“Is it the enemy, child?” Gunter asked, and this time the girl sobbed and rushed to hide behind him. In the darkness from which the girl had fled there was movement.
“Hold there,” Erikson snarled, suddenly guessing what had been going on. “And come out. Slowly.”
After a moment’s hesitation a figure appeared. Erikson recognised him as one of Minsk’s followers, a freckle-faced man with a Reikland accent. He tried to smile. Seeing that nobody smiled back, he saluted.
“What is your name, soldier?” Erikson asked.
“Traudl, sir.” The man tried to smile again, but this time it came out as a leer.
“Why are your breeches undone?” Erikson asked him, his voice chill despite the sweltering heat of the barn.
“Sorry, captain,” the man said as he tugged at the fastenings. “This wench jumped on me and, well, you know how it is.”
He winked, and glanced past Erikson to the men who stood behind him. One of them sniggered.
Erikson swung around. “Who thinks this is funny?” he asked, gesturing to the girl who was cringing behind Gunter. This time, nobody did.
“Look, captain, I’m sorry. Maybe I was a bit rough…” Traudl stepped forwards, hands outstretched, and the girl wailed with terror and clutched at Gunter, who looked to Erikson.
“What does your order say about those who defile the innocent?” he asked mildly.
“Castration and burning at the stake,” Gunter replied with the cold certainty of a man who had read that particular part of the holy text with a thorough interest.
There was another cry of anguish, but this time it was from the man who fell to his knees.
“It’s not my fault, captain,” he wailed. “I’m a soldier. She led me on, she—”
“Stop making that noise,” Erikson told him. “Nobody is getting castrated or burned. Not in my company.”
“Thank you, captain,” the man beamed. “You won’t regret it.”
“Don’t mention it,” Erikson said with a magnanimous wave. “After all, you were one of the Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig. Gunter, take this girl to her family and tell them what’s happening. You two men, bind this man’s hands. And you, go and tell Alter to assemble the company in the parade ground.”
“Why?” Traudl said, bewilderment writ large on his broad face.
“Silence from the prisoner,” Erikson snapped as the condemned man’s hands were bound behind his back with a twist of baling twine.
“Come on,” Erikson said. “Get him on his feet. Let’s get this over with.”
“But why have you tied my hands?” Traudl asked as he was hauled along behind his captain. “I am one of you. I’m your comrade.”
“Not anymore,” Erikson told him, and led the little party into the square of hard-packed earth that served as the company’s parade ground. The free company was already assembling, eager for any excuse to leave the blistering labour they were carrying out on the stockade. Sergeant Alter hurried them into ranks and files as Erikson waited, his prisoner behind him.
Behind the soldiers the population of Nalderstein assembled. He waited until the sobbing girl, her face still wet with tears even as she stood within the safe knot of her family, appeared from one of the narrow streets that led to the square.
“This man,” Erikson addressed them, “has abused the hospitality of the people of Nalderstein. For this crime he will spend three days and three nights in the stocks, after which he will be dismissed from the company The next man to commit such a crime will be hanged. Any questions?”
“What did he do, captain?” Porter asked, his voice rich with morbid curiosity.
“Abused the hospitality of the people of Nalderstein,” Erikson told him.
“I meant what did he do precisely?”
Erikson repressed a sigh. At times like this he regretted making Porter quartermaster. The man could never leave well enough alone.
“What he did precisely was inconvenience a young lady.”
“Inconvenience!” the roar echoed around the yard and one of the civilians, his voice bellowing like a bull’s and his face as red as the rag which had enraged it, pushed through his fellows. “He did a lot more than inconvenience her. She’s my little girl, and she hasn’t even seen her fourteenth summer.”
An angry murmur rose up from the townspeople. It reminded Erikson of the noise of a hornets’ nest.
“I am well aware of that, sir,” Erikson addressed him. “And as the girl’s father your rage does you credit. But he will be punished.”
