[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard

by Richard Williams - (ebook by Undead)

  “They are with the army as well.”

  “Not all of them.”

  This flat refutation provoked Helborg, already hot and tired. “Do not question my knowledge of the positioning of the Empire’s troops.”

  “I do not question your knowledge,” Walfen’s emphasis was slight but noticeable, “indeed, I rely upon it. I know that you have a sound strategic mind and therefore would not strip our southern provinces entirely of their defences. And I also know that that is where you still send their pay. So, if we may proceed on the basis that there are still men in those garrisons?”

  But Kurt Helborg was not to be so easily outflanked. “There are men left there, but very few. Only enough to ensure that when this current crisis is past, we still have defences in place to ensure we can protect that border. They are not to be frittered away on an ill-judged expedition.”

  “They should not be needed to fight, Reiksmarshal, merely to help recruitment.”

  “Recruitment of whom?”

  “There are still men in Averland. Men able to carry a halberd and march to a drum. The state troops are with the army, that’s true, but there are still men there able to fight.”

  “Yes, in case of invasion. In case their towns and homes are threatened.”

  “If Karak Angazhar is not relieved then that is exactly what will happen.”

  “You may convince us here of that,” Helborg intoned, “but words will not convince the aldermen of Averheim, Streissen or Heideck to allow us to raise their militias, and there is no Elector Count of Averland to aid you.”

  * * *

  Walfen was ready to play his hand.

  “Which is why we will need to send one regiment, but only one regiment. But it must be a regiment whose mere presence will inspire the militias to form, who will convince the aldermen of the towns of Averland of the great importance of this expedition to the Empire, that the eyes of the Emperor himself are upon them. And it must be a regiment which is not needed in the north, and indeed has already returned to the city.”

  His meaning was clear even to Siebrecht.

  “You mean the Reiksguard,” Helborg said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “They have only just returned.”

  “I am sure they will not be reluctant to fulfil their duty and to march again to war.”

  “Soldiers should always be reluctant to march to war, baron. It is amateurs who are eager for it.”

  Siebrecht had to imagine the look of distaste and contempt Helborg gave Walfen at that moment. Then someone was talking, but they were quiet and he could not make out their voice. It must be the Emperor, he realised, giving his final verdict on the matter.

  “As you command, my lord,” Helborg finally said, “I will ensure the necessary arrangements are made as quickly as possible.”

  The Graf von Falkenhayn did not care for celebratory balls; in his younger days he had used the family ballroom for fencing instruction, and to house his model recreations of the epic battles from the history of the Empire. That usage, however, changed when he married; his wife, the Gravine von Falkenhayn, cared for balls very much. And he cared for her. So out went the swords, armour, miniatures and scenery, and the gravine set to work to make the room a suitable location for her and the graf to celebrate the events of the season. Their ballroom could not compete in size with the grand ballroom of the Imperial Palace, but that did not prevent her from challenging her rival in every other respect. The walls were festooned with golden ornaments and silver mirrors. On the ceiling was an epic mural of the founding of Altdorf, and over each arch, a gilded falcon stood with its wings outstretched. She made the room fit indeed, and this evening there were several hundred of her closest friends there to admire it. For her son, Franz, had been accepted into the Reiksguard and there was absolutely no one of her acquaintance who should not have the opportunity to attend and congratulate her personally.

  Everywhere that Siebrecht looked he saw young noblemen and women talking, dancing, drinking and enjoying themselves. Everywhere except right beside him.

  “I do not understand why we came.” Bohdan’s disaffection caused his heavy Ostermark accent to sound all the harsher.

  Beside them, Gausser grunted. His attention was fixed on the delicate wine saucer he held between his big fingers and trying not to snap it in two.

  “It’s a ball. We were invited,” Siebrecht reminded them cheerfully, trying to raise their spirits and failing.

