[Empire Army 02] - Iron Company

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  He sighed, and turned away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Why are men so afraid of the power of artillery? Because every state trooper knows that one day all warfare will be conducted behind the barrel of a gun. In the future, the sword and the spear will disappear from our battlefields, and the ranks of gunners will take their place. It matters not how many nobles complain of this, nor how many witch hunters confiscate our untried machines and devices. Our day will come. History demands it.

  —Attributed to Frau Meilde of Waldenhof

  The day dawned chill and grey, like all days in the high peaks. During the night, high clouds had been driven south, and now the sky was as clear and white as a pearl. There was an ominous cracking from the far heights, as if mighty sheets of ice were grinding past one another. Down in the valley where the army still camped, the stones were as hard and pale as bone. It was a harsh place.

  Though the sun brought little warmth, it did give light. As the first rays crept over the eastern line of mountain edges, trumpets were sounded by Scharnhorst’s heralds. The time had come. Sergeants and captains sprung from their hard beds on the stone, and rushed to don their equipment. Soldiers were kicked from sleep. Cold fires were stoked into life, and pails of icy water were rushed from the stores. Reveille had arrived, and food was delivered swiftly to hungry mouths. The slop and meat stew had been made marginally thicker than usual. The men would need their energy for the fight, and even the flint-eyed, penny-pinching cooks knew it.

  Magnus roused himself with difficulty. His wound had been plaguing him through the night, and his sleep had been fitful. For some reason, he had dreamed of his father again. The White Wolf of Nuln. For so many years that name had been both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, as it had got him into the college and secured his future in the trade. A curse, as he could never hope to live up to the mighty reputation. Even in death, the magisterial figure of Augustus haunted him. There was no escape, either at the bottom of a keg of beer, nor back on the hard road to war.

  Magnus shook his head to clear it, and ran his fingers over his heavily stubbled chin. No time to shave. Things were moving. He pulled himself from the ground, wincing as his ribs creaked and the cold morning air flooded under the blanket. He reached for his overcoat with trembling hands, and wrapped himself in it. The mountains were hateful, and no place for honest men.

  All around him, machinery of war was being pulled forward. The time for the great cannons had passed. Now the instruments of choice were the rocket-launchers, the volley guns and the other deadly tools of the battlefield engineer. Stomping to restore his circulation, Magnus walked over to the first wave of guns. The crews were pulling the covers from their pieces and dusting the fragile firing mechanisms down. When they saw him coming, they stood to attention and saluted. Magnus grinned wryly. Since the successful demolition of Morgramgar’s heavy guns, his stock had clearly risen with the men.

  “What do you call her?” he said, stopping by a Helblaster and its crew.

  “Murderous Margrita,” came the reply, without a trace of irony. Crews often gave their artillery pieces names, and always those of women. For the men who knew they could lose a limb to the whims of their devices, it seemed appropriate.

  “Very good,” said Magnus, casting his eye quickly over the machine. Helblasters were equipped with nine ironbound barrels. The top three fired in unison. Once the shot was clear, the whole edifice could be rotated on a central axis, bringing a fully loaded trio of barrels to play in an instant. In all, nine shots could be released before the contraption had to be reloaded. Magnus had seen them used many times in many campaigns. They were devastating, capable of cutting down entire ranks of oncoming enemy troops. When they worked, that was. Like all complex pieces, the mechanism had its flaws. Even the slightest misalignment could ignite the blackpowder charges too early. An exploding Helblaster was one of the most spectacular sights on the battlefield. Anyone within twelve yards of it would be lucky to escape with just his legs missing.

  “Murderous Margrita” looked in good condition. Several days in the mountains had not obviously done anything to dent her martial prowess. The bindings looked secure, the breeches were clean and well-oiled and the wooden chassis was neatly painted. The wheels and axle were solid, and the ornate triggers gleamed proudly in the weak light.

  “You should be proud of her,” said Magnus, with approval. “Keep with the others, though. A massed rank of firing does more damage than a dozen individual volleys.”

