“I went to the king before my next watch and retold what I had found. I asked him which of these dates he thought was when the siege had begun. He called his oldest counsellor forwards, who placed before him a stone engraved. It was a thousand years old, and it was a copy of records long before that. The king pointed at a single line thereon, the journal of a day when our ancient kingdom was still young. It said that on this day was the kingdom of Karak Angazhar laid siege by the tribes of the grobi.
“To my father, to his counsellors, to our ancestors, that was the first day of the grobi’s siege. And it will continue until the last drop of blood falls upon our stone, whether it be theirs or ours.”
—Extract from the personal ledger of
Ung Gramsson, son of Gramrik,
King of Karak Angazhar
CHAPTER EIGHT
DANSIG
The foot of the Black Mountains
The Nedrigfluss, border of Averland and
the dwarf kingdom of Karak Angazhar
Autumn 2522 IC
“Gausser! Alptraum! Bohdan! Come in!” Siebrecht shouted, standing barefoot in the shallows on the bank of the Nedrigfluss. His three brothers crouched sceptically on the bank.
“Isn’t that glacier water?” Alptraum asked.
“It’s invigorating,” Siebrecht replied. “What’s this? Three brother-knights of the Reiksguard afraid of a little water?”
Alptraum, warily, began to take off his boots. Gausser and Bohdan stood aloft.
“He is clearly lying,” Bohdan stated flatly.
“That is certain,” Gausser replied.
Siebrecht rolled his eyes. “How Nordland and Ostermark must be proud of their native sons, less courageous than two soft southerners.”
Gausser shrugged and shook off his boots. Bohdan followed him. The three of them slid down the bank and splashed into the water together.
“It’s freezing!” Alptraum cried, shooting straight back out again and scaling the bank. Siebrecht burst out into great peals of laughter as he fled.
“How can you stand it?” Alptraum asked, sitting on the bank, rubbing his feet warm again.
“Simple! My feet are already numb,” Siebrecht replied. He pulled one of them out of the water for Alptraum to inspect and there was a definite bluish tinge.
“And people say that Averlanders are mad,” Alptraum shot back.
Siebrecht laughed again and clumsily hauled himself out. These past three weeks had been better than he had ever hoped. They rode hard the whole day long, across the magnificent plains of Averland, and at night the boats came up the Reik with food and bedding for them all.
When they had left Altdorf, Siebrecht had been sunk in a misery from which his brothers did not think he would emerge. But his mood had risen with each step he took away. By the time they passed his home of Nuln he was restored completely, and he had regaled his brothers with tales of his adventures in the city’s backstreets. As they drew closer to the Black Mountains, they began to break their journey at the towns along the way so that the inhabitants might admire them and join the militias which were marching behind.
Now they had arrived at the border and here the river boats landed armour, barding, rations for both men and horses, camp equipment, even a few field cannon brought from Nuln. Everything too heavy to bring quickly by road, the Reiksmarshal had brought speedily up the river. It was incredible. Siebrecht had served as a pistolier attached to the Wissenland militia before he joined the Reiksguard; in fact he still carried that same pistol, though as a knight he was not supposed to have it. He had seen the Wissenland militia on the march. Six hundred men, trudging ten, fifteen miles a day. Never enough shelter, never enough food. But the Reiksguard, they had gone twice as fast, sometimes more, and done it in comfort. Three weeks since leaving Altdorf at the centre of the Empire, the order was gathered on the southern border, ready to fight.
The feeling returned to Siebrecht’s feet and he sat to pull his boots on. Only then did he realise that Gausser and Bohdan had not followed him out of the river. The two of them were still standing in the shallows; both of them had their arms folded as though perfectly willing to stand there until the Nedrigfluss dried up.
“That Nulner says this is cold,” Bohdan scoffed. “He has never felt the chill of rivers that run from the Worlds Edge Mountains.”
“That is true,” Gausser replied, “but one does not know cold until one has swum in the Sea of Claws.”
“Indeed,” Bohdan conceded, “but the Sea of Claws is nothing compared to the frozen lakes of Kislev.”
