[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard

by Richard Williams - (ebook by Undead)

  “We should be ready to die for the Reik not drown in it,” Delmar continued, taking his seat.

  “Gausser,” Siebrecht whispered to the Nordlander as he stepped aboard. “Something’s very wrong.”

  “What?” Gausser replied, seeing the panic in his brother’s face.

  “I think…” Siebrecht began. “I think Reinhardt just made a joke.”

  Once the council was finally concluded, Helborg strode quickly from the tent and back to the river. There, the serious Commander Sternberg was quietly supervising the crossing.

  “Which banner is that?” Helborg asked, looking out to the knights in the middle of the river.

  “Squadrons from Jungingen’s banner,” Sternberg replied, his eyes never leaving the boats on the water.

  Helborg nodded and felt his ire lessen; the crossing at least was going to plan. He noticed that Griesmeyer had appeared beside him, politely waiting for his Reiksmarshal’s attention.

  “You were right, brother.”

  “In what way, my lord?”

  “The graf was better than yesterday.”

  Griesmeyer smiled at that. Helborg, however, did not. The graf would be a problem. With the wars of the last few years these noblemen had grown increasingly full of themselves. The Emperor’s own armies were not enough and so he had called upon his nobles ceaselessly for military aid. They knew how much they were needed.

  At some point, Helborg would have to disabuse the graf of his notion that he was in joint command, simply because his militias were half the army. Helborg should tell him that a hundred Reiksguard knights were equal to a thousand of his unruly farmhands and cattlemen. But not here, not now. Not while the militias were still within an easy march of their homes, and the salted beef they were providing to feed his knights had not yet arrived.

  “I did not think highly of this jaeger,” Helborg continued, recalling Griesmeyer’s recommendation. “I have enough amateurs to deal with in these militia captains, I do not need another. Has he left to fetch his men?”

  “I believe he has.”

  “There is that at least.”

  “Before he left, my lord, he asked me to give you this.” Griesmeyer handed Helborg the map from the meeting and unrolled it. Helborg looked at it closely: there were a slew of corrections and new annotations upon it, marking smaller peaks, passes, elevations and, most importantly, the location of the dwarfen outpost of Und Urbaz and the goblin nests around it.

  “He did not say where his knowledge came from,” Griesmeyer continued, “but he did tell me that he wished his possession of such detail should not be made known to the dwarfs. I believe that, as well as being an Averland mountain guard, Jaeger Voll has also employed himself as an illicit prospector and poacher.”

  “Well, he’s our poacher now,” Helborg smiled, still poring over the map, readjusting his plans. “Ensure he attends the next council, brother.”

  Griesmeyer was about to reply when there was a sudden commotion from the bank. A flight of black shapes had flown from the trees on the far side. For an instant they could almost be mistaken for birds. They were arrows, and they flew straight for the knights crammed on the boats.

  The boat rocked and swayed as every knight instinctively rose to his feet.

  “Shields!” someone cried, but it was far too late. The volley, aimed with time and care at the slow-moving craft, proved deadly accurate. The shafts struck, some hitting the wooden hull, some deflecting off their breastplates, and the rest piercing arms and hands, instinctively raised in protection. A chorus of pained yells rose above the boat.

  “Sit down!” the boatmaster screamed as staggering knights made the craft list beyond his control. Delmar and Siebrecht obeyed, keeping their heads low behind the shields now being raised, but the knight beside them stayed standing. Delmar took a hold of the knight’s breastplate to encourage him to sit, the boat swayed again and the knight leaned over the edge. Delmar glanced up at his face, and saw the frantic eyes and the hand gripping the arrow sticking out of his throat. The dying knight began to topple over the side and Delmar reached out to grab hold of him. Siebrecht saw Delmar jump up and rose himself to seize him.

  “Down! Down! Down!” the boatmaster cried again as the shifting weight tipped the boat even further. Delmar felt someone pull at him and the breastplate slipped from his grip. The stricken knight splashed into the water. Delmar whipped his head back, ready to swear at whoever had held him back, when Gausser gathered both him and Siebrecht and bore all three of them down to the deck. The boat listed hugely once more, and then the boatmaster regained control and brought it back onto an even keel.