  The crew nodded respectfully, even the old master gunner. He looked like a veteran of the capricious ways of gunnery, with several fingers missing and a wooden pole in place of his right leg. When he smiled, Magnus noted that there were only two teeth left in his head and his nose had been badly broken. He shouldn’t have peered into the breech, then.

  Magnus kept walking, observing with some pleasure the efficiency with which the guns were being broken out and rolled into position. Things had come a long way since the store yards of Hergig. The men had been drilled hard, and they’d learned much on the job.

  There was no greater tutor than the fear of death and dishonour. Every element of his command, from the ranks of the handgunners to the thunderous power of the heavy iron, was in better shape than when he’d found it. From what he’d seen of the enemy’s capabilities, that was no bad thing.

  Next in line was a slightly off-kilter looking Helstorm battery. These things were Magnus’ pet hates. All knew that the design was an inferior copy of a template from the far-off East. Unlike the Helblaster, which was dangerous enough, the Helstorm had almost nothing to protect the crew should something go wrong. Like most examples of its kind, the Helstorm in front of him had a complement of nine rockets arranged on a fragile-looking frame. In theory, each could be fired independently. In practice, the fuses were so close together that several would often be unleashed at once. Given that the rockets were placed in different positions, this resulted in unpredictable behaviour. Magnus had seen volleys of rockets plough into the rear of lines of allied troops, causing huge bloodshed and confusion. He had also seen Helstorms literally launch themselves into the air when a rocket got jammed, taking their crew with them and hurling them across the battlefield. When Magnus saw a Helstorm, he had some sympathy for the ordinary soldier’s dislike of war machines. They were devastating, in every sense.

  Magnus looked at the example in front of him warily.

  “Name?” he said, but without much enthusiasm.

  “We haven’t got one yet, sir,” replied a cheery-looking youth. The other members of the crew hung back. The master gunner wore an eye-patch. Never a good thing to see from the man responsible for aiming the thing. “She’s a new-build. Just out of the smithy in Hergig. We’ll see how it goes, and name her when we learn her character.”

  Magnus raised an eyebrow.

  “This hasn’t been fired?”

  The crew looked sheepish, and said nothing. Magnus sighed, and looked at the mechanism. It all looked in order, but you could never be sure.

  “Keep to the right flank,” said Magnus, sharply. “Take double care over everything you do. If I see one of these rockets go into our own troops, I’ll have you strapped to her yourself and fired into the ground.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he stalked off further along the line. From behind him, there was a nervous muttering. There were a dozen or so more pieces all told, plus some mortars and the lines of handgunners. It was a good complement for an army of their size. More than enough to trouble whatever was in the citadel, certainly.

  The light was growing rapidly, and around them the army was moving into position for attack. His inspection complete, Magnus called out down the line.

  “All right, men!” he cried, standing on a shallow ledge overlooking the land in front of the fortress gates. “You had your training. You know the plans. Keep disciplined, and keep together. We know the enemy has some tricks, but we’ve shown they can be beaten. Cover the infan
try when they advance, and for the sake of Sigmar don’t fire on our own people. Only advance when you get your orders. Good luck, and Sigmar be with you.”

  It wasn’t a very inspiring speech. There were a few half-hearted cheers from some of the younger crews. Most of the rest just got on with things, harnessing the horses and pulling their war machines into position.

  “They’re shaky-looking machines,” came a familiar voice next to Magnus. Thorgad stood next to him, looking disapprovingly at the devices.

  “Glad you could join us,” said Magnus, dryly. “This isn’t really your sort of work.”

  Thorgad shook his head.

  “Agreed. I’ll be happier when I’ve got flesh to cleave. But there’s a place for blackpowder. I reckon you’ll need it.”

  Magnus looked up over the battlefield. Morgramgar stood on the far side of the wide open space, as dark and inscrutable as ever. The death’s-head standard moved slightly in the breeze. The humming was still there, but it seemed reduced in volume. Whatever dark purpose the machines had been put to was clearly achieved. They knew battle was coming. On the tall ramparts, there was a telltale glint of steel. At last, there were sentries visible. Things were coming to a head.

