[Warhammer] - Broken Honour

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  “Soon!” The voice echoed his own. “We should have done it today.”

  A moment of shocked silence was followed by a chorus of nervous agreement, the low growls and whinnies as cautious as they were heartfelt.

  Gulkroth looked at the beast who had dared to challenge his authority. It was a goat-faced thing, almost as big as the minotaurs whose blood had fertilised the field today. He could smell that it was in the prime of its life, and that its life was a great one. There was magnificence about it. A wild energy.

  It would make the perfect sacrifice.

  “You challenge me,” Gulkroth stated, and the need for words was over. The beast bellowed, a full-throated roar that carried through the forest to the army that waited beyond, then it charged at him in an avalanche of horn and hide and muscle.

  Gulkroth waited as, hidden like tumours in the darkness, Ruhrkar and his shamans seized and twisted the thread of its life. He could see their sorcerous assault as others could not, the dark energy that flowed through the forest like blood through a body. It buckled and snarled up beneath the shamans’ will, and then they were using it, curling it like a whip around the charging bulk of Gulkroth’s challenger.

  The beast screamed as its bones splintered beneath it, the joints grinding and snapping as they exploded within the living meat of its legs. It fell forwards, and even as it did its mighty shoulders were snapping as loudly as branches breaking beneath the frost. Its arms flailed uselessly, elbows popping and wrists crunching apart so that the muscles slipped from their moorings and writhed like coils of snakes beneath its hide.

  The beast took another lungful of air, but this time it wheezed out to the crackle of disintegrating vertebrae.

  Gulkroth watched his challenger flop bonelessly on the floor, as helpless as a newborn foal. A stream of ripe yellow dung sputtered from between its legs and it rolled in the filth even as blood started to leak from the sudden snap of its jaws.

  “I called you here to explain,” Gulkroth repeated. The beasts listened to him even as they watched the mewling thing that now lay dying in its own filth.

  “The humans are weak in small numbers, and they are weak in the forest. As easy to crush as a hornet. But together, and in the open, they become strong. As dangerous as a nest of hornets. So we will lure them in.”

  He gestured expansively over the still-living body of his challenger.

  “We will separate them.”

  He bent down and seized the rubbery tube of meat and splintered bone that had been the challenger’s arm. With a grunt of effort and a sudden twist he tore the limb free. Blood sprayed from severed arteries as a horrible bubbling scream came from the stricken beast. Gulkroth ignored it as, with a wide-armed throw, he hurled the limb into the forest.

  “And we will tear them to shreds.”

  He took another limb, this one the remains of a leg, and his shoulders rolled as he tore again. Then he took the other arm. More blood arced into the air as the butchery continued, the victim’s still-beating heart pumping with horror and desperation as it was dismembered.

  “We will tear them to shreds,” Gulkroth explained as he stooped to grasp his assailant’s head. It crunched like a leather bag full of broken glass as he tore it from the torso, and the eyes rolled with the last flickers of anguish even as he lifted it above his head.

  “And we will tear them to shreds piece by piece,” he proclaimed, and bowled the head almost casually into the frozen terror of the beasts around him.

  And suddenly they were roaring their approval, a tsunami of terror and frustration and admiration for the beast who would lead them to victory. Gulkroth’s eyes blazed with an unholy fire as he looked at the sea of distorted faces around him, every one twisted into a rictus of fear and aggression, and in that moment he knew that they were truly unstoppable.

  He rolled back his head and added his voice to the bellow of the herd, and as he did so the thousands of beasts beyond joined them so that the trees quivered and the ground trembled and the earth itself seemed to shake with anticipation of the slaughter to come.

  A week had passed since they had handed the assassins over to the provost marshal, and in that time Erikson and Alter had drilled the men relentlessly. Every morning the guards huddled on top of the battlements had watched them march out of the city into the open spaces beyond. There they had watched them form and re-form their square, or watched them cross broken ground time and again until they could do so without breaking formation, or watched them close ranks as Erikson removed random men from amongst them, or watched them move from defensive square to marching column and then back again.

  And all the time Erikson and Alter harried them with the relentless energy of sheepdogs rounding up a flock. The captain and the sergeant barked and shoved and beat the manoeuvres into their men’s instincts with constant repetition so that they learned to respond with unthinking precision.

  Every evening the company marched back into the city before the gathering dusk, the men exhausted and their officers hoarse. For the first few days the men had staggered back after the day’s exercises with their heads down, their faces grim with confusion and resentment. It was only gradually that they began to learn the lessons that Erikson was hammering into their muscles, and as they learned they began to march with a different expression.

  An expression of pride.

  For some, this was the first time they had felt such an emotion, and Erikson tended it as closely as the first delicate flame in a ball of tinder. He knew that compared to the clockwork precision of the state troopers his company were still little more than a mob, but that didn’t worry him. They were a mob that might be able to hold together in the storm of a battle, and that was all he had ever expected from them.

