Devil of the 22nd

by Richard Nell

  Kurt nodded, and for a long few minutes he and the army waited, and stared. The tribesmen seemed to be discussing amongst themselves, some arguing with gestures and raised voices.

  “Buncha teases,” said one of the veterans as they waited. “I promised Gunty here he’d get a poke at one of my slaves, now didn’t I?”

  “You did,” said another veteran, “you’re a damned liar, and likely’ll die first anyway, but you did.”

  A few men chuckled and even Kurt grinned.

  “Eyes front,” he chastised, but not seriously, and the men silenced and watched. No doubt it felt longer than it was. Kurt glanced occasionally at the stretched out light infantry, then at the cavalry, knowing each moment of delay for any army meant more time for nerves to wear, more time for confusion and mistakes. But not this army, he almost smiled, at least not first. So take your time, Chief of the Valley.

  And he did, though perhaps not on purpose, at last turning away from his men with a clear expression of disgust. Some few stayed in formation, no doubt just in precaution, but most came apart and moved towards their houses and tents.

  “Well,” Kurt grinned, “that was easy.” He ignored the obvious disappointment of his ally.

  “Easy for now,” Celtus muttered, eyes narrowed and lips curled.

  “Oh, cheer up.” Kurt slapped the man on the shoulder. “One never knows the future.” He looked back to his men and saw none had strayed from readiness or formation. They looked to their captains, weapons at the ready, and their captains looked to Kurt. Even Torsten watched him while pretending not to, his cranky impatience clear.

  Kurt shielded his eyes and looked up at the warm afternoon sun. He breathed deep and smelled the clean air. You’ve all known me many years, he thought with a thrill, yet still none of you are sure what I’ll do, not for certain.

  The truth of this made him want to get off his horse and dance a soldier’s jig. It made him feel free, and powerful. Here’s my secret. He let at least a little good humor show as he smiled. I’m still not so sure, either.

  With surprising speed the tribesmen gathered their families and supplies. They’d taken a great deal more than water, of course, no doubt emptying their stores of food with every grain they could carry. But then, Kurt had expected as much. In fact, he’d hoped for it.

  “Celtus.” The former chief looked down at him, face sullen. “You and your men have performed exceptionally. You deserve a reward. Consider yourselves on leave—you understand, ‘leave’? The rest of the day is yours to do with as you wish.” He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “You could go hunting, for example. You are free from all duties, and responsibilities. For the day you are no longer under my command.”

  The tall man’s head angled slightly, hungry eyes narrowing even further.

  “Hunting is difficult here. The game is…large.”

  “Yes, well.” Kurt shrugged again. “If you found yourselves in danger, as your very good friend and ally, I should of course come to your aid. But do try to be careful.”

  Celtus’ disappointment now drained from his face. He glanced at the progressively disorganized and vulnerable Helvati, then at his twenty-odd mounted killers.

  “My people have saying,” said the former chief, “Averni’s only friend is steppe.”

  Kurt raised an eyebrow, but could see by the man’s expression it was at least partially an attempt at humor. Celtus’ men saw it, too, and grinned—or at least bared their teeth. In near silence they checked their quivers, bows held loosely as they flexed string-hands and whispered to their mounts. Then wordlessly, they spread out and advanced.

  Like wolves on the hunt the tribesmen formed loosely around their chief, waiting for him to choose their attack. The rest of the army watched them, some now glancing at each other with brows raised, smirks spreading down the line.

  Many Helvati noticed their pursuers. The men tried to move their women and children towards the center of each moving pack. Others formed ragged lines as if to block the riders off, or at least their vision. For a time it seemed a peaceful dance, if a little tense—just a show of intimidation, perhaps—old enemies telling each other some debts weren’t yet settled.

  Then Celtus fired. A man cried out, and the other riders let loose their first volley.

  Some Helvati women panicked instantly and began to run. The men drew weapons and some chased the Averni. Celtus and his men fired and scattered from any pursuit, their horses easily outpacing their foes on the flat, cleared ground. The hunters whooped and hollered as they circled and killed at will. Some few Helvati threw rocks or spears, but most simply fled towards the edge of the valley and the woods. After long minutes of harassment, and many wounded or killed, a large pack turned to fight.

