The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  ‘You scorn my gold?’ he said, genuinely amazed.

  Thorgad shook his head disgustedly, and said no more. Magnus looked at him intently. This was an unexpected development, albeit one with possibilities.

  ‘Suppose you tell me why you’re so keen to come along?’ he said. ‘I can believe you know what you are doing. I’ve never met a dwarf yet who didn’t know the right way to point a cannon. But you’re not in it for the money? That I find hard to believe.’

  Thorgad still didn’t reply at once.

  ‘My reasons needn’t concern you,’ he said at last, the words dragged from his lips. ‘My task in Morgramgar is my own. But I will swear loyalty to you and your company. If you know anything of the dawi, then you’ll know what that means. My oath will bind me until the task is accomplished and the citadel is broken. Then I will go my own way. All debts paid. That’s the offer. You would do well to accept it.’

  Magnus silently weighed up the options. Although the dwarf wasn’t to know it, the company at present still consisted solely of himself and the Tilean. Hildebrandt might waver, but Magnus hadn’t found any other engineers of adequate quality. To turn down a concrete offer would be difficult. The fact that Thorgad would work for free was incredible, if troubling. But he knew the value of a dwarf oath. Whatever reason Thorgad had for wanting to get inside Morgramgar, it was clearly powerful.

  Magnus ran a weary hand through his unkempt hair. Thorgad waited patiently.

  ‘Very well,’ said Magnus at length. ‘I’ll take you on. But if you’re going to do this, then be aware that I command this company. I don’t care how things are done in Karaz-a-Kazoo, or wherever you’re from, but we do it my way in my command. That goes for you as much as the other lads. Can you do that?’

  Thorgad looked sourly back at Magnus, clearly not relishing that prospect.

  ‘You have my oath, manling,’ he said, grudgingly.

  Magnus spat on his hand, and held it out.

  ‘Then we’ll seal it,’ he said.

  Thorgad spat a thick gobbet of phlegm onto his own palm, and walked towards Magnus. The two clasped hands tightly. Magnus felt the iron-hard grip of the dwarf fingers, and spasms shot through his arm. Taking on the dwarf in combat would have been madness. It was lucky Thorgad had intended him no harm.

  ‘When do we leave?’ said Thorgad, releasing Magnus’s hand and wiping his own on his jerkin.

  ‘There are a few things still to do,’ said Magnus, truthfully enough. ‘Scharnhorst aims to leave tomorrow. The muster will be at dawn, in the shadow of the Kristalhof.’

  ‘I will see you then,’ said Thorgad, and started to walk from the room.

  ‘Wait!’ said Magnus. ‘There is work for us to do. I know nothing of what your skills are.’

  Thorgad shrugged, and kept walking.

  ‘That can wait,’ he said, flatly. ‘I have business elsewhere. I’ll see you at dawn. Look for me at the castle.’

  With that, he was gone, clumping down the stairs in his heavy iron-shod boots. Magnus stood for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself. From downstairs, he heard Frau Ettieg’s squeal of alarm, followed by a door slamming.

  Eventually, Magnus walked over to the bed and sat down heavily. That had been unusual. The disturbance had upset his rhythm. Normally, he might have had a drink to calm his nerves. But he was trying to cut down. Scharnhorst’s words had hurt him more than he liked to admit. He needed to clean himself up. Perhaps this was a chance to turn things around. Or get killed. One of the two, certainly.

  Magnus sighed. He’d rather have had Tobias beside him. But Hildebrandt would have to make up his own mind.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Forget all you have been told about the heroic legends of the Empire. Forget tales of bravery and sacrifice. Forget the legends of the runefangs and Ghal Maraz. Do you really think that we would remain the mightiest realm on the earth if we relied on those magical trinkets in battle? I will tell you the truth. Every battle is won or lost before a sword is even picked up. The real glory of the Emperor’s armies lies in one simple, mundane thing. Planning. If you have no stores of blackpowder, no ledgers for payment, no lines of supply, no schedule for armaments, you are doomed. I will also tell you the most potent weapon in all the armies of men. Though you may not believe me now, you will when the time of testing comes. Curb your laughter, and listen to me. It is the baggage train.’