  Helborg saw the face of the dead knight as another boat pulled the body from the river. It was Brother Dansig. Helborg did not know him well; he had only been in the order for a few seasons, but he had survived the war and the great charge at Middenheim only to fall here before the campaign even began.

  The knights and sergeants on the other bank had reached the dense clump of trees from which the arrows had been shot, but they found nothing except a small tunnel in the earth down which the goblins had escaped. They sent back word that they were unable to follow.

  Before them the forest was quiet again, and the peaks beyond remained unmoved. Beneath this veneer of peace, however, Helborg knew a bloody war was being fought.

  Deep beneath a mountain, the dwarf grappled for his axe. The leering goblin held tight with one claw, whilst with the other it scratched the dwarf’s plated face-mask. It hooked its nails into the mask’s eye sockets and, with a screech, broke it from the helmet. It was a screech that swiftly turned into a scream as the dwarf wrested the axe away and brought it down in a final stroke.

  Free for a moment, the dwarf fumbled around for his mask. It was an heirloom, it had been passed down from his grandfather, he could not lose it. But then he heard the hiss of more grobi coming down the tunnel towards him. His good sense returned and he left the armour wherever it had fallen. His grandfather would understand.

  He hastened away from the grobi, not sure which way to turn. He knew that his comrades were dead. Those of his band who had not been killed outright in the grobi assault would not survive long in their hands. It would be the same for any greenskin captured by his own kind. There was no concept of mercy or surrender; the grobi were vermin, to be hunted and destroyed, though that knowledge gave him little comfort when the vermin were hunting him.

  The dwarf also knew that he was trapped. The grobi had been too quick. He had seen the iron hatch close, he had heard the bars drawn across so as to prevent the attackers penetrating any deeper into the hold, even though it meant consigning him and his comrades to their fate. It was a hard choice, but then these were hard times. All his life had been hard times.

  This tunnel led him away from the sounds of the grobi, but it led him away from the hold as well. The dwarf knew these tunnels, had walked them often in the years before the siege began. There was no chance to double back; he had to go on. The further he went from the hold, though, the deeper he went into the grobi’s territory. The dwarf knew then that he would not be returning home.

  But then a tunnel branched away to the side, and through it he heard the sound of distant thunder. He remembered where it led. It would not be pleasant, but it was the only chance remaining to him. He hurried towards the thunder as quickly as he could and, as it became deafening, he emerged out into the cavern.

  It was a waterfall, part of the river that flowed from these mountains and down into the Empire of man. It would take him from the grobi, it would take him to the surface. There was danger as well, but it would be day. The grobi of the mountains were dark creatures and abhorred the light. The sounds of pursuers behind settled the dwarf’s choice. He was at least young, for everyone knew that old dwarfs did not float. With the greatest reluctance, he lay down his axe, his helmet and his armour, everything about his person that might drag him down. With that, and an oath to his ancestors, he jumped forwards and dived into t
he water.

  The dwarf awoke on the hard bank, pummelled and tenderised by the raging river, but alive. It had worked. He felt the rock beneath his hands; he felt the sun on the back of his head. With an effort he managed to raise himself to his knees and look about. He had washed up in the pass of Bar Kadrin. On each side, all about him, the giant stone heads of his ancestors looked down upon him. If he had been here a year ago, he would have been safe. But how the seams had shifted in that year. The sculptures were now defaced and he was far from home.

  A shadow fell across his body. This was no goblin. He looked up, and up, at the monster that stood over him. It was not alone either, for behind it the grobi hunters stood with their nets waiting for the monster to finish with their prize. It sniggered and then brought a meaty fist down upon his head.

  Barely conscious, the dwarf felt himself being dragged away in a goblin’s net and all he could hear was the same name being chanted over and over again in glee.

