer,” Alter bellowed at them. He exchanged a glance with Gunter who briefly appeared amongst the mass of men. The warrior priest nodded so Alter, whose own section was in something approaching order, decided to take the risk.
“Forward march,” he called, gesturing with his sword.
The officers took up the call. For a moment it seemed that the company would collapse into further mutiny but gradually, under the threats of their officers and encouraged by the fact that a company of knights now lay between them and the enemy, the company did march. The formation even started to march in time as Alter bellowed out the left, right, left in time to Dolf’s drumbeat.
When the shape of Erikson staggered back to his feet in front of them, waving his battered cap full of broken feathers, they even had the cheek to cheer.
And so the Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig skulked back towards their victory. As they assembled around their captain, their drummer and their wounded, the army of beasts who still lined the horizon turned and left, fading from their positions as quickly as a nightmare fades upon waking.
This time the whole army cheered. Only Erikson remained aloof. Despite the pain that still held his skull in a vice-like grip, he was already calculating how best to turn the day’s events to the company’s advantage.
Chapter Seven
The baron’s war room was packed with men and thick with the smell of sweat and smoke and alcohol. They had come straight from the field, and although many had not eaten that day most had found the opportunity to drink. They continued to do so now, their voices loud and their laughter louder as they contemplated what they chose to think of as their victory.
Ganamedes sat in silence at the end of the table, too lost in thought to pay much attention to the boasting that was going on around him. He knew that the decision he had taken on the battlements was the right one. There was no other way.
And yet, life was so very sweet. And who knew, who really knew, what fate would decide one way or the other?
There was a roar of laughter from the back of the room, and two of the knights, steel-clad giants in full armour, gripped each other’s gauntleted hands and arm-wrestled over some disputed point of strategy.
For the first time Ganamedes realised that they thought they had won. He put his head in his hands and leaned forwards.
“His excellency the baron!” a herald cried out, and all eyes turned to the entrance as Ludenhof strode into the room. The hawkish lines of his face looked even harder than usual, and as sharp as the sabre he wore at his side. Although he had removed his helmet he still wore full armour, and he moved within the well-crafted steel as easily as if it had been made of silk.
The applause began as soon as he entered the room, a thunder of claps and bravos that shook dust from the rafters above.
The baron looked surprised, but recovered enough to nod gracefully at his commanders.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Let us begin. Provost marshal, casualties.”
“No more than a couple of dozen, sire,” Steckler told him.
“Current dispositions?”
“Pickets on the mile towards the forest, the remainder of the regiments drawn up on the field.”
“We must bring them back into the city before nightfall,” the baron said. “Gentlemen, as soon as this council is finished you will withdraw your men back behind the walls.”
There was an awkward silence. It was broken by the commander of one of the regiments of sword.
“Sire, the city is becoming ever more unhealthy. The pox and the dysentery have already done more damage to my men than the enemy have. Might I suggest we leave the army encamped outside the walls?”
The baron shook his head.
“I understand your concerns. But while the beasts’ forces remain disciplined and intact I have no wish to gift them the opportunity of night.”
“But, sire, you saw them today. They ran in terror from the fury of our artillery and the cold steel of our single charge.”
“Precisely,” Ganamedes snapped.
“You have something to say, old friend?” the baron asked him, and the old man immediately regretted his tone.
“Just that our commander is right about the artillery. It did indeed hold the enemy at bay. However, the enemy neither broke nor ran. They withdrew in good order to await a better opportunity.”
“You talk of them as though they were human,” the swordsman jeered. “We have fought these things for long enough to know that they are creatures of base instinct.”
“Not, apparently, anymore,” Ganamedes said.
The room sank into a thoughtful silence, which the baron broke.
“Very well,” he decided. “For now let us concentrate on bringing the men back in and feeding them. They have done well. We will discuss broader strategy in two days’ time. Questions?”
“Should I prepare to award any honours?” the provost marshal asked.
The baron stroked his beard. “Suggestions?”
“Gruber laid out the ordnance. Perhaps he should get something. And Schleismann led the charge. Oh, and what about that militia unit?”
“The one that ran away?”
A rumble of laughter around the table. Steckler just shrugged. “They didn’t all run. And they did return.”
“After Schleismann had finished the enemy off,” one of the knights pointed out, to more amusement.
