[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  The outrider sighed. “They are all around,” he said. “Vanguard forces push deeper into Talabecland already, and I have heard that Ostland too is overrun.”

  “The armies of Chaos from the north, the green tide of Orcs from the east…” Grunwald shook his head.

  The outrider frowned. “Enemies from the east?”

  Karl waved a hand, dismissing the question.

  “We must away,” he said. “Knights of Myrmidia! Ready yourselves! We march!”

  “I will leave one of my men with you, to guide you to the Elector’s army,” said the outrider. “Helmut!” he shouted, and a young noble, probably no more than fourteen years of age, saluted sloppily. “You will guide these templars and their companions to the army of the Elector count. Be wary of the enemy.”

  Karl nodded in thanks, and extended his hand to the outrider. “Preceptor Karl Heiden is my name,” he said as he clasped hands with the older warrior.

  “Klaus Midders,” said the outrider. “I pray to Sigmar that we shall meet again.”

  “Indeed. Ride well, Klaus Midders,” said Karl. The outrider hoisted himself easily into the saddle.

  Eldanair shouted again, and several of the pistolier’s horses snorted and tossed their heads.

  The outrider Klaus pulled a brass eyeglass from a pouch at his side and extended it, looking to the east where Eldanair was pointing.

  “An enemy rider, alone on the rise to the east,” he said after a minute. “He’s motionless—watching us. They are closer than anticipated. The elector must be warned.”

  With quick, sharp orders, the outrider organised his pistoliers. Two of them he sent directly back to the army, carrying messages he swiftly penned and sealed with his ornate signet ring. They galloped off to the west, riding hard.

  Leaving just the young pistolier Helmut as their guide, the outrider wheeled his steed and with a wave, led his soldiers in a trot towards the lone enemy horseman.

  “Thorrik,” said Grunwald, walking away from the others to speak to the ironbreaker, who was sat on a stone smoking. “Will you join us heading east?”

  The dwarf sighed and puffed on his pipe. “I have been gone from my clan too long,” he said at last. “I am eager to return to my people. But it seems that there is nothing at Bechafen now. Aye, I will come with you, manling. If nothing else, I should be able to learn where Clan Barad fights.”

  Grunwald slapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “I am sorry that it seems your people are not there,” the witch hunter said. “Though I am glad you’re still travelling with us.”

  The dwarf nodded to him, his eyes glittering with rare humour. “Aye,” he said. “For a manling you are not half bad.”

  “Well, young man,” said Karl to the solitary pistolier. “Lead on.”

  The moorland they travelled over was bleak and eerie and thick fogs surrounded them often, wet and cloying, making their progress difficult. Strange lights seemed to shimmer in the distance at times, and the silence then was even more profound, the fog muffling even the rattle of Thorrik’s armour so that it seemed dull and distant.

  They travelled as swiftly as they were able. The young pistolier was clearly in awe of the knights, as well he would be, thought Grunwald. The pistolkorps was an organisation that many noble lords sent their sons to join, and it was generally regarded as a place where a young man could earn his spurs in battle. From the pistolkorps many of the men went on to join one of the knightly orders, the templars of the Blazing Sun amongst them. Still, Grunwald found the upper-class bearing of the boy irritating, and though he regarded the knights with the utmost respect, his disdain for him and Annaliese was palpable. As for Thorrik and Eldanair, the boy did not so much as glance in their direction.

  “That was a sloppy salute you gave your commanding officer, boy,” he said after an hour’s hard march.

  The pistolier looked down at Grunwald arrogantly.

  “I am the son of a baron. Klaus Midders is a lowborn—a mere drill instructor.”

  “I too am a mere lowborn,” said Grunwald dangerously. The pistolier flushed an angry red, and opened his mouth to say something. He caught himself, his eyes flicking to the pendant hanging around the witch hunter’s neck, and closed his mouth. “Very wise,” said Grunwald.

  “You are of the church of Sigmar, therefore your low birth is of lesser importance,” said the pistolier sullenly.