By now the red-faced man was standing in front of Erikson. He was shorter than the captain, but he was stocky. Thirty years of toil-hardened muscle bulged beneath his shirt, and his eyes had a dangerous sheen to them.
“No,” the man said. “Not punished enough. Three days in the stocks. What’s that?”
This time the growl of agreement from the crowd was louder. More purposeful. Nalderstein was small enough for everybody to know everybody else, and the sobs of the girl as she was ushered away were proving even more incendiary than the rage of her father.
Erikson looked at his men. He knew that he couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t back down in front of this peasant. If he did, his authority would evaporate. It was a lesson he had learnt the hard way a dozen wars ago.
“Hang him!” a voice from the crowd called out, and there was a storm of agreement. The father crossed his arms and stood in front of Erikson, daring him to defy the will of the town.
“The Gentleman’s Free Company of Hergig,” he said grandly, “regulates itself. As I said, this man will spend three nights in the stocks.”
There was a chorus of boos and Erikson saw, to his horror, that a couple of youths were reaching for stones.
“But before that happens,” he continued, raising his voice above the hubbub, “we will need a smith and a good carpenter.”
The girl’s father regarded him shrewdly.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because the stocks are to be built at the edge of the forest. This man acted like a beast. It is only fitting that the beasts are given the chance to return the favour.”
The father’s face worked horribly, then, to Erikson’s surprise, he laughed.
“You’re not such a fool as you look,” he confided to the captain before turning back to the gathered throng. “Narlson. Hackmeier. You heard the officer. Let’s get this thing set up in time for tonight. We wouldn’t want to keep our guest waiting.”
He snarled at Traudl, who cringed like a beaten dog.
“Captain,” he pleaded, clawing at Erikson. “Don’t do this to me. You can’t leave me trapped out there. The enemy… You saw what they’re like.”
Erikson regarded him with a mixture of pity and contempt. He didn’t let either emotion show on his face, though. His gaze was as steady as his hands as he unplucked Traudl’s fingers from his clothing.
“There is nothing I can do,” he told the man. “Wartime justice is always harsh.”
The man was sobbing as the villagers set about uprooting the stocks from the side of the square and carrying the pieces out of the gate. There was something almost festive about them as they worked. The same could not be said for the soldiers. After Erikson dismissed them they went back to their labours, stooped beneath a thoughtful silence.
* * *
Even now, with dusk bruising the sky above, Traudl couldn’t quite believe that this was happening.
He had been in stocks before, of course, bent double in timber-and-iron constructs that made him a victim to any passing sadist. He was a professional thief, and over the years his shackled form had graced many a town square. Sometimes he’d been pelted with mud, sometimes with rotten food, sometimes even with the odd stone.
Now, as darkness closed in around him, he thought back to those days with something approaching nostalgia. What wouldn’t he give to be surrounded by a baying mob now? What wouldn’t he give to see human faces, even if distorted with vindictive
pleasure, or to hear human voices, even if they were shrill with cruel excitement?
Instead he was alone. Absolutely alone. The only company he had was the brooding silence of the forest. It loomed less than a bowshot away, the spaces between the trees as black as the decay between a jawful of rotten teeth.
Traudl bit back on a whimper and tore his eyes away from the wilderness. Risking a sprained neck he turned to gaze at the town. It lay a mile away, although it might as well have been a hundred. No matter what happened to him, there would be no help from there. Not tonight.
It had all been the fault of that silly bitch. Why hadn’t she just shut up and got on with it? He would have paid her. He usually did, if they didn’t struggle too much.
A sudden shriek from the forest ripped through Traudl’s nerves. He almost shrieked back, but even as the warmth of his own urine trickled down his leg he recognised the cry of an owl. There was the suggestion of a ghostly movement above, an indistinct predatory blur chasing the bats that were beginning to circle overhead.
