[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard

by Richard Williams - (ebook by Undead)

  “Trust me,” the pistolier spat back, “if I had been aiming for you, you would be dead already. The only harm I cause is that which I intend…”

  The pistolier wrenched himself from Delmar’s grip, spun about, snatched his hat from the jade who had been sneaking away and tossed back his cloak, revealing the sword at his hip.

  “…and I do not intend any to you. If you had been a better horseman you would have been perfectly safe.”

  Delmar released Heinrich’s reins and moved his hand to his own sword’s grip. “I will have your name, sir.”

  The pistolier’s hand inched closer to his rapier.

  “I am Siebrecht von Matz. And if you are such a fool as to think you can beat me with a blade,” Siebrecht held up his left hand, little finger outstretched, displaying the ring bearing his family’s coat of arms, “then you can kiss my signet.”

  Siebrecht gave a sharp, self-satisfied smile, but Delmar had already taken hold of his sword’s hilt. Just as quickly Siebrecht gripped his own. Before they could draw, they were interrupted by a crash as the gates beside them slammed open and a second squadron of knights galloped past. The crowd ran from the horses and drove the two fighters apart. Delmar was pushed back, but then forced his way through the cram of bodies after his opponent. He caught sight of Siebrecht, but then another knight blocked his path. What remained of him, at least, for one of his eyes was covered by a patch, one of his legs was a wooden peg and his right hand had no fingers.

  “Delmar von Reinhardt? Siebrecht von Matz?”

  Moving their hands cautiously from their swords, Delmar and Siebrecht answered in unison, “Aye.”

  “Come inside, novices. I am Brother Verrakker. Welcome to the Reiksguard.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SIEBRECHT

  Inside, the Reiksguard citadel was no less formidable. Unlike out in the city, where the houses and shops had grown tall haphazardly as each occupant had tried to outdo his neighbour, the home of the Reiksguard Order was commanding by design. Each building locked firmly into the next and each corner the novices turned revealed another imposing sight. Monuments and memorials were crammed in every courtyard, and statues of the heroes of the Empire stood at guard beside every entrance. The walls were decorated with the heraldry of the multitude of noble families who had served and, once their service was done, had poured money into their old order. Greater even than these were the Grand Hall of the order and the Chapel of the Warrior Sigmar, and, greater still, at the citadel’s heart soared the tower of the chapter house of the Order of the Reiksguard itself, emblazoned on each side with the skull, the wreath and the cross of the order, watching over its warriors and the city beyond.

  Siebrecht von Matz tried hard not to be impressed, and failed.

  Less impressive, though, were Siebrecht’s fellow novices. The interfering horseman, Delmar, had pointedly ignored Siebrecht after they had entered the citadel and Siebrecht had returned the favour. Reiklanders, Siebrecht muttered. He swore that their pride was more precious to them than their own lives. Siebrecht was sure of his aim; he was the best damn shot of any he knew in Nuln, and there had been no danger. No, if only that Reiklander Delmar had not overreacted, all would have been well.

  The crippled knight who had come to meet them, Brother Verrakker, had forgone comment at seeing them about to draw on one another. Instead, he had merely bid them follow him inside and led them to a side-court where the rest of the novices were assembled.

  No sooner had the three of them arrived than half the novices gathered around and greeted Delmar boisterously. They shook his hand and slapped his back and loudly congratulated each other for their privilege of joining the hallowed ranks of the order.

  “Reiklanders,” Siebrecht muttered again, shaking his head. He could recognise them with ease; they all had the same close-cropped hair and simple but well-cut clothes in the military style that was the current Altdorf fashion. So slavishly did they follow the fashion that Siebrecht did not know how they could tell each other apart.

  He had known that a greater proportion of his fellow novices would hail from the Imperial city and its surroundings. Reikland prided itself on having more of its sons in the service of the Emperor than any other province. There was no service more convenient for the offspring of the Altdorf aristocracy than a knightly order established within their very walls, and there was no order more prestigious for the status-obsessed nobles than the personal guard of the Emperor. So Siebrecht should not have been surprised that, once the novices were all together, fully half of them were Reiklanders and had ostentatiously gathered in a tight-knit group to the exclusion of the rest.