  “Have you seen Hildebrandt?” asked Magnus. “We’ll need him.”

  Thorgad shook his head.

  “He’ll be along. But you should be more worried about your rival, Messina.”

  A sudden feeling of uneasiness made Magnus pause. He’d almost forgotten about the wayward Tilean. The tunnelling had taken up so much time and energy that Messina’s actions had seemed almost inconsequential.

  “What do you mean?”

  Thorgad shook his head dismissively.

  “Too late to do anything about it now,” he said, looking over towards Scharnhorst’s command retinue. “Human business is none of my concern anyway. I think the signal’s about to be given.”

  As the dwarf finished talking, there was a loud blare of trumpets from the heralds. Riders broke from the cover of high ground, and began delivering sealed orders to the various captains arranged across the open ground.

  From his vantage point at the rear of the entire deployment, Magnus had a good view of the preparation. Men were hurriedly taking their positions, rushing to form lines and complete detachments. Slowly, with some confusion and much yelling of orders from harassed sergeants, the familiar patchwork of an Imperial army began to take shape. Scharnhorst’s forces were strung out in a long line facing Morgramgar’s south-facing walls. On the left flank, the flagellants clustered. Heedless of orders, they feverishly banged drums and blew horns, chanting the name of Sigmar over and over. They had passed into their strange battlefield trance. Magnus had seen it before. They would be almost impervious to wounds once they were unleashed.

  On the right of the flagellants were the first companies of halberdiers and pikemen. They were mostly composed of mercenary companies, and wore a variety of colours. Aside from the flagellants, they were the least orderly of the army’s detachments, and Magnus could make out officers moving between them, trying to knock them into shape.

  Beyond them, at the centre of the assault, were the Knights of the Iron Sceptre. Kruger was visible at their head, mounted on his giant sable charger. In their spotless armour and perfect formation, they were a formidable company, the iron heart of the entire army. On their right, the Hochland companies of halberdiers and handgunners had been arranged. They were kitted out in the red and green of their state, and stood silently in neat regiments. Unlike the flagellants, they made little noise. Most of them knew they would soon be fighting their countrymen, and there was little stomach for the forthcoming slaughter. Their commanders marched among them, trying to drum up some aggression. Magnus watched the spectacle grimly. When the blood started flowing, then they would remember how to kill.

  On the extreme right flank of the army were the shorter-range artillery pieces, the Helstorms and the Helblasters. They were protected by a sullen-looking company of state troopers. Standing in front of a row of those monsters couldn’t have been a popular assignment. Behind them on slightly higher ground were placed the long-range guns, the mortars and the surviving cannons. Their crews were still busy with the final adjustments to their range. All were pointed at the gates. With the removal of covering fire from the walls, they were now perfectly capable of hitting them. Once they were down, the charge would be ordered. For now, all eyes were on the guns.

  Magnus looked back towards the centre of the deployment. As before, Scharnhorst stood on a low mound just behind the main companies of Hochland troops. He was peering through a spyglass, looking intently at the enemy fortifications before giving the orders to commence battle. Around him, his commanders shouted orders, which were quickly relayed down the lines. There were only three reserve companies held back. When the time came, the general clearly wanted a swift kill.

  “Here he comes,” said Thorgad, motioning down the slope.

  Hildebrandt was walking up to meet them, red in the face.

  “Where have you been?” asked Magnus. “This is about to begin.” The big man looked worried.

  “Your chests,” he said. “They’ve been tampered with. The Blutschreiben components. They’ve been taken.”

  Magnus felt as if the earth had been knocked from under his feet. He stared back at Hildebrandt stupidly for a moment, taking in the news slowly.

  “How do you—” he began.

  “I went to the wagon to retrieve the last of the ammunition for the big guns. We were unloading crates when a chest of yours was knocked from its place. The lock broke. There’s nothing but straw in there.”

