Jonas saw his saviour: not one of his own men, but a halfling, a fat-fingered man barely three and a half feet tall. He struggled to wrest the axe from the barbarian’s hand, eyes blazing blue, a wild mop of curly hair casting droplets of perspiration into the air. Just to the south lay the Moot, the bumpy lowland these miniature folk called home. They, too, had mustered to fight for hearth and home.
The halfling, who’d had both hands clamped around the barbarian’s wrist, detached one of them to reach for the dagger at his belt. The Kurgan caught him in the throat with his elbow. Choking, the halfling reeled back, relinquishing his hold on the barbarian’s wrist. Jonas grabbed tight his sword, but could not find the proper leverage for a decent blow without also freeing his target’s leg. The Kurgan dug his axe deep into the halfling’s shoulder. The brave little fellow whitened and sank to his knees, a crimson stain rapidly spreading across the quilted cotton vest he wore for armour. The barbarian yanked again to get his leg out from under Jonas, who, sword at the ready, let him do it. He shoved his weapon deep into the man’s back, cutting through his spine. The Kurgan’s body shuddered; his limbs flopped. He jolted up, then dropped to the ground, Jonas’ sword still spearing out of him. Even then, his leathery muscles held tenaciously to life.
Jonas stepped forward to seize his blade-hilt, to pull the weapon from his dying victim. He was still struggling to free it when he saw another Kurgan crunching toward him, swinging a gigantic two-handed mace with a studded, globe-like head. Jonas ducked down to pluck the dying Kurgan’s axe from his twitching fingers. He had a second to heft it and test its weight before the mace-man bore down on him. He swung, notching it uselessly into the mace’s pole-like haft. The barbarian smashed him in the chest, the blow’s force hauling him a few inches up into the air. Jonas fell backwards and landed with a bone-jarring thump. He scrambled his legs out and pushed his shield against the ground to quickly right himself. The axe had flown from his grip and his weapon hand was again empty.
His attacker was gone from view. Jonas looked behind him just in time to evade a blow aimed at the back of his head. A swordsman of his company charged at the mace-wielder from the side, winning time for the unarmed Jonas to pull back. The swordsman, a moustachioed carouser whose name was Doring, slashed at the big man’s back, drawing him away from Jonas.
Growling deep in his throat, the mace-man switched his homicidal intentions to Doring. Shield held high to protect his face and throat, Jonas skimmed across the muddied ground in search of a usable weapon. All around him, smoke-obscured figures grunted and clashed. Jonas’ gut churned: a comrade’s face stared up at him, eyes widened by death. It was impossible to tell what had killed him; aside from his stricken posture and expression of frozen panic, he seemed utterly untouched. Jonas muttered a hasty prayer to Sigmar, who would surely clasp the soul of a fallen warrior to his armoured breast, then stooped to take up the soldier’s unblooded sword.
He turned to rejoin the skirmish just as the ball of the mace-man’s enormous weapon smacked against the side of Doring’s head, breaking it open. Doring collapsed, and Jonas darted toward him, prepared to avenge his death or injury, whichever it turned out to be.
At that moment, a collective, despairing sigh arose from the main site of the battle to the north-west of Jonas’ position. Men of the Empire groaned. Worshippers of Chaos croaked in bloodthirsty jubilation. Barbarian horns blatted and shrilled. Kurgan drums pounded while those of Stirland were silent.
The Kurgan horde had broken the Imperial ranks. Now they could dash unmolested to the undefended towns and villages to the west, south, or north.
Jonas’ target, the mace-man, swivelled his massive neck toward the breach in the Empire line, where his brethren would already be trampling on through. Jonas hurled himself at the man, shield-first, realising even as he did it that he was making a stupid, hotheaded mistake. The first rule of battle was never to let anger rule your actions. Anger leads to error. Errors are for the enemy to make, and for the clever warrior lo turn against him.
The mace-man swept out of his way, then tripped him. Jonas hit the mud for the third time in but a few minutes of fighting. It was a bad place to be. He gripped his dead comrade’s blade and held it up, preparing as best he could to defend from his inferior position. The Kurgan mace-man, though, looked down at him with a contemptuous curl of the lip, kicked mud Jonas’ way, and turned to join his fellows in the rushing column headed for the breach in the ranks. Jonas sprang up from the slippery mud, only to be bowled over by the falling body of a Talabec gunner, whose arm had been shorn off below the elbow. The man threw himself gasping into Jonas’ arms.