  Siebrecht instead regarded the remaining novices, those left standing at the fringes of the Reiklander huddle. The “Provincials”, as the Reiklanders were already referring to them. None of them were speaking; instead, they eyed each other warily. All of them were armed, and most kept their hands near their weapons. They had all come from quite a distance.

  One of them, who carried a small mallet as well as a sword, was an Ostermarker; Siebrecht could tell by the severe expression on his face as much as by the darker hue of his skin. The next was an Averlander, his clothes ribboned with the province’s colours of yellow and black. Most recognisable of all was a Nordlander who stood half a head taller than even the burly Middenlander beside him. He carried not one, but three heavy blades at his belt and had a round shield strapped to his back.

  So these, then, were to be his companions. Siebrecht sighed. Savages and inbreds from every backwater the Empire possessed. It had been too much to hope that he might see another from Nuln, anyone he might know already. As he searched around, though, one of the other Provincials stood out, for he was regarding the Reiklanders with exactly the same contempt that Siebrecht himself felt. A good enough place to start.

  Siebrecht watched him for a moment as the novice shifted his intense stare from the Reiklanders to the others. Siebrecht caught his eye and the two warriors held each other’s gaze for a moment. One of them would have to make the first move, and in such situations Siebrecht prided himself that the first move would always be his.

  He crossed the distance between them. Unlike the rest, this novice’s attire was more restrained, and did not scream his origins as the other novices’ had, but as Siebrecht stuck out his hand he noticed the golden glint of a small talisman around the other man’s neck shaped like a comet.

  “Siebrecht von Matz,” Siebrecht introduced himself. “You are from Talabheim?” he said, with confidence.

  The Talabheim novice glanced down at the proffered hand and then looked back up at Siebrecht. If he had been put off by Siebrecht’s hearty salutation, he did not show it.

  “That’s right,” the novice replied, gripping Siebrecht’s hand with equal force, “Gunther von Krieglitz.”

  Krieglitz’s eyes quickly flicked down Siebrecht’s attire. “How was your journey from Nuln?”

  Siebrecht flashed a smile. This Krieglitz was quick.

  “Not long enough to this destination,” he replied, then leaned in closer. “After we are done here, I need to find a tavern and get a drink. You coming?”

  Siebrecht waited, expressing an air of innate confidence he did not feel, while Krieglitz considered for a moment. These first encounters, the first alliances you formed within a new group, they marked you for the rest of your time. It dictated the friends you would make, the opportunities you would have, the kind of life that might be yours.

  “All right,” Krieglitz replied, “but let us get the Nordlander along as well.”

  Krieglitz took Siebrecht’s shoulder and guided him towards the big northerner.

  “No one’s going to stop us with him beside us,” Krieglitz concluded.

  Siebrecht smiled again. He liked the man already.

  Krieglitz in fact invited the rest of the Provincials as well.

  “It’s the Reiksguard way, you know. Everything in big regiments,” he told Siebrecht.

  A
nd the others, not wishing to be left with the Reiklanders, all agreed. Brother Verrakker returned to show them where their belongings might be stored, apologising as he hobbled along that the knight commander had not also been available to greet them. Commander Sternberg, he explained, had just departed to join the order on the road to the north, as had Marshal Helborg himself.

  At that, one of the Reiklanders spoke up.

  “If the order are heading to the war, then surely so should we. We have seen battle before.”

  “Oh, you may go as soon as you wish, Novice Falkenhayn,” Verrakker replied. “But if you wish to go as one of the Reiksguard then you will have to wait until you have proven yourself worthy of the order first.”

  Siebrecht warmed to Verrakker. He was a crippled warrior whose only role now was to play nursemaid to arrogant novices, but he still had some steel to him.