  Today, after marching the company out of the city, he had split it into three sections. Alter, Gunter and Porter stood at the head of their men. Erikson wondered if it would be possible to find an odder assortment of leaders. It certainly wouldn’t be possible to find an odder assortment of men. When they were marching or when they had formed a perfect checkerboard of rank and file, it was possible to forget that they were the sweepings of Hergig’s gaol. But when they were standing, or rather skulking, at ease they appeared exactly what they were.

  “Gentlemen,” he told them. “Today we are going to try something different. Today we are going to have a relay race between here and the city walls. One man from each section will run to that tower, then back to his section. The next man will do the same and so on. And the winning team,” he paused for dramatic effect, “will get a roasted pig. Go!”

  And they went. Gunter contented himself with the palmed fist of Sigmarite catechism as a blessing before unleashing his first man. Alter barked his own section into silence before selecting their first runner. Porter, meanwhile, was a dozen paces into the lead before either of his rivals had started.

  As the first men raced towards the wall their comrades bellowed out encouragement, their voices drawing curious stares from the regiment that was marching out of Hergig’s gates and towards some unknown destination. There had been a lot of these sudden departures over the past few days, Erikson considered, then turned his attention back to the race as the spectators rose to a roar of protest.

  Porter, it seemed, had kicked the legs out from his competitor.

  “Carry on!” Erikson bellowed above the racket.

  He was so engrossed in the race that he didn’t hear the gallop of the approaching herald’s horse until the man was right on top of him. He swung from his saddle, landed easily on his heels and saluted Erikson.

  “Good to see you again,” Erikson told the man, recognising him from the battlefield.

  “Likewise, sir,” the herald grinned. “After your battle you are the talk of the town.”

  “That’s what we train for,” Erikson told him and the man’s grin grew even wider.

  “Yes, they do seem to be getting faster,” the herald said as he watched the racing men.


  Erikson bit back on the urge to laugh and forced himself to scowl instead.

  “Strength and teamwork,” he said as one of the runners elbowed another in the kidneys. “That’s what it’s all about. Have you ever considered joining a frontline company? We could always use another man.”

  Erikson let the question hang in the air, and was pleased to see the grin vanish from the herald’s face.

  “No, I know my place,” he said and rapidly unrolled his parchment. “Which is why I’m here. Baron Ludenhof requests and requires that the Gentleman’s free Company of Hergig make all speed to the town of Nalderstein, and there make such preparations as may be necessary to its defence.”

  Erikson regarded him with suspicion.

  “Nalderstein? Where’s that?”

  “Three days’ march down the southern road,” the herald read from his parchment. “And then one day’s march east on the forest highway. All who you encounter are required to give reasonable assistance, and may in turn apply to the chancellor for recompense.”

  “The forest highway,” Erikson repeated. “Presumably runs through the forest.”

  “It runs along it, sir,” the herald told him. “It might be an idea to march along that bit at double time. And in the daylight.”

  “Thanks,” said Erikson as the herald formally handed him the parchment and bowed.

  “Do you accept the orders as given to you?” he asked.

  Erikson grunted and nodded his head.

  “We will leave in the morning. I need time to prepare.”

  “The orders do require you to make all due speed…” the herald began, then saw the look on Erikson’s face and trailed off. “Yes, well. As you see fit, captain.”

  “Sure you won’t come with us?” said Erikson, straightening his back and beaming with confidence as some of the men looked curiously at him and the messenger.

  “No thank you,” the herald said. “But I will be putting a couple of shillings on you making it back. Good luck!”

  With a final salute he leapt back on his horse and trotted back towards the city walls. They suddenly looked very inviting. Very secure. And if they looked that way to him, Erikson thought, how much more so would they look to his reluctant warriors?

  Well, so be it. They hadn’t deserted yet. And anyway, by the time he told them where they were going they would be far beyond the safety of the city walls. The terror of what lay in the woods might be just the bond he needed to keep them together once they were outside of the reach of Ludenhof’s swift justice.

  There was a shriek of pain from the torn-up race track and he saw one of the men writhing around, his nose pouring with blood. Cries of outrage from his comrades vied with the jeers from those of the perpetrator, a bull-necked man who was gleefully sprinting away from the tackle.

  Erikson took a deep breath, and smiled. He would run them hard today. Exhausted men were less likely to react badly when they learned where they were going. Or at the very least, they would be less likely to desert.

  At least, he hoped so.

  Viksberg was loitering in the hall of columns that formed the entrance to the baron’s palace. It was a busy thoroughfare, and dozens of urgent footsteps echoed in the high vaults and amongst the pillars that held them up. Even during the quietest times it was busy. Now, with the army squeezed into the city and the land outside under attack, it bustled like a marketplace.

  Although he hardly wanted to be seen with the herald, Viksberg hadn’t been able to wait for the good news. As soon as he saw the man he scuttled over to him, took him by the elbow and guided him into one of the alcoves that riddled the masonry here.

  “Did he accept?” Viksberg asked, oblivious to the look of distaste that pinched the herald’s face.

  “Yes,” the herald told him. “Yes, he accepted.”

  “You don’t think he doubted the seal?” Viksberg asked. “He wasn’t suspicious?”