Siebrecht shook his head and left the two of them to another of their self-imposed endurance trials. They had been competing against each other ever since Altdorf, and if the results of the past were repeated there would be no quick winner.
Beside Siebrecht, Alptraum started and pointed north. “Another militia’s coming in,” he said. “How many men do you think?”
“Let’s go and take a look at them.”
Siebrecht and Alptraum wandered away from the river, back through the makeshift Empire camp. As well as the order’s knights and sergeants, there were nearly a thousand militiamen who had arrived already from towns such as Heideck, Grenzstadt, Loningbruck and Streissen. This new militia, though, came from further afield.
“It’s Averheim! It’s Averheim!” Alptraum shouted and broke into a trot to greet them.
Siebrecht could not quite fathom it: Alptraum, who had been so withdrawn in Altdorf, had come into his own as soon as they crossed into Averland. In every town they stopped, he introduced himself to those he met. When the militias arrived in camp, he did the same, as though he could learn the name of every single militiaman who was to march with the army. He was doing it again now, right before Siebrecht’s eyes, shaking the hands of each man in the militia, asking for all the latest news from Averheim and listening intently to what they said.
The only Averlander in the army that Alptraum had not approached was the commander of the militias, the Graf von Leitdorf. The graf had set his pavilion in the centre of the camp and Siebrecht had noticed that Alptraum would take a significant detour rather than walk past its entrance. The militia captains, who all reported to the graf, also kept a wary distance from Alptraum, as though any association with him might tar them in the eyes of their own commander.
Siebrecht knew the Leitdorf and Alptraum families were old rivals for the title of Elector Count of Averland. The title had been vacant for three years already and still none of the noble families had achieved ascendancy. Siebrecht was no stranger to the political struggles in Nuln and Wissenland, but they at least, after a few days’ excitement, were resolved. These Averlanders seemed in no rush to resolve anything, including who should be their lord.
Siebrecht, though, had his own distraction. Amongst the yellow and black colours of the Averheim militia, he saw Herr von Matz dismounting from his horse and, as ever, Twoswords was with him.
Herr von Matz did not join the army alone. He brought a retinue with him. He said they were his travel guards, necessary protection on the dangerous roads. Siebrecht accepted the explanation, but did not believe it. He had seen many bodyguards on the streets of Nuln and they all looked alike: big, imposing men, who could deter casual ruffians with a glance. They dressed smartly, for no noble would retain a bodyguard who looked like a vagabond. But Herr von Matz’s dishevelled rogues, to Siebrecht’s eye, looked more likely to rob a noble of his coin than defend him. Some were short, some were slight, and all of them wore clothes that looked like they had been dredged up from a cesspit. There was at least one dwarf amongst their number, most likely born and raised in Nuln for he wore an ill-fitting black tunic which aped the human fashion.
Herr von Matz never introduced any of them by name. One of them carried a pair of blades strapped in a cross on his back so Siebrecht had named him Twoswords, and Twoswords never left Herr von Matz’s side. He was a swarthy beast; he had a thick, black beard and a shaven head, so that from a di
stance his face appeared almost upside down. Even with his eye for detail, Siebrecht could not discern the man’s origins; his features had everything from Estalia to Kislev about them, and Siebrecht had never heard him talk so there was no accent to decipher.
Herr von Matz waved at his nephew, but did not walk over. Instead, his uncle headed straight for the graf’s pavilion. Siebrecht left Alptraum, who was still engaged with the militiamen, and headed back to the river. He had seen boats being prepared to ferry the first knights across the stretch of water where the Nedrigfluss flowed into the Reik, and he did not want to miss the landing on the western bank.
The boats had just pushed off when Siebrecht arrived. The knights onboard anticipated danger, but did not wish to wear full armour in case the boat capsized. Instead they carried large shields and wore only their breastplates. The boats were also heavily manned by sergeants carrying their crossbows. Siebrecht doubted whether they could shoot accurately from a moving river boat, but they looked fierce enough. Falkenhayn and the other Reiklanders stood close to Preceptor Jungingen. Their squadron had been assigned to Jungingen’s banner for the campaign, and Falkenhayn missed no chance to attend upon the preceptor. Delmar stood on his own. Siebrecht stood apart from the both of them, not wishing to be associated with either.