  Falkenhayn stayed silent in a bad humour. Siebrecht took a moment to inspect the Reiklander. “Falkenhayn”, Siebrecht knew it to be the name of a powerful family, and this novice obviously enjoyed that power. He had even trimmed his sideburns sharply across his cheek to resemble the markings of a bird of prey. Siebrecht noticed that the other Reiklanders were already looking to him as their leader. All except Delmar, who did not appear at home even amongst his own kind.

  Once the novices’ belongings were stored, Verrakker showed them to their sleeping quarters and then left them to their own devices. As soon as he had gone, the Reiklanders left as a group to explore the citadel further. Siebrecht nodded to Krieglitz, and the Provincials went back to the white gate and brazenly strode out into the city.

  The Nordlander introduced himself as Theodericsson Gausser, and Siebrecht and Krieglitz realised that they had been joined by the grandson of the current elector count. Unlike Krieglitz, who was the eldest son of a younger branch of the noble family of Talabheim, and Siebrecht himself, whose own family had little influence in Nuln’s affairs, Gausser’s grandfather was one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Gausser himself was reluctant to speak of his connection or much of anything else for that matter.

  “Your grandfather is a great man,” Siebrecht ventured. If by great, Siebrecht considered, one meant a rapacious land-grabber for whom dominion over half the Empire would be insufficient.

  Gausser merely grunted.

  Siebrecht eyed their surroundings carefully again. Altdorf was not short of publicans or taverns, but Siebrecht had instinctively guided the novices away from the finer establishments and towards the poorer quarter. The tavern he had decided upon was no den, but it was rough enough to have some life to it. It reminded him of the drinking spots that his band of bored noble sons had frequented back in Nuln. In any case, Siebrecht reasoned, the swords the novices wore on their belts kept them safe from the casual violence of the tavern’s other patrons. It was better than out on the street where they had been assailed by legions of beggars: men and women, aged and young, whose desperation overruled their fear.

  Once they were seated, however, Siebrecht found easy banter between the novices in short supply. The Averlander, Alptraum, watched everything but had little to say of his own; and the Middenlander, Straber, and the Ostermarker, Bohdan, had gone to the bar with some complaint about the liquor. Weisshuber at least offered to buy the drinks, even if he did stare at everything as though he was a newborn.

  “Are you sure we should have left?” the wide-eyed Stirlander, Weisshuber, piped up. “No one said we could leave.”

  “No one said we had to stay either,” Siebrecht blithely replied.

  “If you’re so concerned, Weisshuber,” Krieglitz said, “then head back now.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty, Gunther,” Siebrecht intervened. “As long as our new friend wishes to enjoy the city, and has coin and a generous spirit, then he should stay. We will not be missed before the evening service.”

  “It is a wondrous city,” Weisshuber continued, “I have never seen the capital before today. It is so alive.”

  Siebrecht and Krieglitz shared a glance.

  “Alive like a rat’s nest.” Siebrecht made a dismissive noise. “It is nothing to Nuln. You wish to see beauty then see Nuln, my friend. Do not forget, Nuln was the capital of the Empire for more than a century, before Altdorf.”

  “And Talabheim before that,” Krieglitz said. Siebrecht raised a sceptical eyebrow at his fellow novice. “In its own way,” Krieglitz admitted.

  “Talabheim is a great city,” Siebrecht graciously conceded.

  “It is strong,” Gausser stated. “That is good.”

  “Thick walls,” Alptraum murmured, staring off through the window at the spires of Altdorf, “but full of paper and lawyers.”

  Krieglitz scowled. “At least we have law. Is there any law in Averland these days?”

  “We have lawyers,” Alptraum said. “Saw a lawyer once.”

  “Only the one?”

  “It would have been more… but the rest of them escaped.”

  The Averlander’s strange comment hung over the table for a moment.

  “Taal’s teeth.” Krieglitz said in disbelief. “I would never have expected to meet someone like you here.” Siebrecht chortled, spilling some of his wine. Krieglitz continued, “Nor one like you either, Novice Matz.” This time the touch of concern was clear in his voice.

  “I tell you, my friend,” Siebrecht said, wiping the spilt wine from his face with his sleeve, “I did not expect to meet me here either.”

