During the long night, Gramrik had revealed the truth of his scheme to aid the Empire through the Dragon’s Jaw. Now, Helborg looked into the dwarf’s aged face in the morning light. He saw the deep furrows in the king’s brow, the scars on his cheek where his white beard no longer grew and the flint in his eyes. Helborg had spent his life fighting for the Empire, but his life was but a single season to this warrior. The success of the campaign rested upon whether these two old soldiers could trust one another.
Helborg decided they could.
“I will lead my army into the Jaw,” he said.
“Aye,” Gramrik replied solemnly. “Be ready tomorrow morning. That’ll give us time enough.”
“Time enough for you to consult your ancestors?” Helborg asked lightly.
“Aye,” Gramrik said. Helborg thought he saw the trace of a smile beneath the thick beard. “That’s about right.”
“Ten of my bulls. Ten!” Burakk the Craw waved his hands, five fingers splayed as though each one was named for one of his lost ogres.
Burakk rampaged back and forth, waiting for Thorntoad to reply. He had said nothing in front of those who had returned from the battle; to do so would have been a public challenge against Thorntoad and it was not the time to do that, not while the goblins still outnumbered Burakk’s bulls three hundred to one. No, he had stayed silent out there; but in here, in private, Thorntoad owed him answers.
“Ten bulls lost,” Burakk continued, bellowing even louder. “And what to show for it? Nothing! The Empire men, they took their fallen with them. The dwarfs the same! They left nothing. Nothing but your goblins and ten of my bulls.”
“I am certain they tasted well enough.” Thorntoad prodded Osterna’s severed head with his nail, idly testing how much pressure its eyeballs could take.
“We will not win by eating our own kind, goblin. You promised me the flesh of the men and their animals. But you do not take it!” Burakk pounded the rock wall for emphasis. “You shoot your arrows at them from afar. You snatch one or two in the night and then run when the men in armour come after you. Their army marches unchallenged. This night is the only time we have been close enough to spit upon them. When are we to attack in strength? Bring the tribes together? Drive the men back; leave their dead so we may eat? Eat!”
Thorntoad dropped from the ceiling and landed, hunched, upon the throne’s back. “Soon, Burakk Craw, soon. They are stopped already at the mouth of the valley between the mountains of the Black Ears and Biter Peak. The river runs fast, the banks are steep and narrow, and there is no path around, save that which will take them a week out of their way. We will crush their armour beneath our boulders, and when they can fight no more we will descend upon them and feed.”
“And what if the dwarfs interfere again?”
“They are captives behind our siege lines. Trapped in their hold. They cannot interfere.”
“They did so last night! What use is your siege if the dwarfs come and go at will? Give me the name of the tribe to punish and we shall feast upon them.”
“They used a secret way, and in doing so exposed it to us. We have discovered their path and the dwarfs have been forced to seal it off. They cannot use it again.” The warlord climbed the wall behind the throne and crawled, upside down, across the roof until they were so close that the ogre’s rancid breath made the goblin’s thorns rise. “And as we are at war with these tribes of men, I cannot allow you to feed on the fiends I need for the fight. As you say, Burakk Craw, we will not win eating our own kind. Either of our kinds.”
Another knight that Siebrecht did not recognise shook his hand to congratulate him. Word had spread since the night before. By the time Delmar and Siebrecht had returned to Jungingen’s banner, the preceptor had heard all about Siebrecht’s triumph against the ogre champion. It had been a glint of heroism in what had otherwise been a bloody night of loss.
Jungingen knew that his knights’ successes reflected well upon him and so he ensured that the whole banner was turned out to give Siebrecht a worthy welcome. Siebrecht had quickly lost sight of Delmar amongst the press of his brother-knights and their commendations. As unexpected as the reception was, Siebrecht had adored it. It was just as it had been back amidst the gangs of noble youths in Nuln, where each victory over their rivals was cause for celebration. He had been the fastest blade amongst them and they had been so proud of him. Now, for the first time, the Reiksguard were proud of him as well.