  “Why would he be suspicious?” the herald asked him coldly. “He’s a soldier. Going to fight the enemy is what soldiers do. Most soldiers, anyway.”

  That last comment slipped out before he could stop himself, but he needn’t have worried. Viksberg was too relieved to notice the implied reproach.

  “So is he going now?” Viksberg wanted to know. The herald, who was beginning to feel the first flickers of regret about this whole business, shook his head.

  “No, they’ll go in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime, where is my fee?”

  Viksberg was suddenly wary.

  “Oh no, not until they’ve gone,” he said and lowered his voice to a whisper. “That was the arrangement.”

  The herald made sure that nobody was within earshot before replying.

  “The arrangement was that I altered the orders so that the Gentleman’s Free Company was sent into the dragon’s mouth whilst the company that was actually supposed to go remained nice and safe here, on garrison duty.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Viksberg told him nervously.

  The herald shook his head with disgust.

  “I assume that the company that gets to stay here is yours,” the herald said.

  Viksberg looked surprised, then affronted. Then he just shrugged. If the man believed that he had sent Dolf’s company to its doom in place of his own, then let him. He wanted nobody to suspect the real reason for his machinations, which was to permanently silence the little street rat who was the only witness to his crime.

  “I would pay up now if I were you,” the herald told him. “Before somebody realises that a bunch of militiamen have been sent to hold a town that was actually assigned a whole regiment.”

  “Why would you tell anybody now?” Viksberg sneered. “That way you’d lose your money.”

  “Because I can’t help liking the poor beggars’ captain,” the herald said. “And because we’re at war.”

  The statement had the ring of truth to it and, with a last look around him, Viksberg reached for his purse. He counted out the coins and handed them over.

  “Just make sure that nobody does find out,” Viksberg told the herald, who nodded reluctantly.

  Everything was fair in love and war, he told himself. And business is business.

  He sighed, pocketed the coin and went on his way.

  The next morning, in the grey hour before the sun had risen and with the chill of Fish Market Square’s cobbles in their bones, the company was roused and assembled in the midst of the square for the last time. Once they had formed rank and file, Erikson gave them the good news. They didn’t take it well.

  “We’re going where?” Minsk asked, his voice high-pitched with outrage.

  “Silence in the ranks,” Alter barked at him, but for once the whiplash of the sergeant’s voice wasn’t enough to quell the muttering.

  “We are going,” Erikson repeated, “to a place called Nalderstein.”

  “In the middle of the forest?” Minsk asked. “On our own? We won’t last five minutes.”

  Erikson was disappointed that the murmur of agreement seemed to come from virtually every man in the company. He exchanged a glance with Alter, but before he could speak again Corporal Gunter intervened on his behalf.

  “It is true that the forest is teeming with the enemy,” he said as he turned to his fellows. “And it is also true that we will be isolated, cut off from the artillery and the knights and the other regiments that would be able to help us. But if we die, our bodies torn to shreds and our bones littered throughout the blood-soaked wilderness, then so be it. We are the sons of Sigmar, and there can be no more righteous death than that which awaits us in the darkness of the forest.”

  A handful of Gunter’s disciples nodded their agreement. The rest of the company stood in an aghast silence.

  “That’s it, I’m not going.” Minsk declared.

  “You have to,” Alter snapped.

  “No I don’t,” Minsk said and folded his arms. “I want to go back to gaol. At least it’s safe there.”

  “Y
ou really are an arse,” Porter told him.

  “At least I won’t be a dead one,” Minsk said, and Erikson watched to see who nodded in agreement. He had let Minsk speak so that he would encourage the weak links to show themselves. Now that they had done so, it was time to shut him up.

  “Minsk,” Erikson told him, the tone of his voice friendly and relaxed. “If you refuse to fight you refuse to fight. I can accept this. But be under no illusion. You are a soldier and we are at war. There will be no gaol for you. Just the executioner’s block.”

  The mutineer’s mouth opened and then closed. He pulled nervously on his earlobe and turned to find support amongst his comrades, but they were all suddenly looking elsewhere.

  “Corporal Porter,” Erikson said, raising his voice slightly. “The chopping block and cleaver you use for butchering the meat. Would it be hygienic to use them?”

  “On Minsk, sir?” Porter asked with a malicious delight. “I should think so. Just have to make sure they’re thoroughly washed afterwards.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Minsk said, and took a step backwards.

  “You don’t expect a battle axe and a blacksmith in a hood, do you?” Erikson asked him. “We’re a regiment in the field. We have to make do with what we have. Corporal Gunter, would you be willing to read Minsk his last rites?”

  “No, sir,” Gunter shook his head. “A coward can expect neither mercy nor forgiveness. I will wield the cleaver though.”

  “Thank you,” Erikson said, then raised his voice to speak to the company.

  “Would anybody else prefer a quick death here to taking their chances with the rest of us?”

  “Wait a minute!” Minsk cried. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You have decided not to desert after all?” Erikson asked, feigning surprise.

  “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  “Good,” Erikson told him. “Now, gentlemen, if there are no more questions I suggest we make a start. Porter, you will have responsibility for the mules and the stores. Your section will be in the middle of the column.”