  From an address given by General Erasmus Jasper von Mickelberg,

  Chief Instructor at the Imperial College of Arms, Altdorf

  The new day dawned, cold and wreathed in rain. Heavy clouds were being driven south-east by winds from the far steppes of Kislev and the gloomy plains of Ostermark. The rain-bearing palls were piled up on the northern horizon, discharging their load in heavy, lightning-laced storms against the flanks of the distant mountains. The bleak forests of Hochland were damp and sodden. The worst of the winter chill was leaving the lowlands, but the spring rains had been quick to take their place.

  Ludenhof’s army had been assembled on a wide area to the north of the city. Normally the space was flat and dry, kept free of farms and woodland for the purpose of mustering soldiers for the endless wars of the north. Now it had been turned into a vast pool of slick mud, churned up by the ceaseless movement of men. Horses laboured and whinnied as they were whipped to their stations. The infantry hauled their wargear through the mire, cursing as the grime clutched at their boots. Dampened by the incessant drizzle, drained by the filth underfoot, the army presented a dismal aspect.

  The count himself was nowhere to be seen. Members of the nobility had ridden out at first light to inspect the progress of the campaign. Otherwise, it had been left to Grotius and Scharnhorst to ensure that the men were put in order. The Imperial agent sat on his horse atop a low rise, impassively looking over the mass of striving figures beneath him. All across the open plain, the shouts of sergeants and the groans of their charges filled the air.

  Despite the short time given for preparation, Grotius had performed his task well. There were nearly four thousand troops assembled, organised in rows of companies according to their function. The bulk of the men were state troopers and drafted militia, arrayed in the Hochland colours of red and forest-green. Some attempt had been made to impose a modicum of uniformity on them, but for every smartly arrayed soldier in well-kept hauberk and helmet, there were a dozen wearing hastily dyed rags and clutching pitchforks rather than halberds. Alongside the regular troops were the mass of mercenaries, some decked out in a close approximation of Hochland livery, most wearing whatever they had come to Hergig in. They were under the command of their own captains, grim-faced men bearing the scars of battle. Most had better weaponry than the state troops, and knew how to use it too. The dogs of war sharpened their blades with expert relish, no doubt eager to spill the blood that earned their keep.

  Set aside from the great bulk of troops were the more accomplished elements of the army. There was a small company of knights, clad in dark armour and mounted on heavy chargers. They were not enough to form a proper cavalry charge, but looked well-equipped and practiced in the arts of combat nonetheless. There were no pistoliers or outriders alongside them, but several companies of handgunners had been assembled. These were composed of hunters and trappers from the highlands, drawn into the army with the promise of gold and the threat of the gaol. They were tall, bearded men, uncomfortable in the squalor of the city but deadly in the harsh wilderness. They spoke little, and cleaned their prized guns with quiet dedication. Of all the native soldiery, they looked the most efficient.

  And then there were the artillery brigades. Several dozen large items had been prized from Gruber’s store yards. In pride of place were the iron-belchers, the huge siege cannons. They were drawn by teams of two carthorses each on great metal-framed wagons. Each was massive, forged in the furnaces of Nuln or Middenheim and decorated with the devices of t
hose cities. Benedictions to Sigmar and Karl Franz had been draped across them by the superstitious crews, which now hung limply in the rain, the ink running down the parchment in rivulets. Other, lighter cannons were drawn in their wake, their slender barrels raised into the air like the snouts of beasts. Behind them all were more canvas-covered carts, each hauled by fresh teams of horses. Within them was stored the shot, the balls of iron grape, the kegs of blackpowder, the rams, the tinder, the spikes, the hammers and all the other equipment needed to keep the mighty machines of war firing true.

  But the conventional cannons were not all. Despite Gruber’s slovenliness, there were also carts laden with other artillery pieces of arcane design. Most were covered in waxed sheets to keep them from the rain, but here and there outlandish muzzles poked from their shielding. A practiced eye would have seen the telltale outlines of mortars, squat and wide-bellied in shape. They would also have spotted two large machines, tightly bound with rope to their platforms and weighed down with lead balls. The Helblaster guns, as volatile as a Marienburg fishwife and almost as deadly. Non-engineers steered well clear of such contraptions. Even before battle had been joined, their fearsome reputation went before them. Just as dangerous, and as unpredictable, were the Helstorm rockets, of which there were also a couple of examples amidst the artillery column.