  “And what are we to the Gravine von Falkenhayn that she should invite us, I wonder?” Bohdan mistrusted any large gathering of nobility. There were too many Ostermarker tales of such evenings where, at the height of the festivities, the outside doors were locked and the hosts, daemons in human form, began a far bloodier feast. He had not yet spotted the wife of the Graf von Falkenhayn, but he was not going to relax his guard an instant.

  “Listen,” Siebrecht explained again, “Falkenhayn wanted his precious Falcons along, of course, but with the delegation from Averland as the guests of honour, the gravine wanted Alptraum here, and Alptraum wanted us, his fellow vigil-brothers, along so he did not have to spend the whole evening with the Reiklanders.”

  Alptraum need not have worried, Siebrecht reflected, for as soon as the young knight had arrived he had been swooped upon by the Averland nobles, each eager to update him with news of the latest political manoeuvrings in the province and enroll him in their cause. Behind the scenes in the leaderless province, the families were fighting tooth and nail for every advantage and now that Alptraum was a knight of the Reiksguard, he had become a far more significant piece on their game board.

  Gausser grunted again. Bohdan was staring suspiciously at an elderly baroness with pale, withered skin and sunken cheeks who was seated nearby. He glared at her hard until she, rather unsettled, got shakily to her feet and moved away.

  Siebrecht rolled his eyes at his comrades’ behaviour and, despite his original intention, decided that all their evenings would be best served if he and they parted company. As the next group of revellers swung past, he slipped away and made for the opposite corner of the ballroom. He sashayed around the dancers in the centre of the room, assessing the event with an experienced eye. Ostentatious simplicity was the fashion for the season, Altdorf society’s acknowledgement of the deprivation that everyone else in the Empire suffered. The ladies were garbed in simple lines which were all the more expensive to tailor, while the noblemen wore military uniforms, at least all of them who could lay claim to one. The rest made do with clothes cut in a similar fashion. Despite the myriad regimentals on display, Siebrecht was pleased that his own Reiksguard uniform still caught the eye of many of the young ladies waiting for young men to ask them to dance.

  Young men, his treacherous mind added, who would otherwise be present if they had not been left behind on the plains of Middenland. Siebrecht quashed the thought instantly; he had had precious few chances of enjoying such occasions since his arrival in Altdorf and he was not going to ruin this one with useless lamentation.

  He took a moment’s casual repose beside the sculpture of a falcon about to take flight. He had spotted the Reiklanders on his journey: Falkenhayn was holding court as usual to anyone who would listen, his faithful Proktor was by his side ready to confirm all his boasts, Delmar was looking uncomfortable and awkward, and the fair-faced Hardenburg was heavily engaged with a string of soppy-eyed girls. Hardenburg, Siebrecht decided, had the right idea and he was about to introduce himself to a promising noble daughter dallying nearby when another familiar face caused him to forget his original purpose entirely. “Uncle?”

  Herr von Matz turned, glass in hand, and exclaimed: “Siebrecht, my boy!”

  He excused himself from his conversation and unsteadily navigated a path to his nephew.

  “Uncle?” Siebrecht asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Herr von Matz looked at him, slightly dazed. “It is a festivity, is it not? So I am being festive!” he replied, taking another
gulp of his drink.

  “I cannot believe it. Are you drunk?”

  With his free hand, his uncle grabbed him by the shoulder and leaned in close. Siebrecht, no lightweight himself, fair recoiled from the stink of wine emanating from him.

  “Not at all, my dear boy,” Herr von Matz whispered, quickly and crisply, all trace of intoxication gone. “But one finds that drinkers and sots are far more loose-tongued around their own kind than those who maintain a sober disposition, and so one must, alas, adopt all the pretence with none of the pleasure.”

  “Your stench is certainly convincing,” Siebrecht muttered, trying not to breathe through his nose.

  “Ah, a necessary evil, and the laundry a necessary expense. But what of you? You should be enjoying yourself, a young warrior off to war and all that.”

  “You heard of that? We only learned of it today!”

  “Heard of it? I predicted it, did I not? Karak Angazhar!”