Siebrecht woke that afternoon in a different humour. His brow was hot, his head was stuffed and his throat felt as though a stone were lodged within it. After the alarms of the day and night before, the Reiksmarshal had few orders for the army, but to rest and take care of the wounded and the dead, and to be ready to attack the Jaw the day after. Siebrecht could not imagine how he would be ready to fight tomorrow if he still felt as bad as this, or worse.
The sergeants had built a small cooking fire nearby for the knights’ morning meal. These sergeants were strange men, Siebrecht decided. As a novice, he had thought the sergeants were little more than sentries, the tutors’ muscle and, occasionally, his gaolers. But out on campaign, they were very different. They were careful, protective even, of the brother-knights. They marched all day with the army, in the evening they lit the fires and cooked, and at night they stood guard. All to ensure that when their knights went into the fray, they would fight at their best. They took their pride in carrying their knights to battle, and carrying them home again.
One of the older sergeants brought over two cups, one for Siebrecht and the other for Gausser who sat by his side. Siebrecht accepted the cup gratefully, but then smelt the horrible stench coming from it and pushed it away.
“Drink it, my lord,” the sergeant insisted.
“Damned if I will,” Siebrecht replied. “It smells terrible. How did you make it? By washing out a cannon?”
The sergeant chuckled, and Siebrecht realised that he was not laughing with him, the sergeant was laughing at him. Siebrecht felt suddenly quite patronised. Beside him, Gausser downed his at a stroke.
“Drink it, brother,” he said. “It is not so bad.”
Siebrecht tried to ignore the sergeant’s encouraging smile and raised the cup again. He gave it a sniff in case its odour had improved. It hadn’t. Instead, he held his breath as he swigged it down. As Gausser said, it did not taste as bad as it smelt. The first taste was very bitter, almost acrid, but it was quickly washed away. The sergeant nodded approvingly at him, as though he were a child who had taken his own medicine for the first time.
“You will feel better soon, my lord.”
“Will I, by the gods?” Siebrecht stared at the thick, black residue left at the bottom.
The sergeant took the cups back. “I have served the order on campaign for nearly forty years, my lord. We know how to keep fighting men ready.”
“And how many did you poison along the way?” Siebrecht muttered, as the sergeant pottered back to the fire and to his fellows. He was being a mite uncharitable, but he was not well and the sergeants were grinning at him with patronising indulgence. Siebrecht pointedly turned away from them as another knight came over to shake his hand.
Delmar watched from the shade of the trees as Siebrecht modestly accepted another knight’s compliments.
“Thinking that should have been you?” a familiar voice interrupted.
Delmar instantly stood. “My lord Griesmeyer,” he said formally. “How are you?”
The older knight was only half-armoured, wearing a blue doublet in place of his breastplate. He leaned casually against the tree mink and scratched the short red beard on his chin.
“Better than when you saw me this morning. And please, Delmar, we have fought together now; surely you may call me brother.”
“Yes, my lord, I will.”
Griesmeyer laughed lightly at the young knight’s intractability. “Your brother over there, Matz, he did well yesterday.”
“Yes, he did.”
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��You did well also, Delmar.”
Delmar felt his throat tighten. “I was not the first to best an ogre. I did not pull you from the horde. I did not charge with the Reiksmarshal and defend my fallen brothers.”
“Those were not your orders. Your orders were to give the Reiksmarshal the message from Karak Angazhar, which you did. And then your orders were to bring the army, which you did as well. The Reiksmarshal trusted you with his life and those of all the rest of us; that is a far greater commendation than the ones that Brother Matz has been receiving.”
Delmar hated this. He hated that Griesmeyer was saying exactly what he wanted to hear, and yet his suspicions ensured he could take no comfort from it. He hated Griesmeyer’s easy familiarity; that the knight had not even noticed the distance that had arisen between them. Most of all Delmar hated himself; that he knew Griesmeyer had lied to him, and yet he still wanted to believe.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied without emotion.
“Please, Delmar,” the older knight chided him, “call me brother.”