Traudl immediately regretted his loss of control. It wasn’t just the humiliation, or even the discomfort. No, it was what the smell might bring from the shadows that were even now pooling out of the forest to swallow him up.
His eyes rolled, white in the darkness, and he stared blindly into the void. The last purple remains of the day were vanishing from the sky and the stars glittered down at him, cold and predatory and merciless.
It wasn’t until the owl screeched again that his nerve snapped. Seized with the unquenchable panic of a wild thing caught in a trap he twisted and writhed, trying to drag his hands through the iron-bound boards that held them and to pull his head free. Muscles bunched. Sweat mixed with blood, greasing his body even as the skin was peeled from his neck and his wrists. But it was to no avail. The men who had built these stocks had built them to hold.
Eventually pain and exhaustion wore away at Traudl’s panic. He grew still and let his body hang from the woodwork. By now the night had swallowed up the whole of the world. The only lights were the orange blinks of the torches on the distant stockade. They seemed as far away as the stars above. Traudl began to sob quietly.
He didn’t stop until he heard the first snap of undergrowth breaking from amongst the trees. He turned, but the darkness was so complete that all he could see were the dots that danced across his vision. He stilled his breathing, holding his breath as every sense strained to detect what was emerging from the undergrowth. It might be a rabbit, he told himself, or a hare. Or a pony.
Then the smell hit him, the same foetid musk that had clung to the beasts they had killed in Nalderstein, and he exploded into a fresh paroxysm of panic. This time, with a crunch of gristle and a flash of pain, he managed to tear one hand free. He scrabbled at the lock which held the stocks closed, but the broken bones in his hand made it impossible to get a proper grip. A low, miserable moan emerged from his throat as the smell grew stronger suddenly. It grew louder as two burning eyes flared in the darkness.
The shriek died in Traudl’s throat. As he gazed into the inferno of the beast’s eyes his mouth fell open and he began to drool. He could feel it in his head, gnawing at his memories with the brutal disinterest of a wolf cleaning a bone. It plucked from his mind the number of men now in Nalderstein, the number of civilians, the weak points in the old stockade and the half-finished repairs that covered them.
When it had learnt everything there was from the terrified confusion of Traudl’s memories it turned and stalked back into the forest.
Traudl, still alive, began to laugh. Then he laughed some more. Soon the broken sound of his hysteria was echoing through the trees and carrying into the darkness beyond. He was still laughing hours later when a herd of boars found him and, squeaking with pleasure at such an easy meal, began to feast.
Chapter Ten
Erikson awoke to the urgent sound of the company’s drum. The beat was quick and insistent, and as he rolled out of his cot and pulled on his boots he could already hear the rest of the men racing to their defensive positions. Sergeant Alter could already be heard bellowing encouragement, and the clink of metal accompanied the pounding of rushing feet.
Pausing only to buckle on his sword belt and cram his hat onto his head, Erikson went to join them.
He was surprised to find that, although the chill of dawn was still in the air, the sun had risen high enough to light the ground around them. He had expected the beasts to attack at night, using darkness to hide the beginnings of their assault.
The captain found himself wishing that he had a cannon, or even a catapult. He should have had the townsfolk build one, although it was too late for that now. He shrugged off such useless thoughts as he sprinted down to the gate and raced up the ladder to the fighting platform that rested behind the stockade. Dolf was there already, his eyes bright with excitement as he beat the alarm.
“Where are they?” Erikson asked, squinting into the rising sun.
“There,” Dolf told him without a pause in the beat. “Coming along the road.”
Erikson pulled his hat down lower so that the brim eclipsed the sun, and leaned forwards. The figures that were approaching were still indistinct, veiled by the mist that steamed from the wheat around them.
“They didn’t hang around,” Porter said. “Must have got a taste for man-flesh, eh, captain?”
