“What of their markings? Tell me about those, or did you spend the entire time thinking up your clever jokes?”
Siebrecht sighed and tried to remember. “Their markings… They each had the same mark on their right cheek.”
“Yes, the Craw’s own mark most likely. What of their other markings?”
“It was just warpaint, like every savage. There was no consistency to it.”
“Now what if I told you that that warpaint was their tribal markings? What could you then conclude?”
“Obviously, that none of them were of the same tribe.” It was only when he said it that Siebrecht realised how wrong that sounded. “Why should that be the case though?”
“You tell me.”
Siebrecht was thinking now. “Outcasts, banding together?”
“A good thought. But let me remind you of something you already know. Have you heard of a battle, about three years ago, on the River Aver where the army of Nuln fought an ogre horde, a conglomeration of tribes, and triumphed?”
“The Battle of a Hundred Cannons? I remember I thought it was a ridiculous name,” Siebrecht replied, irritated at how his uncle was dragging this out. “Of course I’ve heard of it, the whole city went mad with celebration. There was a parade. When I joined the pistolkorps at Nuln they wouldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Those ogres we saw were all members of tribes that fought and were destroyed at that battle.”
“They are the survivors then.”
“Yes, survivors of a battle where their tribes were destroyed by the massed cannon batteries of Nuln and the dwarfen guns of Karaz-a-Karak.”
The insight struck Siebrecht. “Then that is why they ran at the Dragon’s Jaw when the cannon fired upon them.” Siebrecht stared at his uncle. “Was that your doing?”
Herr von Matz scoffed. “The Reiksmarshal does not need me to tell him to point a cannon at an ogre and shoot. But he did need to have the cannon with him. Bringing cannon into the mountains does not make a great deal of sense otherwise. But once he had them given to him, he found the best way to use them.”
Then his uncle had had his hand in this campaign all along, Siebrecht thought, even the victory at the Jaw. Or alternatively, he reconsidered, none of this is true. And his uncle was concocting a story that gave him credit due to others.
Siebrecht shook his head to clear his fatigue. This was what his uncle did; this was what he always did for as long as Siebrecht could remember. When his uncle returned to the family estates for one of his visits, he filled your head with stories and fantasies, pretended to speak with authority on topics of which he knew nothing. He drew no line between fact and fiction, using either or both as he required at any one time. He had not changed. But Siebrecht had. He was not the same wide-eyed cub, suffocated at home and eager for any glimpse of the world beyond the estate wall. He was a Reiksguarder now, he had sworn his oaths to the order, and the order was here in these mountains for a purpose.
“Did you get what we were after? Did it tell you where we may trap Thorntoad?”
“Oh yes, he told me that.”
“And we’re going to tell the Reiksmarshal?”
“Yes… in our own way.”
Searching through the standards and tents of the dark camp, Delmar found Wolfsenberger. He was sitting before a fire, in a chosen circle of comrades, talking of the events of the day before and the day to come. Delmar watched them for a moment before he approached and he was struck by the resemblance of this band of older knights to Siebrecht and the others, clustered around a fire. Their faces bore the lines of age, their movements were stiffer, but the easy familiarity between them was just the same. Delmar could hear the accents in their voices, from Middenland, Stirland and across the rest of the Empire. A Hochlander with a monocle and a pinched moustache was relating a story to his assembled fellows, Wolfsenberger, listening, sat on the far side of the fire. His face was long, his cheeks sunken, his skin pale; he wore a beard, but he wore it carelessly, leaving its grey hairs straggling around the sides of his face. His nose was bent below its bridge, evidence of a break that had never properly healed.
“Brother Wolfsenberger?” Delmar asked.
Wolfsenberger and his band of brothers turned to look at Delmar.
“Yah, what is it you want?” Wolfsenberger replied, the words flattened with the distinctive accent of an Ostlander. “It is Brother Reinhardt, yah? We saw each other today.”
“That we did, brother. Brother Matz and I have much to thank you for.”
“Yah,” Wolfsenberger nodded. “But it was our pleasure. You and your friend made quite a stand. No thanks are needed.” A murmur of agreement went around Wolfsenberger’s comrades.