  Magnus’ incredulity turned quickly into rage.

  “So that’s what he’s been doing!” he cried, his fists balling in impotent fury. “The little bastard! He has no idea what he’s doing. It doesn’t work! If he tries to use it—”

  His tirade was broken by a fresh blast of trumpets. Scharnhorst had given the signal. The barrage was to begin.

  “Where is he?” hissed Magnus, his cheeks red with anger.

  “You’ve got no time,” said Thorgad. “The order’s been given.”

  Magnus looked around him. The gunnery captains looked back at him. For a moment, he considered leaving them in Hildebrandt’s hands. He needed to track down Messina before he did anything stupid. But it was impossible. Scharnhorst’s eyes were on him. His duty was clear.

  “Damn it all,” he muttered. “Messina can wait. He can’t have done much with the pieces yet.”

  He rose to his full height, and turned to face the waiting gunners.

  “On my mark!” he cried, his harsh voice echoing down the lines of artillery.

  The crews sprang forward, flaming brands at the ready. The spongers and master gunners stood back. Their work was done.

  Magnus took a last look at their trim and angle of the guns, and the position of the barrels. There was nothing out of place. He looked up at the walls. They were as blank as ever, dark and sheer. Only the blast marks near the parapet gave away the effects of their raid.

  “Fire!” he cried, and his voice bellowed out down the lines.

  As one, the crews ignited the fuses. There was a short gap as the cord burned down. But then, one by one, the mighty engines let loose their deadly cargo. Mortars sent their charges looping high into the clear air. They rained down on the battlements heavily. There was no Tilean fire in them this time, but honest explosive charge and searing grape. Stone cracked and buckled under the onslaught.

  With a screaming whoosh, the Helstorm rockets streaked towards their targets. Most hit the target, spinning into the gatehouse and exploding in a messy plume of fire. Only a few careered off course, slamming into the ground before the walls, or spinning wildly off into the skies before fizzling out and falling to earth in the far distance. The Helblasters joined in, sending ranks of piercing heavy iron shot against the distant gates, slamming into the stone and metalwork with a series of heavy, echoing bl
asts.

  The ridge was engulfed with drifting smoke. Crews battled to reload their weapons amid the eye-watering clouds. Those soldiers closest to the artillery lines shifted away nervously, holding their ears against the splitting cracks and booms.

  “Maintain your fire!” cried Magnus, though his voice was hardly audible in the cacophony. “All guns to be aimed at the gates!”

  Finally, as if held in reserve to remind all of their peerless power, the last of the great cannons were unleashed. Massive, ground-shaking booms rang out as the fearsome machines of war detonated, sending their iron shot spinning across the open ground. The noise of impact resounded heavily between the valley walls. Round after round slammed into the gates. Huge metal shot alternated with explosive rockets and dispersed grape. The citadel was being battered into submission.

  Along me ranks of waiting soldiers, a low murmur began to pick up volume. There was no response from the fortress. It was as grim and unmoving as ever. But damage was being done. The rounds of stone-tearing ammunition kept hitting. The master gunners had done their targeting work well. Cracks began to appear in the masonry. The wolf’s head lost its flame.

  “Keep firing!” bellowed Magnus.

  As he spoke, there was a shuddering crash to his right. He whirled around to see one of the Helblasters listing to one side, its barrels split open and steaming. A man was trapped under the wreckage, squealing in agony. Others rushed to pour water on the red-hot metal and haul the man free. Hildebrandt left his station to oversee the withdrawal of the piece. Magnus turned his attention back to the firing.

  “Keep at it!” he cried again. “No respite!”

  The heat of the guns was now almost tangible, even in the ice-cold air. Another round slammed into the distant walls. All along the ranks of the army, men strained to see the results of the battery. Still there was no answer from the citadel. Their teeth had been drawn. The gate was defenceless against ranged fire. Magnus felt a grim sense of satisfaction. It was almost too easy.