  “Helmut!” said Karl sharply. The young pistolier straightened instantly, snapping off a sharp salute to the preceptor. “Ride ahead and ensure the way is clear.” The boy nodded and dug his heels into his steed. Karl smirked. “Why bait the boy, Grunwald?”

  “I don’t like his type.”

  “He’s a spoilt brat—there are thousands of them. Never going to get ahead in the world if that is the way you treat all of your betters.”

  “Do I look like I have any interest in getting ahead by toadying myself to the likes of his breed?”

  “His breed. Ouch. I am of noble birth myself, you know.”

  “There are two types of nobleman, Karl. And you are not his kind.”

  The preceptor laughed. “Perhaps. It will be beaten out of him if he is chosen to join the templars of the Blazing Sun.”

  “If he lives that long,” said Grunwald. He felt suddenly rather petty for his actions, and stalked further ahead, walking alone.

  Karl dropped back alongside Annaliese, glancing in irritation at the tall figure of Eldanair ghosting her footsteps.

  “Nothing like a walk in the countryside, eh?” he said lightly as the girl smiled at him. She laughed at his levity, and Karl smiled broadly.

  “And how is the maiden of Sigmar today?” he said.

  She scowled at him, though her eyes laughed at his quip. “I wish you would not call me that,” she said.

  “I apologise,” he said, bowing and sweeping his hand before him. “I see you are still practising at swordplay with the elf before the dawn of each day.”

  “Eldanair is a fine teacher,” she said.

  “A marvel, I’m sure,” said Karl. “Your timing and balance is improved. You move well. I would suggest a blade over that hammer, as it would complement your speed more, but I don’t think that anything I say could convince you not to use it.”

  Annaliese smiled. “You know me too well.”

  Not nearly enough, he thought.

  The army of Wolfram Hertwig, Elector Count of the Ostermark, was encamped at Seuthes, a village some ninety miles south-west of the capital of the state, Bechafen.

  Five miles out from the Empire army they were challenged by swarthy men appearing out of the mist with arrows aimed at them. They wore no uniform and had appeared silently and with great stealth—most likely militia scouts, thought Grunwald. Not part of the formal state army, but employed in times of war. At other times they might have made their way hunting, either game or bounties. Their leader, a hulking scout called Dietrich with arms as thick as Grunwald’s thighs, was taken by surprise as Eldanair rose up like a wraith behind him and placed a blade to his throat.

  Her hands raised, Annaliese stepped forward speaking and signing to Eldanair that these were friends, and the elf somewhat reluctantly removed his blade. Dietrich frowned, unnerved that the elf had managed to sneak up on him, rubbing at his neck.

  Escorted by these scouts, they were taken down to the army, the last fighting force remaining within the state. From the high moors, the land dropped away sharply, and the village could be seen below. Thousands of tents were picketed in the snow-covered fields beyond, and makeshift defences and emplacement were being hastily dug. Several great cannons, mighty war machines crafted in far away Nuln, were being heaved into place, and engineers were pacing out distances to ensure they knew how much powder to load.

  “Looks like the elector has chosen to make his stand here,” said Grunwald.

  “Why not keep the army moving towards the east?” questioned Karl. “Get closer to reinforcements?” The scout leader, Dietrich, answered him. �
��The forces of the Raven Host are massing along the border of Talabecland and the Ostermark. If we had kept moving, then we might well have ended up caught between two enemy armies. Better to turn and face one than fight a battle on two fronts.”

  “The enemy controls the border?” asked Karl. Dietrich nodded.

  “The curs are gathering in strength. We fight ’em here, or we fight ’em somewhere else,” he said, shrugging. “I reckon this elector’s got some sense at least—this ’aint a bad place to make our stand.”

  He was a simple, down to earth and direct man, with none of the pomposity that often surrounded the military. Grunwald liked him.

  It was a good place to face the enemy, he decided. Down the steep, rough incline the enemy would descend, down into the dip. Ice covered the murky pools in this natural marsh, and the enemy would be slowed as it pushed through it, all the while being targeted by the Empire bows and handguns.