  “Thorntoad! Thorntoad! Thorntoad!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THORNTOAD

  The ogre known as Burakk the Craw watched as the mouth of the great stone goblin filled with its lesser, green kin. There were emissaries from each of the ten tribes of the mountains hereabouts; Burakk could see the emblems of the Black Ears, the Stinkhorns, the Splinters, the Biters and all the rest, being waved about the dark-cloaked throng. They were restless, for they did not like being out from under the earth. Even here, at night and on the side of a mountain scooped out so deep that it was never touched by the sun, they felt exposed to the endless sky. But this place was sacred to them, and they had been called here for a reason. They were here to listen to their leader speak.

  On a ledge above them, the banners of Thorntoad’s tribe, the Death Caps, rose. A hiss of anticipation went through the crowd. He was coming. Thorntoad was coming. Burakk stirred slightly; only two years ago, their reaction would have been very different. The Death Caps had been pariahs, perennial victims of the tribes that had encroached upon their territory on every side, pushing them to the fringes. The name of Thorntoad was unknown outside of one squig herder who kept him as a freakish pet. A year since, after one defeat too many, the Death Caps had turned upon their chieftain. In the chaos that followed, each goblin that attempted to declare himself chief had been quickly deposed, and then disposed of, by another. The other tribes readied themselves to move in, sensing the Death Caps’ weakness, waiting for them to exhaust themselves fighting each other. It had been then that Thorntoad the freak had broken free from his cage and, in a night of savagery unparalleled even amongst greenskins, he had seized control. When the other tribes next awoke, it was to a newly united Death Caps. Some of the tribes attacked nevertheless, and the goblins they lost became much-needed food for Thorntoad’s hungry fiends. From that day on, Thorntoad’s name was known, not as the freak, but as the warlord.

  “Thorntoad! Thorntoad! Thorntoad!” the thousand-strong crowd chanted, fever rising. The Great Maw was fickle, Burakk decided, the next bite was never like the last.

  Then, with an explosion of excitement, Thorntoad of the Ten Tribes emerged. The goblin warlord was the most wretched specimen of flesh Burakk had ever seen. His body was deformed like a blasted sapling, his legs were thin and crooked, but his arms were powerful. He climbed up the rock with the motion of a spider. He was naked, save for a rag, for the name of Thorntoad was no colourful moniker: there were spines arrayed across the goblin’s skin. His thorns, he called them, and they could not bear to be covered with the dark robes the other goblins wore. He vaulted to the top and stood there, bent over, supported as much by his hands as by his withered legs, hideous and triumphant. In this place, he was more than their warlord, he was their totem, he was their connection to their gods.

  “Now, my fiends,” Thorntoad began, his screeching, reedy voice music to his goblins’ ears, “now have our starving days turned to nights of glee and gold. Now do we roam free throughout these hills while our foes cower and hide beneath the ground.”

  The cloaked goblins howled with delight, shaking helms and weapons captured in battle.

  “Now it is our bellies that are full and theirs which are not; our hunger spasms turned to victory dances. Now it is our claws stretched round their throats, and with each moon that rises, our grip grows tighter. Now they are desperate; now they wish they had fled.”

  The horde shook their standards and drummed their spearshafts in elation.

  “While we dig them out, they dig their graves. While they eat rocks, we eat their bones. Each moon brings us closer, my fiends, each one to the feast we have ahead. But for now, my gift to you all… the trophies we have won!”

  At Thorntoad’s signal, the Death Caps behind him stepped forwards to the ledge, dragging bundles behind, wrapped up in cloth. They threw them off the cliff, over the crowds below. As the bundles dropped they unravelled, the black cloth streaming behind, one end fastened to the ledge above. Then the cloth ran out and caught its fall. The contents of each bundle was revealed, the bloodied body of a dwarfen warrior, and they hung above the baying crowd like bait upon a fishing pole. Thorntoad revelled in the exultation for a moment more then reached for each body in turn, cut it down and launched it to be swallowed by the ravening horde.

  Burakk the Craw grunted and left the greenskins to their petty feeding. Though he began to hunger himself, he knew that Thorntoad would not have dared to forget his cut. Whatever pageantry the freak performed for the benefit of his tribes, the choicest food went to Burakk and his ogres. After all, he would not be known as Thorntoad of the Ten Tribes if it had not been for Burakk. He would not be known at all.