“I would, my lord, if you would do the same.”
“Call you brother?” Griesmeyer said, surprised. “I do already.”
“No, my lord, you call me Delmar,” he corrected softly. “Would you call me Brother Reinhardt?”
Griesmeyer paused at that. He pushed himself away from the tree and regarded Delmar thoughtfully.
“You hesitate,” Delmar said, “because that is what you called my father. Am I correct?”
Griesmeyer stroked his short beard. “You took me off guard for a moment. That is all. Of course I shall call you Brother Reinhardt if that is your wish.”
“It is, my lord.”
“Very well then,” Griesmeyer replied, speaking slowly to emphasise his words. “Brother Reinhardt.”
“Brother Griesmeyer.” This was it then, Delmar knew, the time to ask the question that was eating away inside him. “Brother Griesmeyer, how did my father die?”
“Is that it, Brother Reinhardt?” the old knight said with compassion. “Is that what has been worrying you so?”
Griesmeyer looked out over the knights encamped.
“I suppose it is only to be expected that you should think of it now, on your first campaign,” he said. “But I have told you already of all the circumstances of that day.”
Delmar considered his words carefully.
“My mother blames you for his death, does she not? You have not told me why she does that.”
“Of course your mother blames me. She felt her world end when I brought her the news, she had to blame someone. And she knew I was his friend, that I should have kept him safe.”
“You were not friends on that day, were you? I know of the arguments you and he had. Gods, the whole order knew. Were you even speaking to him that day?”
“I would have given my life for his, if I could.” But Griesmeyer did not answer the question.
“How did my father die, Brother Griesmeyer?” Delmar demanded.
“He died…” the knight snapped back, but then checked himself. “He died with honour.” At that, Griesmeyer turned his back on Delmar and walked away.
* * *
The morning broke gloriously over the Dragon’s Jaw. The rain that had pelted down over the last few days and swollen the river, the rain that the men begrudged and the goblins despised, held off. The dark clouds had moved east to threaten the mountains around Black Fire Pass and, for once, the sky was clear. The gods, both of men and greenskins, had decreed this day for battle.
It was to be a battle where the Reiksguard would force their way through the Dragon’s Jaw or their campaign would be at an end. The army would have to endure a harrowing retreat back to Averland with the goblins at their heels, and Karak Angazhar would truly have to stand alone.
The Dragon’s Jaw was well named. The cliffs on either side rose sharply like the sides of that creature’s mouth. The rocky outcrops that jutted out of the slope were its jagged teeth, and the fast-flowing Reik at its base, its fat, lashing tongue.
It was a landscape that threatened to close and swallow them whole.
The trumpets roused the Empire camp once the sun had risen. The bergjaegers that had been sentry pickets for the last few hours of the night gratefully yawned, their duty done. They returned to their regiment and there found a comfy piece of dirt to lie upon. The men, whether knight or militiaman or bergjaeger, arose. Their officers did not hurry them; they did not need to. The men had had the entire day before to prepare and to dwell upon the battle ahead; to reflect upon the chaos of combat, the injuries they might suffer, the killing blow they might receive. They did not rise eagerly, but at least with relief that the waiting would soon be over.
Helborg rode back towards the camp with his guard. As was his habit, he had risen as early as he could to test the ground ahead. He had given his orders for battle yesterday, and nothing that he had seen warranted their alteration. His legs and his horse’s flanks were soaked through with river water, though, and he wished to dry off before the chill got to him. He had long ago learned that part of taking care of his army, was taking care of himself. He did not have to look too far back in the Empire’s history to find battles that had been lost because of their general’s indisposition.
He rode past the army as it assembled. Twelve hundred knights, nearly the Reiksguard’s full strength, were in the field, wearing their laurel crests and plumes. There was Preceptor Wallenrode, whose knights had made their name battling the horde of the orc warlord Vorgaz Ironjaw, and wore the badge of their victory in each of their standards. There was Preceptor Trier, who commanded in his banner three more of his own name, two cousins and his own son. There was Preceptor Jungingen, whose keen mind and drive to succeed had made him invaluable despite his youth. And there, at the front, was Osterna’s banner. Even though their preceptor was dead, his knights had refused to fight under any other name.