  Having struggled though the mire, the foe would then be forced to climb a steady slope of clear land towards the Empire forces. It would be long and tiring and the icy ground would likely be thick with the dead.

  The state soldiers working to ready the defences wore the purple and yellow liveries of the Ostermark, though there were many pockets bedecked in the yellow and red of Talabecland, and the men heaving the cannon into place wore the black of Nuln.

  It was a hive of activity, as the Empire forces readied themselves for battle.

  “Still, if we can trust the word of those uptight pistolier bastards, then we are gonna be in for one hell of a fight,” said Dietrich. “Messages came in about an hour ago, just before we headed out. They say the army heading our way spreads from one horizon to the other.”

  “Sounds like great odds,” said Karl sarcastically. “We might as well start the victory celebrations early.”

  “Still, I don’t trust the word of a pistolier further than I can piss,” added Dietrich. “Excusing me language,” he added, tipping his hat in the direction of Annaliese. She laughed, finding the sight of the massive scout looking abashed comical.

  “I’ve heard far worse in my time, Dietrich,” she assured him. “And I’ll hear far worse yet, I’m sure.”

  Grunwald calculated quickly as they descended towards the village. He guessed there must have been around three thousand soldiers camped here, judging from the number of tents and lean-tos erected on the far field. Not a large force by any stretch, and if the reports of the pistoliers were correct, they would find themselves heavily outnumbered in the forthcoming battle. Still, that was a concern that he had no power to affect, and so he pushed it from his mind.

  “Your elf there,” said Dietrich, nodding towards Eldanair, who was walking nearby, his face pale and expressionless.

  “He’s not my elf,” said Grunwald.

  “Whatever. I’ll be leading the boys back out before dawn,” continued Dietrich, “and if he’s willing, I’d like to have him along. Certainly showed me up earlier,” he added, rubbing at his neck where the elf’s slim blade had been placed, right alongside the artery.

  Grunwald shrugged. “As I said, he isn’t my man. And I don’t think he would be interested in being hired. But, if he’s willing, it’s his own business.”

  “Fair enough,” said Dietrich. He looked over at the elf. “He speaks Reikspiel?”

  “No,” answered Grunwald.

  “Ah,” replied Dietrich. “That might make things tricky, then.”

  “She seems to have the knack of talking with him though,” Grunwald said, jabbing a black-gloved thumb in Annaliese’s direction.

  “Preceptor!” called one of the knights, a young man from Reikland.

  “What is it Jarek?” said Karl.

  “Look,” said the young knight eagerly, pointing down into an open field to the south of the village. Squinting his eyes against the glare of the snow, Karl could see two blocks of knights wheeling and charging across the open field, practising their movement as a cohesive unit. The banners held aloft by one knight within each of the regiments was unmistakable. Karl laughed out loud.

  “Templars of Myrmidia! Finally!” he said. “And if the goddess is looking favourably upon us, they may even have some spare warhorses. Come!” he called. “Let us rejoin our temple!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Grunwald strode through the village with Annaliese and Eldanair. Soldiers hefting powder kegs and lead shot gave them long looks before returning to their work, muttering amongst themselves. Eldanair had drawn his hood down low over his face once more, but no doubt rumour of the elf had already circulated amongst the soldiers—word travelled fast within an army.

  Karl and his knights had made their way towards the templars of their order, and Thorrik had left to speak to one of the Imperial commanders—he knew several of them, having been stationed around Bechafen for years, fighting alongside many of these same warriors.

  “There are many here who are not soldiers,” commented Annaliese.

  “There are,” said Grunwald. The streets were filled with desperate looking people, families clearly dispossessed by the wars and following close to the army for protection. “But the outcome of the coming battle will effect them as much as it will the soldiers on the field.”

  Many of the ragged, dirty people were clearly trying to eke out an existence as camp followers, cooking and cleaning for the soldiers in return for food. Others prostituted themselves, their wives or their daughters to feed their families, and had a haunted look in their eyes.