Even though he knew better, Jonas was still surprised by the utter confusion of the battlefield. What his father’s sergeants had told him was true: when you’re fighting it, a war is not about great movements of troops, of thrusts and counter-thrusts as played out on a map by generals in training. Instead, it is like the world’s largest, most lethal tavern brawl, except that it is unbounded by walls—and afterwards, it’s much harder to locate the grog.
The gunner’s breathing accelerated, then grew shallower. He expired with his head in Jonas’ lap. Relieved, Jonas slid him down on the ground, broke himself from his unworthy reverie, and stood to pursue the barbarians. Yet in the thickening smoke, he could see neither foe to harry, nor friend to call to his side. He ran toward the fading sounds of battle, but got lost in the smoke. He tripped over a gutted halfling and was nearly kicked in the groin by a wounded horse. He dropped into stance to fight a man who came toward him in the smoke. As the man drew nearer he turned out to be not an enemy, but an especially burly Stirland halberdier. The left side of the man’s beard was burned away, most likely by a torch thrust into his face.
“Don’t slice me, mate,” said the halberdier, “unless you want to finish me, in which case you’d be doin’ me a favour.” Considering that he addressed an officer, he spoke with undue familiarity, but Jonas was not the kind who’d upbraid a soldier for petty reasons. Especially not one from another command. Instead, he subtly straightened his shoulders, so the man could see the braids that marked his rank.
The halberdier changed his attitude straightaway, and the two of them walked through the smoke. It got into Jonas’ lungs making him cough and choke.
The involuntary movement awakened the pain from his blow to the head and his fall upon his shield. He tried to ignore these aches, but as the ardour of battle faded, they took a stronger hold on him. Soon they reached a point that was empty of slain and battered bodies. Jonas realised he’d got himself turned around and was undoubtedly moving in the wrong direction, away from whatever regrouping would be underway. He stopped and tried to guess where he ought to head.
A distinctive rapping of sticks on kettle drums started up. Jonas perked to attention; it was his company’s muster call. He moved towards the sound. The halberdier tagged along.
“How many did you kill, soldier?” Jonas asked him.
The halberdier spoke in a dull, sleepy tone. “None, I don’t think. I nicked one, maybe.”
“You’ll have your chance sooner than you think, my friend.”
The bleary halberdier registered little enthusiasm for this prospect.
“They possessed the upper hand from the start,” said Jonas, not sure which of them he hoped to reassure. “We had to defend many points; they could choose to attack but one. We’ll pursue them to the ends of the Empire if need be. One by one we’ll cut them down.”
The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
They trudged toward the sound of the drums. Jonas picked up his pace but the halberdier lagged behind and within a minute or so was lost to the billowing smoke, which was increasing in intensity. Jonas wondered how many acres of timber would be lost to the fire. The sky was clear, and only the gods in their celestial perches knew when the next rain would come.
From the smoke stepped others of his company: there was Glauer, who cut his beard in a mutton-chop,
and Madelung, who was broad-faced and earnest. They were barely recognisable under a dusting of ash. Jonas had to figure his face had been similarly adorned. Companies of swordsmen were more freewheeling than other Empire troops, and Jonas felt a more potent bond of comradeship with his men than would a junior officer in charge of hand gunners or archers. “What news of the others?” Jonas asked them.
Glauer shrugged. “We got separated early. Kurgan scouts were hiding in the bushes and drove us down toward the river.”
It did not take them long to find the drummer. Beside him, astride a nervous, cantering steed, waited Jonas’ commander, Henlyn Vogt. Vogt was his patron in the regiment, not that he ever showed a hint of kindliness to Jonas’ face. Perhaps he’d smoothed Jonas’ way because he still remembered the achievements of Jonas’ father, who had held this very position over two decades before.
A straight, thin nose bisected Vogt’s long, pitted face. Weariness was his standard demeanour, but now he projected a distracted energy. His eyes flitted from right to left as he rode toward Jonas and spoke.
“You live,” he said, as if at a mild, pleasant surprise.