Beyond them assembled the militia. There were cattlemen from Heideck, vintners from Loningbruck, slaughtermen and their apprentices from Averheim, burghers from Streissen, and the citizen-guard of Grenzstadt, many of whom were dwarfs themselves. Dwarfs of the Empire, though, and distant from their cousins in Karak Angazhar, though no less keen to fight for them. They were all citizens of Averland, far from their homes, but still defending them.
Siebrecht sat, armed and armoured, waiting on his mount. He patted the animal’s neck, though in truth he was trying to calm himself. He did not look at the great force of knights around him; instead his focus was on their path ahead. He had begun the day well, miraculously restored from his sickness. When he joined his squadron, all of them, Reiklander and Provincial alike, had deferred to him.
“There they are.” Gausser’s voice shook Siebrecht from his reverie. A tribe of the goblins had emerged from the slope of the Predigtstuhl on the other bank of the river.
“That will not do them much good,” Bohdan said. “They are on the wrong bank if they think to halt our march.”
“Is that all of them?” Alptraum asked. “I see only a few hundred.”
“Of course it is not all of them,” Siebrecht bit back, harsher than he intended. “The rest of them will be before us. Look how many of them carry bows; they are not there to stop us, they are there to bleed us as we pass.”
And with the Reik between them, only Voll and the bergjaegers could respond, the knights could not touch them.
Evidently, however, the Reiksmarshal disagreed. With the sound of a trumpet, Osterna’s knights began to advance towards the goblins, heading straight towards the river.
Delmar leaned up in his saddle in order to see. This was strange indeed. Every story he had ever heard of Kurt Helborg had told of his generalship, his tactical mastery that had brought the Empire’s armies victory after victory. Yet, once Delmar had seen the army’s deployment as the sun rose, he could not help but wonder if the rumours of Helborg’s exhaustion after his return from the north had truth behind them.
&nbs
p; Delmar saw that Hardenburg had taken the place beside him. That was odd. As genial as the Reiklander was, he always fell in line with Falkenhayn, and had not spoken to Delmar since Altdorf.
“Are you well this morning, brother?” asked Hardenburg.
“I am vexed, Tomas.”
“Oh?” Hardenburg sounded surprised. “In what way?”
“Our deployment, it makes no sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are we mounted? Look at the valley sides, look at those cliffs. You think a horse could even walk along that incline, let alone charge? It’s only flat enough for us to ride right beside the river and there only enough for us to go three or four abreast. If a few of our knights should fall at the front, the rest of us would be trapped. The goblins need only sweep down from the slopes and drive us into the river.”
Hardenburg nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.
“And now he has ordered Osterna’s knights against those goblins across the river?” Delmar continued.
“What, does he think that their armour will help them swim?”
Others, too had taken an interest in their hushed conversation. “What’s that you’re whispering there?” Falkenhayn called.
Hardenburg looked guilty, as though he had been discovered betraying his friend’s trust.
“The line of battle makes no sense, Reinhardt says,” he replied.
“Does he? And does Brother Reinhardt think he knows better than the Reiksmarshal?” Falkenhayn snorted. “Brothers, listen to this: Reinhardt thinks he knows better than our Reiksmarshal! Perhaps, Reinhardt, he should be submitting the order of battle for your approval, do you think?”
Falkenhayn nudged his horse forwards a step. “Here, let us apply to the preceptor at once and get you permission to ride to him, so you can show him how grievously he has erred. For surely it is every loyal knight’s duty to question his general’s orders.”
Delmar felt the eyes of the squadron upon him, Reiklander and Provincial alike. Falkenhayn was baiting him, trying to make him flustered and back down. On another day, back in the sophisticated noble circles of Altdorf, Falkenhayn might have succeeded; but here, upon the field of battle, there was no chance at all.
[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard Page 22