  Burakk reached the edge of the mouth of the great stone goblin, the side of a mountain that, the tribes swore, resembled a giant greenskin face shaped there by their gods. Thorntoad was still lauding himself over the sea of black and green. Yes, much had changed in two years. Two years ago, Burakk had been a shadow of his present self. Dazed, without food so long that his gut had shrunk, he had been wandering these mountains without direction when Thorntoad’s Death Caps had found him. Near out of his wits, he had lumbered at them on instinct, caught one of the slower ones, but the others had entangled him with nets and kept him at a distance with their spears. Burakk had thought that was his end and he was ready to consign himself to the Great Maw. But the goblins had not eaten him, as he had assumed they would, as he would have done them. Instead, they kept him caged, started feeding him, and once the hunger-dullness had receded, Thorntoad had come to talk.

  It had not been easy. It had taken a week for them to start to communicate at the basest level. Burakk, though, was in a cage and had nothing else to do, and Thorntoad concentrated all his time there. Thorntoad wanted the ogre to fight for him, and would feed him in return. He was not the first ogre to have stumbled into this area of the mountains; individuals and small groups had been spotted for months. All of them stunned, confused, many pitted with gunshot or with bones broken by cannonball. They were survivors of some crushing defeat of an ogre tyrant, somewhere in the Empire, and had been chased into the mountains by the victors. When the ogres, maddened with hunger, saw goblins, they attacked; and so the goblins had killed any who appeared. As strong as an ogre was, it could not match a hundred goblins swarming over it. Thorntoad saw in Burakk an opportunity, not simply to add a single ogre to his tribe, but dozens. All Burakk had to do, when they found another ogre, was to convince him to join their cause, by whatever means Burakk could. Burakk readily agreed and their alliance had been struck.

  From that day, Thorntoad began to move against the other tribes. Whilst an ogre did not readily fit into all goblin tunnels, he could cause enough destruction on the surface for Thorntoad’s Death Caps to triumph beneath the ground. Burakk himself earned his epithet of “the Craw” after swallowing one Black Ear chieftain whole. Burakk added more ogres to the tribe as well, though not every one they encountered was willing to submit to his authority. Those that did not provide
d sustenance for the rest. Now, Burakk the Craw was a tyrant himself, with sixty bull-ogres at his command, who each bore a Craw marking upon his cheek. Whatever each bull’s origins, they were now a tribe of their own, and Thorntoad paid them in food for lending him their might. First in goblins from the tribes they overwhelmed, and when Burakk had come to find their gristly frames sickening, with dwarfs. Yes, Burakk believed, they would have a grand supper of dwarf-flesh this night.

  “This is all?” Burakk rumbled, eyeing the paltry few bundled bodies at his feet.

  Thorntoad sat on his haunches above his throne-room. The throne had been carved for the chieftain of the Stinkhorn tribe, the former occupiers of the great stone goblin. Once the Death Caps had achieved dominance, however, Thorntoad had made this mountain his lair and kept this throne, though it did not suit him. Those same spines upon his body with which he had impaled the old Stinkhorn chieftain prevented him from finding any comfort on his seat. All he could do was perch upon the top of the throne back, shifting constantly, for even with his spines lowered he was never able to find a position in which he could rest.

  Instead, he had stretched ropes across the ceiling and buried metal rings in the walls, so that they formed a web through which Thorntoad’s wasted legs were no hindrance. It was amongst these that he lurked, looking down upon his ogre ally.

  “That is all,” Thorntoad spoke. “Yes, Burakk Craw, that is all.”

  “What of this one?” Burakk stomped over to a dwarfen warrior tied securely to the wall. Thorntoad scurried from his position, sliding across the surface of his web, and landed directly above Burakk’s head.

  “It is mine.”

  The dwarf’s chest sagged a little, blood bubbles forming at its lips as it breathed out.

  “It is not dead,” Burakk observed.