  Grunwald stared through the crowd of ragged, homeless Ostermarkers, and many turned away from his gaze, recognising him for what he was and fearing drawing attention to themselves. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the faces, more out of habit than any thought of possible threat. They moved through the crowd, passing crippled, malformed beggars and hastily erected stalls.

  Grunwald ignored the begging hands held out towards him, pushing through the crowd of wretches and cripples. On top of a barrel a near naked flagellant screamed and ranted of redemption and death as he slowly pushed metal pokers through his own flesh. Few paid any heed at his crazed words, and dozens of the spikes already pierced the skin of his forearms, chest and thighs. As they walked past, the flagellant pointed at Annaliese and began screeching at the top of his lungs.

  “The great comet will come again! From the heavens shall He hurl it, and the world will be engulfed in darkness and flame! The End Times! These are the End Times!”

  Annaliese’s face was pale, and Grunwald held her by her upper arm, guiding her away from the ranting madman. Something caught Grunwald’s attention, a cry from somewhere nearby, and he stalked towards the sound, releasing the girl.

  “Get yer blessings! Authentic fetishes of Morr! Icons of the long sleep!” came the shout, and Grunwald followed it, Annaliese and Eldanair close on his heels, until they came upon a tiny, rat-like man with long black hair trailing from his scabrous scalp. He held a long stick hung with all manner of deathly images and icons: representations of skulls carved with Morr’s sign, miniature hourglasses filled with sand, dried black roses and other minor fetishes and phylacteries.

  The black haired man fell silent as he saw Grunwald stalking towards him, and his eyes flicked back and forth, as if seeking an escape route.

  “Priest of Morr, are you?” the witch hunter snarled, grabbing a hold of the man’s shirtfront.

  “No, sir,” stammered the man. Grunwald fingered through the man’s items with one black-gloved hand, his scarred and brutal face hard.

  “Any individual who is not a priest of Morr and identified as selling such items may be seen by some as a purveyor of necromantic curios,” the witch hunter said, his voice low and deadly. A space developed around them as other citizens backed away from the scene, and the rat-like man visibly paled, his eyes widening.

  “N… no sir! I am not… I would never,” he stammered.

  “One suspected of necromantic practices faces death by burning,” continued Grunwald. He pul
led the staff from the man’s hand violently, and hurled it to the ground, where he crushed several of the miniature icons beneath his heel, while the man quivered before him.

  “You are not such a man, though are you,” said Grunwald, no question in his voice. “You are merely an opportunistic wretch, seeking to earn a few coins through the fear of others. Correct?”

  The man nodded his head quickly.

  “Show me what you have earned,” said Grunwald. The man looked at him with wild eyes. “Empty out your pouches,” the witch hunter urged. The man fumbled at his belt, and emptied the contents of a pouch into one of his hands. Grunwald cuffed the man suddenly, hard on the back his head, and he fell to his knees. “All of it,” the witch hunter said with snarl. His hands shaking, the man pulled a hidden pouch out from beneath his shirt and emptied it upon the ground. Grunwald pushed the coins around with the toe of one boot, counting. There was more here than a soldier earned in half a year. He frowned and nodded his head slowly, his eyebrows raised.

  “A good little income,” he said. Then his face hardened once more and he leant down to stare the terrified man in the face. “I want you to take every coin here to the surgeon’s tent that has been set up in the town square. Speak to the headman there, and tell him you wish to make a donation. Tell him you wish to help see the soldiers who’ll be injured and slain in the battle tomorrow cared for. The donation is to go towards that—to help the men that will tomorrow walk out onto the field of battle and die so that the likes of you may live. I will check at the surgery myself within the hour, and ensure that every last one of these coins has been delivered. If it has not, then you are a dead man. Run away now, little man,” snarled Grunwald, “before I change my mind and burn you here and now.”

  The terrified man scrabbled in dirt, picking up his coins, and fled, his face drawn and pale. Grunwald turned around, smirking, to find Annaliese glaring at him.

  “What?” he said.

  “Was that really necessary?” she said scathingly. Grunwald frowned, not understanding.