Delmar had annoyed Siebrecht. Not by anything he had said or done, rather by what he had not done. After the aborted duel, Falkenhayn had cut his ties to Delmar and told his two remaining Falcons to do the same. Siebrecht had hoped that Delmar would challenge him, that the Reiklanders would split between the two. Instead, Delmar had kept himself apart from his former friends, and the Reiklanders had fallen into line with Falkenhayn. Delmar was pushed away. And he had shown no interest in the Provincials. Instead, on the road from Altdorf, whatever cloud had lifted from Siebrecht had gathered over him.
Siebrecht preferred not to think on Delmar too much. He associated him, and his patron Griesmeyer, with too many ill memories. While Siebrecht was not proud of his own behaviour, he felt no desire to make amends. Instead, as Gausser, Bohdan and Alptraum arrived by his side, he turned his attention back to the boats on the river. Beyond them, the Black Mountains loomed, the closer hills covered with dense forest, the further peaks of grey stone with touches of snow. But it was not those for which the Black Mountains were so named; instead it was the dark clouds that were packed overhead. Some were formed in the shape of great anvils, others clumped and tumbled down like avalanches, a few rose as horrific beasts ready to swallow any who dared travel beneath them. The sunny pastures of Averland were behind them, and before them was no realm intended for man.
Kurt Helborg watched the first boat land safely on the western bank of the Reik and disgorge the knights it carried, then the second, then the third. Satisfied, he left the crossing to Knight Commander Sternberg and returned to his tent where the war council was gathering.
Sigmar grant him strength, but he was tired of this. Tired of marching, tired of campaigns, tired of loss. The burden of his office of the Marshal of the Empire had never been so great as it had been this year. Ever since he had returned from Middenheim, he had begun to wonder what his life would be like without the mantle of Reiksmarshal upon him. What a normal day might be if he did not hold the fates of thousands of men in his hand.
Helborg reached the entrance to his tent. There stood Griesmeyer, awaiting his return and deep in thought. For all their years of friendship, Helborg had never been able to read his comrade the way he could so many others. Perhaps that was, perversely, why he valued his advice so highly.
“How is the council today?” Helborg asked.
Griesmeyer’s face relaxed. “They will be all the better for your intervention, Marshal.”
“And the graf?”
“Better than yesterday,” Griesmeyer replied. “He has brought a new militia captain with him.”
Helborg’s face darkened. Graf von Leitdorf had tried to bring two dozen of his staff and captains to the first council and Helborg had had to have undiplomatic words with him afterwards in order to trim his retinue down.
“You may approve of this one, though,” Griesmeyer said.
“Who is he?”
“He is of no title. His name’s Ludwig Voll of the bergjaegers. He has just arrived.”
Helborg’s tone lifted at that. “Does he bring men with him?”
“I do not know, Marshal.”
“Then let us find out.” Helborg quickly stroked his finger across his bushy moustache, pulled back the tent flap and led the way inside.
“Ah, Marshal Helborg…” Graf von Leitdorf declared, looking up from his cluster of staff.
Helborg waited a moment for Leitdorf to finish that sentence, to see if he would dare chide the Marshal of the Empire. Leitdorf thought better of it and stayed silent. Ever since Helborg had become Reiksmarshal, the Leitdorfs of Averland had been a constant source of difficulty. The last head of their family, Marius Leitdorf, the Elector Count of Averland, known popularly as “the Mad”, had been infamous for his erratic behaviour; his moods had been as fickle as an infant’s, swinging from contentment to rage to embittered misanthropy in a heartbeat. Helborg could tolerate the existence of such individuals for the most part, so long as he was not obliged to interact with them in any way; but to have such a capricious mind in a position to raise and command armies was beyond his sufferance. It was with mixed feelings indeed that Helborg had heard of Marius’ death, valiant as it had been.