“They’re right,” the baron decided. “Give them something from the stores if you like, but Gruber and Schleismann are the only two to have won anything today. But don’t fret, gentlemen,” he told the assembled men with a wink. “I am sure you will all have your chance before this is over.”
So saying he turned and left, spry with energy even after a day directing a battle. Soon after the men made thei
r way back to their units, and Ganamedes was left alone in the echoing chamber.
Why didn’t I speak up, he asked himself as he watched the light of the setting sun fade on the neat brickwork of the wall.
But of course, he knew why he hadn’t spoken up. It was because he was human. He was weak. He was as doomed as the rest of them.
When the servants came to clear the room they did so quietly, ignoring the old man who sat sobbing into his hands at the head of the table.
The Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig held their own counsel after the battle. It was a somewhat more rowdy affair.
Erikson and Alter retreated to the balcony that overlooked the yard as the men celebrated their victory. Porter and Brandt held court as always over the cauldron. Today’s stodge had been a fragrant combination of pork, herbs and vegetables, and Erikson had also provided two casks of vinegary wine.
By now one of the casks was already empty, and the roar of the men’s celebration was becoming ever louder. Erikson had already handed the company’s dead over to the priests of Morr and its wounded over to the more delicate hands of the sisters of Shallya.
Those that remained were unscathed by the day’s events. Unscathed and victorious. What was more, this was the first alcohol any of them had taken since being arrested, and they sang and danced and laughed with a wild abandon.
Dolf, the hero of the battle, drummed a beat and another man piped an accompaniment on a flute. Occasionally one of the revellers would stagger up to slap the lad on the shoulder and pay his respects. Every time it happened Dolf would grin and quicken the pace so that the folk dance had by now become a wild jig.
While some of the men danced in the centre of the yard their comrades bellowed encouragement, or simply gorged themselves on the food and drink.
“The conquering heroes,” Erikson said to Alter, who barked with laughter.
“Give them a week or so,” he said, “and they’ll have convinced themselves that they are.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Erikson told him and grinned. The pain from his cracked skull had eased with wine, and although his purse was disconcertingly light tonight’s feast had been well worth the coin.
A reward was exactly what the company needed to convince it that it had acted courageously.
“They need a good six months’ training,” Alter decided. “Those formations today… if the enemy had meant it we’d be dead.”
“Don’t worry,” Erikson told him. “We’ll start tomorrow. I want to practise marching in block, and consolidation of ground. Are you familiar with that from the halberdiers?”
Alter looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Just checking,” Erikson said, then sighed contentedly. “Well, I don’t want to cramp the men’s style,” he said, as dancing gave way to an impromptu jousting tournament. The champions were carried on their comrades’ backs, and their weapons, Erikson was pleased to see, were thick-bristled brooms.
“No, wouldn’t want to do that,” Alter nodded sagely as, with a roar of applause, the first casualty went crashing backwards onto the cobbles.
“Think I’ll go see how the wounded are getting on,” he decided. The sisters of Shallya had rebuilt their hospital amongst the smoke-blackened ruins. Crude, wood-framed halls had taken the place of the previous quarters but they were as clean and orderly as always. The sisters had been expecting an onslaught of the wounded after the battle, so the few patients Erikson had given them were well looked after. Even so, as the commander it was his duty to check up on them.
At least, that was the excuse Erikson made to himself as he made off to find Helga and a quiet corner somewhere. He would be back in time to set the guards, he thought as he made his way out of their yard. Even though they were drunk and victorious he didn’t trust some of his men not to try to escape.
Erikson slipped out onto the street, but as he did so he almost ran into a knight. The man still wore the armour he had worn on the battlefield, and although the bloodstains had been washed off the metal was still as dented as an old copper pot.
“Captain Erikson?” the man asked, and even in the near darkness of the street Erikson recognised the voice.
“Schleismann!” he said, and stretched out his hand. The knight took it in a steel fist and the two men shook. “I believe I owe you a debt, sir. If it hadn’t been for your squadron we would have been finished.”
Schleismann shrugged.
“You and the boy, perhaps. I have every confidence that the rest of your company’s speed would have carried them to safety.”
For a moment Erikson’s face hardened, and his eyes glittered dangerously in the darkness. It was one thing to criticise his own company, but to let somebody else do it… then he saw the smile on Schleismann’s face and his anger evaporated.