“You should have seen him, sir!” It was Pinkert, the sauciest of the men. His hand was bandaged. “He killed four of them, just like that. Chop chop chop chop.”
It was three, Jonas thought, but did not correct him.
Vogt waved Pinkert away like he would a beggar. Pinkert’s shoulders sank. He slunk away from Vogt’s horse, mouthing the words he’d just uttered, sifting for the offence in them.
“Listen carefully, lieutenant,” Vogt said. “I’ve already sent most of our units off in pursuit and must make haste to rejoin them.”
Jonas looked up at Vogt. The angle was unfortunate; lie had no choice but to gaze straight into his superior’s oversized nostrils. “Yes, sir.”
“There’s no guarantee these are the only Kurgan who’ll come at us over those peaks,” he said, gesturing lo the purple reaches of the World’s Edge Mountains, on the eastern horizon. “In fact, we must assume the contrary. These are barbarians. They lack the organisation to agree on and execute a single rendezvous.”
“Indeed, sir,” Jonas agreed.
“For all we know there’s an even bigger force gathering up there in those mountains to strike after we’ve gone off chasing this lot. But we can’t afford not to pursue, can we?”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“You’re in command of the Gerolsbruch Swordsmen. Also I’m giving you the remnants of the Chelborg Archers. In addition, you’re to pick up whatever other stragglers you find wandering about this accursed field and attach them to your company. Yes?”
“Yes sir, but what about Lieutenant Oerlenbach?” Jonas referred to his immediate superior, the leader of the Gerolsbruch Swordsmen.
Vogt expressionlessly tilted his head, drawing Jonas’ attention to a makeshift pallet laid out on the trampled ground. A body lay there, its head and torso covered by a woollen blanket. Oerlenbach’s boots, as polished as ever, still secured his feet. The company standard-bearer stood to attention, the flag of Stirland listlessly wrapped around its pole of oak.
“Congratulations. You’ve just received a battlefield commission. First Lieutenant Rassau.”
Jonas bit down to suppress a stammer. “Thank you, sir.” He’d looked up to Oerlenbach. A bit of a taskmaster, but a good, caring leader. It would be hard to match the job he’d done.
“No time for thanks, Rassau. The battle’s far from over. This is just a regroup, that’s all. We’ve to chase those stinking Kurgs wherever they run. My other companies are already biting into their backsides and I’ve to hasten after them. So listen quick; you’ll get these orders but once. I don’t suppose your father and his sergeants schooled you in the principles of mountain combat.”
Jonas shook his head. “Neither my father, nor his men, ever had cause to serve in the mountains, sir.”
Vogt stared unhappily into the east. “You’ll need a good scout, then. Preferably one who knows his way around a mountain. Do you have a good scout?”
“Yes sir, there’s Baer, sir. A huntsman that Lieutenant Oerlenbach attached to our group. I don’t know if he’s had mountain experience specifically, sir, but—”
“Pray he does, Rassau. Your mission is this: make your way to those mountains. Go up into the hills and harry any Kurgan you find still straggling their way towards us. Understand?”
Jonas nodded. “Who do I report to, sir?”
“To yourself, Rassau. This mission is yours alone. We lack forces as it is. If I had huntsmen to spare, I’d send them, but I don’t, so it’s you.” Vogt seemed to spot the trepidation on his protégé’s face, and moderated his expression. “I see what you’re thinking.” He leaned down from the saddle and spoke with greater sympathy. “You’re right, Jonas. If there are Kurgs still coming over in substantial numbers, this could be like trying to empty a bucket by tossing a rag into it.” He paused, phrasing his next thought carefully. “You’re a bright boy, Rassau. Bright on the parade grounds, at any rate. Here’s your chance to prove yourself a real leader.” He straightened himself in the saddle, once again adopting the posture of command. “Be smart. If the hills seethe with the accursed scum, hide, manoeuvre, and take your chances as you get them. You have a company, and then some. Make them seem like a regiment. And waste no time provisioning. Go now. You see another large force massing, send messengers to warn us.”
“Yes sir.” Jonas pulled the muscles of his legs tight, to hide the quivering of his knees. Standing beneath Vogt’s coldly assessing gaze, he was frightened, more than he’d been in the heat of combat. Realising that he was not paying full attention to Vogt’s words, he forced himself to concentrate.