  “I did not expect to see you here, old friend,” Falkenhayn said to Delmar. “How many years has it been?”

  “A fair few,” Delmar replied. “I could not come to the city…”

  “…and I would never be seen in the country,” Falkenhayn laughed, and led the way on. He seemed quite familiar with the chapter house, and Delmar remembered that Falkenhayn’s father had been a knight of the Reiksguard as well.

  Falkenhayn had shown them the Grand Hall first, which, as its name implied, was very grand indeed. Tables long enough to seat a hundred at a time stretched down its length. Stone arches criss-crossed its ceiling. Shafts of light shone through lined windows and warmed the rich, dark, oak-panelled walls. It was also currently very empty. Aside from the novices, there were scarce half a dozen knights taking their afternoon meal.

  “Wait, my brothers, ’til we see it full with the whole order,” Falkenhayn said to the others. “It is a sight to be seen.”

  Most of the knights who were present were accompanied by one of the order sergeants to aid them. Delmar was surprised to see them here, aiding the crippled, but apparently their duties extended far beyond merely protecting the chapter house’s walls. The knights themselves had a great need of aid, for they had such a diverse range of injuries as to be more likely patients in Shallya’s wards.

  They were clustered near the far end of the hall, close to the top table where places were always reserved for the Reiksmarshal and the order’s senior officers. Behind the top table was displayed a tapestry depicting Sigmar granting the land of the Empire to the tribal chieftains who would become the first Imperial counts. And above that were displayed the personal coats of arms of each of the grand masters of the order who had served to date. Delmar saw Kurt Helborg’s own heraldry in the eighth position along.

  At the opposite end, where the novices had filed in, there was another display of shields. These were far smaller, though, for there were dozens, hundreds of them. It was a wall of remembrance, Delmar realised, and there, a foot or so above his head, hung the shield of his father.

  “Come on, brother, let’s move on,” Falkenhayn told Delmar in a hushed voice, and he started to lead him outside.

  “Come on, Proktor,” Falkenhayn said, louder, to the other Reiklander who had stayed behind, staring at the wall.

  Outside, Delmar released his breath. He was no stripling youth anymore, he had fought, killed, commanded others in battle. His father had gone from his life long ago, and Delmar had thought he had reconciled himself to tha
t loss. Still it felt strange to be walking these corridors that his father had walked, seeing the traces of his existence that still lingered here.

  The courtyard beyond the Grand Hall opened up into a wide expanse of empty ground. After seeing so many buildings crammed atop each other, Delmar was surprised to see open space left untouched.

  “It is the practice field,” Falkenhayn answered. “Where the novices train, the knights as well, when they are here.” Falkenhayn’s tone was tinged with disappointment that the order was on the march without them.

  The other Reiklander novices stretched their legs around the field. The day’s events and the anticipation of the formal induction tomorrow had got their blood up, and they began to spar with each other.

  Watching with Falkenhayn from the side, Delmar saw how companionable the other novices were with each other.

  “It seems you are all old friends already,” he said.

  “We are,” Falkenhayn replied. “We have all been serving in the pistolkorps together this past year.”

  “Of course,” Delmar said quietly.

  “Proktor there, you remember Proktor,” Falkenhayn continued, indicating the slightest of the novices. “He and I enlisted together.”

  Delmar nodded. Proktor’s family and Falkenhayn’s were related and, throughout their youth together, he had ever been Falkenhayn’s shadow.

  “Harver and Breigh were already there,” Falkenhayn said, pointing out the two novices wrestling with each other. “And Hardenburg came a few months after. You don’t have any sisters, do you, Reinhardt? I should keep them away from Hardenburg if you do.”

  Delmar looked at the pleasant-faced young man as he adjudicated over the other novices’ bout.

  “No, no sisters or brothers.”

  “Ah, Reinhardt,” Falkenhayn said, “do not doubt that you have brothers now.” Falkenhayn looked out to the other novices, “Doesn’t he, Falcons!”

  The Reiklanders looked up from their sport.