Helborg had every expectation that this newly elevated scion of that family, Graf von Leitdorf, would be the same as his predecessor. For all the control that the graf displayed in his public appearance, Helborg could see in the hawkish face and those pinched eyes that same madness lurking within, waiting for its moment to emerge.
“Graf von Leitdorf,” Helborg said simply, “my thanks for your attendance.”
Leitdorf contented himself with a simple incline of the head as acknowledgement. Helborg nodded at the officers of the order present, Sub-Marshal Zollner and the senior preceptor, Osterna. He then looked pointedly at the one man he did not recognise.
“Would you introduce yourself, sir?”
Ludwig Voll was a small, rangy man. He wore furs and coarse cloth whilst every other at the council wore armour and silks. Helborg could see that he was somewhat cowed; he was little more than a peasant and he was in the company of lords and the great general of the Empire.
“My name is…” he began, stumbling a little over his words, “that is, ah, I am Jaeger Ludwig Voll of the bergjaegers.”
“The bergjaegers have a great reputation, Jaeger Voll. I am pleased to see that you have responded to the Emperor’s call. How many men have you brought to join us?”
“Well, there’s just myself… I’ve none with me, your lordship,” Voll began. “I thought it best to see how many you needed and then send for them, rather than…” The jaeger’s voice trailed off as he felt the atmosphere in the tent chill. The Reiksmarshal was not impressed.
“How many can you summon?” Helborg asked.
Jaeger Voll, to his credit, did not collapse before the Reiksmarshal’s fierce gaze as others had. “Near two hundred, or thereabouts,” he replied quickly.
“Then summon them all. Have them join us by the end of tomorrow.”
“All of them?” Graf von Leitdorf interjected. “Is that truly necessary? They are responsible for a great length of these mountains—”
“Yes.” Helborg cut him off. “It is entirely necessary. We do not know the forces ranged against us, but they must be considerable or they would be no challenge to the dwarfs of Karak Angazhar.”
Helborg unrolled a map over the table in the centre of the tent and addressed the council.
“The cartographers of Altdorf would have us believe these mountains are part of the Empire’s realm; they are nothing of the kind. Even before these goblins closed the river, Karak Angazhar has never welcomed visitors to these mountains. Even our traders have not been
permitted beyond here.” Helborg pointed to a peak annotated as the Litzbach. “And so, as you can see, our knowledge of the mountains and of the passes beyond is limited. We do not know where the goblins have their lairs, nor of any of Karak Angazhar’s outposts. We must consider these lands as much enemy territory as others a thousand miles from our borders. And we must move quickly through them. The months for campaigns are done and Ulric’s wintry breath will descend on us any day. This foe must be defeated before the first snows fall or, if not, we will have to rely on Karak Angazhar to save us!”
The soldiers in the tent duly registered their dismay at such a dishonour.
“We should be across the Nedrigfluss by the end of the day. Tomorrow, we march for the Litzbach. Sub-Marshal Zollner will detail the marching order.”
“Marshal,” Leitdorf interrupted again, his voice quieter in an attempt to indicate a private aside, “does this order include the militias?”
“Of course.” Helborg made no attempt to hush his own voice.
“I have not been consulted as to this…”
“You are being consulted now,” Helborg overrode him, watching for the madness to flicker. “I have no doubt it will meet with your approval. Sub-marshal, continue.”
The boat creaked ominously as Siebrecht stepped aboard. Even though the other bank was secure, he felt his heart begin to pound. He had laughed and splashed in the water before, but once they were in the middle of the river, that same water would be their death should they fall in. Even if they survived the cold, his own breastplate would drag him down. Just as Krieglitz’s had.
Siebrecht fiddled with the breastplate’s straps.
“Keep them loose, let it just hang off your shoulders,” Delmar said beside him. “Then if you fall in, it will come off.”
Surprised that Delmar had addressed him directly, Siebrecht could only nod his thanks.
[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard Page 17