Erikson glared at Porter, who smiled before moving away to busy himself with his section. By now the men were assembled on the fighting platform in units of half a dozen or so. The townsfolk were climbing up between these groups, their own weapons and garb hardly less motley than the soldiers’ own. Behind them, formed up on the parade ground, Gunter waited with his section and a dozen of the heftiest townsmen.
Not much of a reserve, Erikson thought. But then, we’re not much of an army.
Then, from along the fighting platform, a peal of laughter turned into a ragged cheer. Dolf’s drumbeat hesitated and then stopped as he joined in. Erikson gazed quizzically towards the enemy.
Except that they weren’t. Now they had emerged from the blinding light of the sun and the clinging shadows and mist of the forest he could see that they were a company of mounted soldiers. They flew no flag, but their weapons glinted in the early morning light, and a small wagon bounced along halfway down their column.
“Shall we open the gates, captain?” Sergeant Alter asked, his wrinkled features split open in a smile of relief.
“Not yet,” Erikson told him. “Let’s see what they have to say for themselves first.”
The cheering grew louder as the men cantered closer, then disintegrated into catcalls and whistles as the column drew to a halt in front of the stockade. There were perhaps a dozen riders, and although they were no more knights than Erikson’s own men were, they rode well. They also carried impressive-looking handguns.
“Silence in the ranks,” Erikson bellowed, and the men fell quiet as the leading horseman swung from his saddle and approached the stockade. He was dressed in browns and greens, and a long rifle was slung across his shoulder. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, which was sharp and pinched.
“Well, well, well,” the man said, his hands on his hips as he looked up. “I don’t believe it. You are Captain Erikson, aren’t you?”
Erikson bit back on the retort that sprang to his lips and swept off his hat instead.
“Captain Erikson at your service,” he said. “Late of Talabheim and Bretonnia, currently serving in the army of Hochland.”
“Ha!” The newcomer barked with laughter, and in the silence the noise sounded as loud as a gunshot.
“Something funny?” Erikson asked, his eyes blazing green with anger.
“Just that I thought you were late of Praag,” the man said and grinned.
Erikson was about to challenge the impudent oaf to a duel when suddenly, in a flash of recognition, he remembered where he had seen the man before.
“Freimann!” he cried. “That was
your name wasn’t it? We met in that forest. Where those beasts were.”
“The very same,” Freimann nodded. “Now that we’ve got the niceties over with, can we come in? My men and horses need resting, and the baron has sent a present for you.”
“Of course,” Erikson said, and gestured to Sergeant Alter. His eyes were already fastened on the covered wagon. It was too small to carry one of the great cannons he had seen on the battlefield, but it could contain handguns, or perhaps swivel guns to mount on the stockade.
As the riders entered Nalderstein, Erikson climbed down the ladder to greet them. He and Freimann shook hands, and as they did so the man leaned in towards him.
“We have to talk immediately,” he said, “and in private. Orders.”
“Come to the granary,” Erikson told him, then paused as the tarpaulin that covered the wagon was lifted from within. A plump, bespectacled figure who was as wide as he was tall sat up, yawned and climbed down off the vehicle.
“This is Horstein,” Freimann said with a roll of his eyes. “He’d better come with us.”
“Do you have anything to eat?” asked Horstein. For a moment Erikson thought that he was about to salute, but he was only scratching his head with a pair of pliers.
“Maybe later,” Erikson said, and led the way to the granary.
“No.” Erikson shook his head as he studied the map that had been unfurled on the table. An oil lamp held down one corner, and he could feel the warmth from the glass in the chill of the granary. “No, it can’t be done. It’s not possible.”
“It has to be done,” Freimann told him. “And of course it’s possible.”
“He’s right, you know,” Horstein said, and pushed his thick-lensed spectacles back up on his nose. “I spent five years at the engineers’ school, and I know what blackpowder can do. It really is a simple enough job. Just a matter of getting the angles right. Perhaps a bit of drilling so that we can really pack it in. And I’ve got three whole barrels of the stuff.”
[Warhammer] - Broken Honour Page 16