“Yes, well,” he said. “If I can get them to fall into formation half as quickly as they fall out of it I should have quite a unit. Anyway, will you come and drink with me? There is a tavern yonder.”
“Of course,” Schleismann said. “In fact I wanted to talk to you. It’s about your drummer.”
“You mean Dolf?” Erikson asked. “What about him?”
“I want him,” Schleismann said simply, and led the way into the nearest tavern.
Later, when the company had emptied both wine casks and the torches had burned down, Erikson returned to the square. He walked carefully through the gloom, not just because of the wine he had drunk with Schleismann but because of the proposal the man had made.
He was relieved to find two sentries on the entrance to the square.
“Who goes there?” Sergeant Alter asked as he loomed up out of the darkness.
“Erikson,” Erikson said. “Go and get some sleep, sergeant. I’ll take watch for a while. You too, soldier.”
“That’s all right, sir,” the man said, a reedy voice in the darkness. “I like it at night.”
“As you wish,” Erikson told him and fished out his tobacco. “Would you like a fill for your pipe?”
“No thank you, sir,” the man said, his voice a dull monotone. “I can’t smoke. It does things to me.”
Erikson grunted as he prepared his own pipe and lit up. It was late, and although the sounds of the victorious army still echoed through Hergig’s crowded streets the uproar had died down to the occasional snatch of drunken singing and the odd argument.
“We did well today,” Erikson told his companion, his face lighting up as he drew on the pipe.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. It was impossible to make out his features in the dark, and Erikson tried to recognise the voice. He couldn’t.
“It wasn’t perfect, but things never are in a battle. We can learn a lot from what happened, and next time we’ll do even better.”
The man said nothing.
Must be shy, Erikson thought.
“What’s your name?” Erikson asked him.
“My name is Hobbs, sir,” the man said in the same flat, toneless voice.
Erikson waited for him to expand. He didn’t.
“And whose section are you in?”
“Sergeant Alter’s,” Hobbs said, sounding as depressed about this as about everything else.
“Ah, Sergeant Alter,” Erikson exclaimed with enthusiasm. “We were bloody lucky to get him, I can tell you. Every company needs a man like that. A real professional. What did you do before you were a soldier?”
“Nothing.” Was there an inflection in the voice this time, Erikson wondered? A touch of guilt, perhaps?
“I didn’t mean why were you in gaol,” Erikson reassured him. “That life is over now. I meant, what was your trade?”
“Tanner,” Hobbs replied, and Erikson noticed he’d dropped the sir.
Well, never mind, he thought. Battle took people in different ways. If this man wanted silence and isolation instead of laughter and drink, Erikson would let him have it.
Erikson smoked and thought and wondered if, in time, this Hobbs might not make a corpo
ral. He might not be the most charming of men, but he was probably the only sober one left in the entire city and that alone was worth a lot.
He waited for what he judged to be two hours in silence. Then he went to fetch Gunter, who rolled out of his blankets and followed him uncomplainingly to the gate. When they arrived Hobbs had gone.
“Gods damn it,” Erikson cursed. “I thought I might have been able to trust that one. Oh well. Would you like another watchman to keep you company, corporal?”
“Sigmar is my companion,” Gunter told him.
“Yes.” Erikson nodded. “Well, good night. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
In the days since Viksberg had armed them, the two porters had explored every inch of the crumbling roofs which overlooked Erikson’s encampment in Fish Market Square. They had moved with a stealth which would have surprised those who knew them. It certainly surprised the pigeons and rats who they stumbled across at precarious heights.
They had spent countless hours watching the company in the square below as it crashed and bashed around the yard. Their target was as easy to spot among the vagabond soldiers as a dove amongst a flock of crows. His young face was in stark contrast to the battered and suspicious countenances of his fellows, and he was never without his drum.
Now, content that they had lined up the perfect shot and sure of their escape route, the two men waited.
Waited and argued as only brothers can.
“You know that I am the better shot,” one told the other, for perhaps the dozenth time that day.
“Neither of us is better than the other,” his brother responded with the calm indifference of a man who knows that possession is nine-tenths of the law.
“If that were the case,” the first man reasoned, “you would have let the winner of a shooting competition have it.”
“And have everybody hearing the noise and smelling the powder and poking their noses into our business?”
[Warhammer] - Broken Honour Page 11