“Well, you have them in any case,” Delmar said. “But I had another reason for troubling you.”
“Go on.”
“You knew my father? Heinrich von Reinhardt? You were in the order with him?”
“We all were. Our first campaign,” Wolfsenberger indicated his fellows, “was his last.”
“I have questions. About his death.”
“Ah, then that would be for me. For I was the only one of us there,” Wolfsenberger said. “But you should ask your questions of Brother Griesmeyer, he was senior to me; I had only just taken my oaths, and he was closest to it all.” The knight turned back to the fire, dismissing Delmar, and his comrades did the same.
“I would rather ask you, brother.”
Wolfsenberger paused for a long while. “It was a tragedy. But it was a noble death. He saved the elector count’s son, but he could not save himself. And there was nothing anyone could have done.”
“Oh,” Delmar murmured.
“You sound disappointed. Is that not what you came to hear? Is that not what Griesmeyer told you?”
“It was what he said, brother. But it is not what I came to hear, for I do not believe him.”
Wolfsenberger stared at Delmar hard and then exchanged glances with his comrades. One by one, they rose and took their conversation to another fire, leaving just Wolfsenberger there alone.
“Sit with me, Brother Reinhardt,” Wolfsenberger quietly ordered. Delmar obeyed him, his breath shallow, his chest tight in nervous excitement. He had been right, there was more to learn, but he almost feared what he might discover.
“Sit with me, Delmar, and listen to my words.” The faded knight beckoned Delmar down. “You were right to disbelieve, for what you have been told is a lie. I was there at the end, and I have never forgotten what I saw.”
“Reinhardt!” the young Griesmeyer cried, as the knight charged against the Norscan warriors. The Skaelings had been too focused upon their prey, the young noblemen trapped in their midst, and the sounds of the battle had drowned the drumming hooves of the lone knight’s charge. The first few managed to dive out of his path. Let others be the ones to use their bodies to halt the mighty warhorse, not them. The next few were slower to see Reinhardt and were slammed aside, bones broken. Reinhardt, with an expert touch, sighted his steed at the gaps as they formed within the mass of Skaeling warriors. Then he tapped his heels and the horse slowed, bunched its powerful hind legs and shot from the earth, leaping the final barrier of men that kept the knight from his goal.
The horse burst into the circle of those few Nordland nobles who still lived, surrounding the elector count’s son, still dazed from his fall. Reinhardt pulled back on the reins and his steed reared on the very edge of the bank over the thawing, bloody bog. Reinhardt pulled his sword from its sheath and raised it high, so that all of his enemies could see the fate that awaited them.
Just for a moment, the Skaelings fell back, slipping down the bank where they knew the horse could not follow. The nobles took their chance and fled, leaving their lord and the knight behind. Their flight broke the Skaelings’ hesitation; like hunting dogs they chased whatever ran from them. Reinhardt leant down to pull the elector count’s son to his feet, but a thrown axe ended the life of Reinhardt’s horse. It bucked and
twisted in its death throes and Reinhardt tumbled from the saddle.
The Skaelings pounced upon their fallen foe, expecting an easy kill, only to find death themselves as his sword lashed out and cut the first attackers down.
A warrior swung down, using a captured Nordland halberd like a mallet. Reinhardt spun away and took the man’s arm with a circular cut. Another threw a blow with an axe; Reinhardt caught the shaft with the flat, then ran his sword down and skinned the Skaeling’s knuckles to the bone. A daubed, frenzied youth lunged, and Reinhardt trapped the seax beneath his arm, shattered the elbow and let the youth fall wailing back.
The attack paused for a moment as a Skaeling champion in black plate armour forced his way to the front and slashed at the knight. Reinhardt let the strike connect, his shoulder pauldron absorbing the blow, the wicked serrated edge designed to tear into flesh glancing uselessly off the knight’s metal shell. Reinhardt smoothly reversed his sword and smashed in the side of the champion’s helm with a two-handed murder stroke. The champion stumbled and did not rise again.