“Remember,” Vogt was saying, “the Kurgan aren’t mountain people either. They come from a land flatter than this. Make the rocks and hills your handmaiden. If he’s got half a lick of sense, your scout can show you how.”
“Now wish me luck. I’ve Kurg to slay.” Vogt rode abruptly off, and soon was swallowed by the smoke.
Jonas stole a moment to compose himself before striding over to the company drummer, Mattes. Many of the other swordsmen had gathered around him, in varying postures of doubt and dismay. It was right that they should mourn the death of their lieutenant, but Jonas could not allow their morale to sink, or to let them see that he shared their trepidations. He cleared his ashy throat and called for his sergeant-at-arms. “Where is Sergeant Raab?”
“Here, sir,” said Emil Raab. He’d been kneeling beside the corpse of his dead commander, perhaps in prayer. Emil had survived nearly two decades of battle and at the age of forty-two he was the oldest member of the Gerolsbruch Swordsmen, by far. A bushy, peppered beard sprouted from his weathered cheeks to completely hide his jaw and neck. An old river of a scar meandered across the furrows of his brow.
Emil left his old commander to approach his new one, eyes cast respectfully downwards. Jonas tried to think how many first lieutenants of the Gerolsbruch Swordsmen Emil had outlived. Some, like Jonas’ father, would have risen to other commissions, but surely he had buried many others.
“Sir,” said Emil.
Though the word choked Jonas with emotion, he did his best to suppress an unmanly display. The men would be depending on him to remain stoic. “How many?” he asked.
Emil spoke tonelessly; to list a roster of the dead was scarcely new to him. “Four dead: Allgau, Hoger, Vosgerau, Doring.”
Jonas curtly nodded. He had seen Doring die, and Hoger dead.
“Kuhlmann,” continued the sergeant, “was run through by a spear and will soon be joining them, I reckon. Eichhorn and Becker are too badly hurt to go anywhere. And six still unaccounted for.”
“Then keep drumming out for muster!” Jonas cried, yelling out to the drumsman. He turned to address his sergeant. “That leaves us thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-five, sir, but we’ll find some of the six, I’m sure of it.”
Arranged i
n an anxious perimeter around the sword company stood somewhere between one and two dozen men wearing quivers on their backs. They clutched bows in their hands; some allowed them to disconsolately rest in the mud. These would be the Chelborg Archers Vogt had spoken of. Later, Jonas would introduce himself to them, ask after the fate of t heir commander, and appoint a sergeant from among them, if they lacked one. It surprised him that a company of archers, who should have been far from the fight, had fared so badly in it. He would inquire after the details when time allowed.
“How many are they?” he asked Emil.
“Seventeen, sir.”
Sixty men to stop what might well be an entire second Kurgan army. Jonas wondered if he’d been given the mission based on talent, or expendability.
The prevailing winds changed. Cold air whipped down from the mountainous east, entering into battle with the clouds of smoke from the burning forest to the north. The company flag rose from its torpor to flap noisily from its standard.
Jonas asked his sergeant to fetch him Baer, the huntsman.
“Baer’s among the missing, sir.”
Jonas could not hear him above the rapping of the kettle drum and the rising wind. “Pardon?”
“He hasn’t come back, sir.”
The wind sent the smoke pluming high up into the air, dispersing it. Low wisps of it blasted like fog, close to the ground. Otherwise the battlefield stood revealed as if by the raising of a curtain on a stage. Jonas gasped at the sight.
Bodies of the dead and dying stretched out for half a mile in all directions. Many lay half-buried in mud. A gravely wounded man, his legs shorn from his body, pulled himself up onto the carcass of a lifeless horse, then slid down again, motionless. Lost helmets, weapons and armour pieces were strewn throughout. The hafts of spears and axes jutted from the ground like saplings. Crows and ravens, who had been circling overhead, swooped down through the clearing smoke to hunt for morsels of flesh. Jonas was surprised by the numbers of slain Kurgan; though victors, they’d paid a heavy toll for their triumph. For every one of them slain, though, there were two or more Empire fighters, especially near the spot where their line had broken.
03 - Liar's Peak Page 2