  As in the case of the cannons, these engines of war were attended by horse-drawn carts laden with ammunition, parts and supplies. Getting them all to the battlefield in one piece was a minor miracle in itself. Together, the massed ironwork had the potential to devastate an opposing force, whatever its origin. Cannons feared no monster of Chaos, and were indifferent to the horror inspired by the rampaging greenskins. Their deadly cargo was as effective against the sorcerer and the heretic as it was against mortal soldiers. And yet in the wrong hands, such mighty engines could wreak havoc amidst the ranks of the faithful too. Not for nothing did the ordinary infantryman look on them with a mix of respect and revulsion. Only the wizards inspired greater feelings of ambivalence amongst the ordinary folk of the Empire.

  On the edge of the massed ranks of soldiers, the final contingent of troops lay. The flagellants had grown in number considerably, and now formed perhaps a tenth of the entire complement of infantry. They had made no attempt at all to don the colours of Hochland, and were arrayed in their usual batch of rags and tattered cloaks. Some were naked to the waist, their chests laced with self-inflicted wounds, daubed slogans and tattoos. They seemed impervious to the biting wind and driving rain, no doubt sustained by their endless chanting to Sigmar. Cowled priests went among them, sprinkling holy water from great brass censers and leading the liturgy. They were a breed apart, the flagellants, looked on with uncomprehending eyes by the bulk of the troops. Hochland was no centre for the cult of Sigmar, and the zealots were often seen as little better than madmen.

  From his vantage point close to the army commanders, Magnus gazed over the ragged host. He was surprised that so much had been accomplished in such a short time. No doubt it was mostly down to Grotius. The man may have been a slimy toad, but he was clearly an astute one. As he pondered how such a creature had risen to his current position of power, the man himself came riding over.

  ‘You’re still with us, then,’ he said from atop his horse, giving Ironblood a supercilious smile.

  ‘It was too good an offer to turn down,’ said Magnus, dryly.

  ‘Very wise,’ said Grotius, bringing his steed to a standstill. ‘And I hope you’re impressed with what’s been accomplished. The count’s army would not disgrace any battlefield in the Empire.’

  Magnus wasn’t sure about that. A massed charge of Reiksguard would make short work of the little cavalry they possessed, and he’d seen much tougher-looking ranks of state troopers from other provinces. But he did have to admit that the number of halberdiers was impressive, as was the artillery train.

  ‘Shame the count’s not here to see it himself,’ said Magnus.

  Grotius’s face registered a faint flicker of disapproval.

  ‘The count is detained with many matters of state,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he would be here if he could.’

  ‘The elector’s place is with his men,’ came a new voice from behind them. It was harsh and grating, as if scarred by a lifetime of barked orders.

  Magnus turned, and saw a warrior priest standing before him. The man was tall and powerfully built. Like most of his order, his head was bare. His torso was encased in thick plate armour, and dark red robes hung to his ankles. He carried an iron warhammer in his right hand, crowned with spikes and engraved with passages from the holy books. His eyebrows were low and dark, causing shadows to bleed across his eyes.

  ‘Ah, Kossof,’ said Grotius. ‘This is Herr Magnus Ironblood, our master engineer. I assume you’ve not had the pleasure of each other’s acquaintance.’

  The two men looked at each other darkly.

  ‘Why we tolerate the blasphemy of the new science in the Emperor’s armies I will never understand,’ said Kossof in a low voice. ‘If Holy Sigmar had sanctioned the use of such infernal machines, he would have written of it.’

  Magnus snorted derisively.

  ‘I don’t think there were many great cannons around when Sigmar was on earth,’ he said, keeping the contempt in his voice to the fore.

  Kossof scowled, and looked as if he had discovered a new and disgusting kind of beetle on the underside of his iron-tipped boots.

  ‘I have come to expect such disrespectful blasphemy from those of your twisted persuasion, Ironblood,’ he said. ‘One day you will realise the folly of your pursuit of knowledge. If we did not live in such craven times, I would be empowered to show you the error of your ways.’