Then there were shouts, oaths roared in the Imperial tongue. Two knights were with him. Two of his brothers cutting a bloody path through the Skaelings towards him. The first, Reinhardt knew, was his old friend Griesmeyer. The other, that new knight who proudly wove Ostland colours into his crest wreath: Brother Wolfsenberger.
“Your father told me to take the elector count’s son,” Wolfsenberger continued to Delmar. “So I did. I hauled the frightened youth over my saddle and spurred my horse away. I was exhilarated, so young myself, my first campaign, such a daring venture and we had succeeded!
“I had thought that Griesmeyer and Reinhardt would be a few steps behind me, but when I reached the edge of the horde I saw they had not followed. I glanced back. Griesmeyer was mounted, but your father remained on foot. His sword was still inverted, the hilt high, ready for another murder stroke.
“And then I saw an act that scorched my spirit.” Wolfsenberger paused, as though the power of the old memory was still too much to bear.
“As the hilt of your father’s sword swung up high, Griesmeyer reached down from his saddle and caught it in his hand. He pulled and the blade slipped from your father’s fingers. He took his sword from him. He took his sword from him!” Wolfsenberger repeated in his astonishment. “That same sword you carry at your belt.”
“Griesmeyer turned his back and galloped away, leaving your father defenceless. And then those savages were on him again. Their attack redoubled in rage at being denied their victim. I could barely save myself and the elector count’s son.”
Delmar could bear it no more, and he shot to his feet. “It is beneath contempt! It is beyond excuse!”
“Sit down, brother,” Wolfsenberger said, regaining his calm. “You will cause a scene.”
“A scene? I swear to you now, I will cause far more than that!” Delmar’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword. Gods, he had known that something had been withheld. Something hidden. But he could never have guessed this! His sword was ready. He would find Griesmeyer this instant and, in the goddess Verena’s name, he would have justice!
The occasions Delmar had spent with Griesmeyer, the adulation he had given him, the pride he had taken in his association with this murderer. It sickened him.
“And you,” Delmar rounded on the knight. “You were his brother. How can you tell me this now when you stayed silent that day? How could you let this man walk free for twenty years when he deserves to hang for his crime?”
Delmar was a moment away from lashing out at Wolfsenberger himself. However, the faded knight sat unperturbed. He raised his hand to Delmar. “Here, help me up.”
Delmar, fuming, grudgingly took hold of Wolfsenberger’s hand and pulled him up. The knight got to his feet and then, in the blink of an eye, kicked Delmar’s knee out from under him. Delmar landed hard and swiftly found himself pinned to the ground, Wolfsenberger’s knee lodged in the small of his back.
“There!” Wolfsenberger whispered harshly. “Now you know the feeling of being betrayed by one you trusted. You think to threaten me? You are a cub, a Reikland infant. You whine for the food the adults eat, and then you cry when you find it does not suit your taste, and blame the one who gave it you!”
“You are a knight!” Delmar replied, though the weight pressing upon his back made it hard for him to speak. “You swore an oath and you said nothing!”
“I said nothing, yes. You think I am mad enough to charge one of the inner circle? Even then he was one of Helborg’s favourites, and I was just an Ostlander, little more than a novice. They would have ruined me. If you are searching for justice within this order then you will search in vain. It was my word against his and it would have ruined me. A knight who charges another without proof puts himself at risk of the same punishment.”
“But Heinrich was your brother,” Delmar gasped.
“What do I care if one Reiklander kills another? How many years have those of Reikland eaten well and lived warm, whilst Ostlanders have gone cold and hungry in the fields? No, Delmar von Reinhardt, it is no business of mine. And I say, if you value your life or your future, then make it no business of yours.”
“I could never…”
“Then go,” Wolfsenberger interrupted him. “And let there be one fewer Reiklander in this world.” There was an alarm running through the camp, men were waking, gathering their weapons. Even though darkness was still upon them, they were being ordered to battle. The knight released the pressure on Delmar’s back and stepped away. “Go, Delmar von Reinhardt, find your justice or find your death.”
Siebrecht, his uncle and the rest arrived back at the Empire camp at the exact same spot that they had left. The pickets ignored them as though they were ghosts.