  “Aye, uncle, so you did,” Siebrecht acknowledged. “Does your network of informants now extend to knowing the Emperor’s own mind before he does?”

  Herr von Matz chortled. “Nothing of the kind, Siebrecht. There was some inside knowledge, yes, but the rest was merely the comprehensive application of thought and an understanding of the unspoken reasons.”

  Siebrecht glanced away at that.

  “Ah, I see your mind has begun to work like that as well,” Herr von Matz continued. “It is not a pleasant path. You will find no heroes or villains upon it, merely fellow travellers like myself. So, Karak Angazhar! You will be marching the day after tomorrow, up alongside the River Reik, I imagine, riding as quickly as you can. Allowing your supplies to be brought up by boat. Recruit what militia you can along the way and then up into the mountains.”

  “Taal’s teeth, uncle. Did you have a spy in the chapter house today?” Every detail his uncle had told him was exactly the same as the Reiksmarshal had dictated to the assembled order earlier that day.

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, bemused.

  “Who?”

  “You!”

  Siebrecht was taken aback. “Me? I did not tell you a thing.”

  “That is because you are not a very good spy! Not yet, at least.” Herr von Matz scoffed. “You think I need a spy in the chapter house to know the Reiksguard are preparing to leave? You can tell simply by watching the place through the gate! You think the sudden burst of feverish labour that heralds the order’s departure goes unnoticed? That your suppliers can magic their goods into your store houses without sending urgent messages around the city to gather what they can?”

  Another fact clicked into place in Siebrecht’s mind. “Our suppliers. The guildmarks?”

  Herr von Matz smiled encouragingly at his nephew as one would at a puppy who has learnt his first trick.

  “That might tell you that we were leaving, perhaps even when we would depart. But not the route we would take, nor that we would be raising troops along the way.”

  “Both eminently deducible, my boy. But I will admit that I have had help besides my inference in this matter. The Reiksmarshal did tell you that you would be joined by some Averland worthies who had arrived in the city and would be accompanying you to aid in raising the troops.”

  “Yes, as soon as the news went out the gravine tracked them down and made them all the guests of honour tonight,” Siebrecht replied innocently, but his thoughts were catching up with him.

  “Well? You did ask what I was doing here?” Herr von Matz reached into his jacket and brought out a feather dyed yellow and black, the colours of Averland.

  “You’re part of the Averland delegation?” Siebrecht was astonished.

  “Correct, and we were given the path of your march, I mean our march, at the same time as you were.”

  “What possible reason would they have to…? You’re not even from Averland.”

  Herr von Matz was affronted. “I will have you know that I am well known in Averland.”

  “I imagine that you are well known in many places.” Siebrecht contained his sarcasm.

  “Indeed,” his uncle replied, pleased at himself as much as his nephew. “It will be pleasant to spend more time with you,” Herr von Matz continued. “And now our subsequent meeting is established I will allow you to get on and enjoy the evening.”

  Siebrecht merely nodded as his uncle turned away.

  “One last thing,” Herr von Matz said, turning back. “A question I perhaps should have asked you before. Karak Angazhar.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you going?”

  “The Reiksmarshal said…” Siebrecht recollected, “that it is the old alliance. They are attacked in Barak Varr and Karak Hirn, and after aiding us in the north they cannot mount an expedition of their own.”

  “Hmmm… that was what you were told. Why do you think you are going?”

  Siebrecht considered it. “The trading routes. If Karak Angazhar should fall then so would Black Fire Pass and our trading routes with the High King would be cut. Trade we desperately need if we are to rebuild after this war.”

  “Good… but let me ask again. Why are you going?”

  Now Siebrecht knew what his uncle was driving at. “To serve well. Make my name. So that I will have the privilege to restore our family’s fortunes.”

  “And…?” Herr von Matz prompted him. “Resist the urge to plunge your breast onto the enemy’s sword.”

  “Aye,” Siebrecht replied with good humour. “And do not forget it.”