  Ironblood took a step forward, reaching for the short sword at his belt.

  ‘Oh, really?’ he said. ‘And how would you do that?’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ said Grotius, in a weary-sounding voice. ‘As entertaining as your little disagreements are, this is hardly the place for them. You should continue your theological discussions some other time. Preferably after your task is accomplished and your orders have been carried out.’

  Magnus looked between Grotius and Kossof, unsure which of them he found the most objectionable. In their own very different ways, they embodied everything he hated about the Empire.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he growled, turning on his heel without giving Kossof a second look.

  Behind him, he could hear the two men start to confer. He ignored them. Grotius was not coming on the campaign, so if they had some petty conspiracy between them, it mattered not.

  As Magnus walked somewhat aimlessly in the direction of the artillery train, he saw a familiar shape come up the hill to meet him. At once, his mood lifted, and Kossof was forgotten.

  ‘Tobias!’ he cried, and ran over to the huge man. ‘It was good of you to come. Anna-Liese has given you the afternoon off, then?’

  Magnus found himself grinning as he spoke, but he meant no disrespect. Hildebrandt’s well-ordered family life was what made the big man so admirable.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Hildebrandt, looking sheepish. ‘Magnus, I’m coming with you. I’ve thought it over, and we could do with the money. Anna-Liese has come round. She doesn’t like it, but a man has to be master in his house.’

  For a moment, Magnus stood stunned. He had resigned himself to a long, dreary journey with the inscrutable Thorgad and the untried duo of Messina and Herschel. Hildebrandt coming with him was a completely unexpected boon.

  He clasped his old friend’s hand, speechless for a moment.

  ‘That’s… good,’ was all he could muster. ‘Really, that’s good. I thought you’d decided against it.’

  Hildebrandt looked pleased, but there was something else behind his expression. Worry, perhaps. Or maybe regret.

  ‘I couldn’t let you go on your own,’ said the
big man, not entirely convincingly. ‘You’d blow yourself up. Or someone else. And it’s been too long since I did some real work. Got my hands dirty. You know what I mean.’

  Magnus looked at him closely. There was something the man wasn’t telling him. But he was in no mood to inquire too deeply. The fact that he had an ally, someone he could rely on to get things done properly, was more than enough. He smiled again, uncaring of the rainwater running down his lank hair.

  ‘There’ll be five of us,’ he said. ‘Two men I’ve hired, and a dwarf who’s coming for his own reasons.’

  ‘A dwarf?’ said Hildebrandt, eyebrows raised. ‘I thought you hated dwarfs.’

  Magnus shrugged.

  ‘I’m not paying him,’ he said. ‘And there’s been little enough time to arrange anything else. Come, I’ll take you to meet the others. We’ll have to divide up the workload differently now, but another pair of hands will help.’

  Hildebrandt looked across the plain, his expert eyes picking out the heavy guns and already making an assessment of their best deployment.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the way those volley guns have been stowed, for a start.’

  The two men walked down the hill briskly, over to the staging area for the gunnery crews. As they went, they were soon lost in a technical discussion of firing rates and powder delivery.

  All around them, men marched with growing purpose, their faces set grimly against the drizzle. Horsemen rode between the milling companies, delivering messages and carrying orders. Everyone could sense that matters were nearly set in place. Whispers had gone round that Scharnhorst was on his way. The signal to break camp, a series of braying notes from the horns, would soon sound. The preparation had been done, the gold had changed hands, the men had been found.

  The wait was over. Hochland was going to war.

  Once the orders to move out had been given, the army roused itself like a massive, sluggish animal. The knights had ridden out first, along with the commander’s retinue. Scharnhorst rode at the head of the line on a giant black stallion. It was a fine-looking beast, stamping and shaking its head as it walked, and it wouldn’t have looked out of place in the stables of the Knights Panther. His retinue was composed of the usual senior officials, clad in the finest armour and draped in the red and green of Hochland. Despite their impressive appearance, most were there to oversee the distribution of food, the maintenance of discipline in the ranks, and the protection of the army’s chests of coins and other things worth stealing. Scharnhorst’s most useful captains marched with their men.