Herr von Matz’s keepers dispersed on errands of their own, except for Twoswords of course, who did not let Siebrecht out of his sight. They did not march straight to the Reiksmarshal’s tent as Siebrecht had assumed they would; instead Herr von Matz led them to the milida’s part of the camp and the pavilion of the Graf von Leitdorf.
The capricious graf did not take kindly to being awoken at such an hour, but once he heard what news he had been brought he granted an interview at once. The graf was not a man who easily trusted others; if he had not been born naturally suspicious, then three years of political manoeuvring between the Averland nobility for the vacant title of elector count would have made him so. Despite that, Herr von Matz came to him with recommendations from high places, and he had a Reiksguard knight with him as well, which lent credence to his information.
Once he had heard what this Matz character had to say, he knew he had to inform the Reiksmarshal. That obligation, however, did not go so far as to require him to blunder out into the night half-dressed. He called for his stewards to dress him properly, and sent a man to alert the Reiksmarshal and afford him the same opportunity. The two commanders of the army would meet, but they would do so in a manner befitting their rank and position.
After half an hour, the graf was ready and attended the Reiksmarshal. This time, Siebrecht and Herr von Matz were not invited inside. Helborg was less concerned with ceremony, and within a few minutes of the graf arriving Helborg’s sergeants hurried from the tent to fetch Sub-Marshal Zollner, Knight Commander Sternberg and, at the Reiksmarshal’s specific request, Jaeger Voll. Ten minutes after they entered the tent, the sergeants left again and this time brought back the five remaining preceptors. The graf, feeling a little overwhelmed, called for his own militia captains and quickly the tent became full to bursting with tired, excited officers.
The men in the camp still awake sensed their leaders’ agitation and the few impromptu victory celebrations still proceeding petered out as the men watched the shadows on the canvas of the Reiksmarshal’s tent. At one instant they danced back and forth in heated discussion, the next they flew as the officers strode out. Squadrons of knights were dispatched to confirm the information the graf had presented, but the
Reiksmarshal’s instincts told him it was true. It was time to wake the army.
The word rippled out from the centre of the camp: every man was to stand to, ready to march as soon as there was a hint of grey light. The militia, thinking that after the trials of the previous day they might be allowed a chance to rest, grumbled and groaned at being disturbed. But then they saw the Reiksguard, already armoured, quiet, disciplined, and the militia stilled their complaints. Helborg looked over his order’s swift preparations with a sense of pride. All through his youth he had studied campaigns; time and again he had read tales of brilliant generals who had won battle after battle, but lost the war because their armies, even in victory, had been expended and unable to seize the advantage bought with soldiers’ blood. So instead their grand armies were ground down by foes with mediocre ability but inexhaustible tenacity.
The Empire needed a force that could march and fight, die and win, and the next day do it all again, and again, until the final victory was achieved. And that force was what he had created with the Reiksguard. Watching his knights now, bloodied, exhausted, but ready to ride to battle once more on his command, he felt the connection. He felt their tirelessness flow through his brothers and into him, and the weight he had carried in his soul ever since Middenheim finally lifted.
He was their inspiration, and they were his.
The morning chill of the mountains was nothing to Delmar; his fury kept him hot. He forced his way through the crowds of men. Knights, militia, bergjaegers, all blocked his path, all kept him from the one he sought. The army was rousing, its soldiers buzzing within the confines of the camp, each one looking for food, for a weapon, for a friend, for his regiment. There was order to it; within half an hour each one would be back with his banner, waiting for his general’s instructions, but right now to Delmar’s eyes it was little better than chaos. The entire landscape of the camp had changed: the regimental standards that had been embedded into the ground had all been uprooted in preparation to march. Tents he had used as landmarks finding his way to Wolfsenberger were being hurriedly dismantled and packed away. The army was sweeping clear every trace of its presence on this ground. Finally, Delmar spotted a banner, the Reiksmarshal’s standard, fluttering in the pre-dawn near the graf’s pavilion. Delmar headed towards it. Wherever the Reiksmarshal was, Griesmeyer was never far from his side.
[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard Page 26