  Siebrecht wandered back through the white gate. The sergeants there regarded him warily, and he waved at them happily. They would not trouble him tonight, not returning from the Gravine von Falkenhayn’s illustrious ball and with a campaign the day after tomorrow. Siebrecht had cheer in his heart. In spite of his uncle’s appearance, he had enjoyed himself immensely, and was happily on the other side of the cup. He had sorely missed such evenings since coming to Altdorf.

  He made his way into the buildings and threaded his way through the corridors for several minutes before he realised that he was heading back to the novices’ dormitory. Since he and his brothers had become full brother-knights, their belongings had been taken from the novices’ quarters and into the other wing. He dutifully turned around and tried to find his way to his bed.

  On his travels he passed the arming room, and a light inside caught his eye. A single candle flame illuminated the figure inside. It was Krieglitz. The novice was in the middle of strapping himself into armour. It was not the ceremonial plate that they wore as sentries at the palace, it was a full suit of plate. What a Reiksguard knight wore when he went to war.

  “Gunther?”

  Krieglitz looked up.

  “Ah, it’s you. Help me on with this, Siebrecht, will you?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Krieglitz raised the half-fastened elbow cowter. “What does it look like?”

  His smile was there, but it was not the generous expression with which Siebrecht was familiar. It was dark. Bitter.

  “Gunther,” he said again slower, “what are you doing?”

  Krieglitz caught the edge in Siebrecht’s voice and stopped tying the piece of armour.

  “What are you saying, Siebrecht? You can’t be thinking that I would…”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Siebrecht snapped back, his mind quickly clear again. “You vanish for days. No one sees you. There are all these stories…”

  “Stories?” Krieglitz chuckled. “I would have taken that big lug Gausser to be the gullible one, not you, my friend.”

  “Then tell me, what is the truth?” Siebrecht took his brother’s arm. “All I hear of is accusations and trials.”

  “Yes, my family are having difficulties.” Krieglitz brushed him away. “But these allegations, they are all political. How can a son of Nuln, of all people, not recognise politics when he sees it?”

  “But the witch hunters are involved, Gunther. If the witch hunters are involved,
then this is above politics.”

  “Ah, enough gold will turn a witch hunter’s head as easily as any other man’s,” he dismissed, but without conviction. “Another one came this morning.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said,” Krieglitz mocked, “that there was evidence enough that my family… my father… has a taint.” He spat the last word.

  Siebrecht felt his stomach drop. The witch hunters were strange men, rarely wanted, never liked, but they would pursue any hint of mortal corruption without restraint.

  Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Krieglitz’s eyes were fixed on the flame of the slowly burning candle.

  “What did the constable say?” Siebrecht eventually asked.

  “He told the witch hunter… that the order has jurisdiction over the order’s affairs. But that as I was not yet a brother of the order…” Krieglitz trailed off. Then he looked away from the candle and straight at Siebrecht. “I am to return home, and there to share my family’s fate.”

  “I’m certain you will defend your name. There can be nothing to these charges, but smoke.”

  “Aye, smoke, yes.” Krieglitz drifted off again. Siebrecht saw his friend needed help.

  “Shouldn’t you be packing then? If you are going home?” He wanted to get Krieglitz out of this dark place.

  “It’s all being taken care of. They told me I need not concern myself.” Krieglitz looked at the cowter afresh. “I came down here… I wanted to know what it was to wear it all. I wanted to feel what it was like; before I left.”

  “You’ll be back soon enough,” Siebrecht said, knowing he could only offer cold comfort. “A crown of mine says you’ll be back before the month is out.”

  “Hah, I’ll take that bet. Still, I would like to know now. Help me on with this, my friend.” Siebrecht did so, and soon Krieglitz stood in the full regalia of a Reiksguard knight.

  “How does it feel?” Siebrecht asked.

  “Good. It’s light. The Reiklanders were right: it is lighter than the practice plate.” Krieglitz inspected himself. “Do you remember, Siebrecht, when Master Lehrer taught us the meaning of every single piece of this armour?”