  Kurt wiped every ounce of amusement from his expression. He turned and called out to any who could hear.

  “Didn’t I tell them without delay?”

  “You did,” shouted an eager voice, maybe Harmon’s.

  “Well they seem to be delaying.” Kurt turned to his standard bearer. “Full attack. Clear the valley.”

  The big man smiled and waved the black and blue imperial flag. Kurt turned and shouted as loud as his lungs allowed, knowing the captains would pass the message to those too far to hear.

  “We’re still here for slaves, gentlemen. Spare as many as you can!”

  Then he dug both heels into his destrier’s side and fingered the wire grip of his sabre—though of course, he had no intention of using it. A thousand Keevish soldiers advanced as one.

  * * *

  As Kurt’s army approached, many more of the Helvati panicked. Women dropped their heavy packs and seized their children to run in the opposite direction. Some of the men joined them, but most turned.

  Four clusters of warriors formed into separate shield walls, slowly inching together. Others still chased the Averni. Others walked forward by themselves or in small groups, as if to challenge the whole army alone.

  Kurt took it all in and saw no need for changes. He gestured and the standard waved, and the light infantry picked up their pace. Soon some entered range and fired bullets from slings or muskets, others arrows or javelins. As they moved closer they worked in small packs and picked off Helvati stragglers.

  With brutal, practiced efficiency, the veterans lured braver or perhaps more foolish tribesmen back and forth with taunts and missiles before stabbing or shooting them from the back or side. The same scene repeated itself a dozen times outside the shieldwall—the bolder tribesmen walking to their deaths, outnumbered, and outmatched.

  Harmon and his men led the butchery. As the pikemen and shieldwall clusters of men squared off and stilled, the battle became a war of skirmishers.

  Kurt shook his head at Torsten, knowing the cavalry weren’t needed yet, and watched Harmon. Harmon the killer. Harmon and his pack of murderous dogs. Most of the rest of the army watched, too.

  After several easy kills they trapped five tribesmen in a circle, taunting and jabbing at them until they moved back to back in the center. Then Harmon raised a sword in the air, drew a parrying dagger with his other hand, and stepped inside.

  Two Helvati tried to rush him, and his men put three arrows in one of their chests. Harmon rushed forward to meet the other. The ‘captain’ of the old 3rd division was only average height for a Keevish soldier, and stood at least a foot shorter than his foe, but he was squat and powerful with long arms. In one hand he held the long, heavy sabre Kurt and nearly every other veteran carried, in the other a three-pronged parrying dagger. The tribesmen held a round-shield and axe.

  With a furious yell the tribesmen shield-charged. Harmon leapt easily aside, spinning his sabre like a drummer’s baton as he twisted away. The watchers cheered—every decent warrior in the Keevish army knowing the flourish was meant to say ‘I could have put it in his side’.

  This time the savage approached more slowly, shield high as he swiped across with his axe, then again and again as he chased Harmon around the
make-shift circle. After another swing and with a sudden burst of speed, he swiped downwards for a headblow, and Harmon lunged to meet it. He caught the axe-shaft with his parrying dagger, placing his sabre overtop to hold the weapon firm. Both men tugged. After a few moments of holding it and staring at his foe, Harmon released it and stepped forward, slicing his heavy sabre across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed, and he fell.

  The heavy infantry hollered and stomped, and one by one the terrifying man ‘dueled’ the tribesmen, and picked them apart. The final two men charged him together, and the dogs shot them down.

  Helvati skirmishers now littered the field, and for a moment the battle all but stilled. The four packs of Helvati had gathered into a single shield-wall and kept good order. The stragglers were dead, or dying, some few running for the woods while Celtus and his men chased and cut them down, roping and binding the women and children they could catch as if binding livestock.

  Harmon raised his bloody hand, and much of the army again cheered his moment of glory. The heavy infantry had stopped two pike-lengths from the enemy shield wall, and the light infantry began to circle. Still Kurt kept his cavalry back, and an almost peaceful silence seemed to overtake the battlefield, broken only by a few cries of dying men, and the eager calls of the crows.

  Kurt reveled in the stillness, the eyes—the whole world waiting as if for his command, a puppet on his invisible strings. He breathed, and let it out.

  “Fire.”

  The battlestandards waved, the captains called, and every musketmen lodged safely in a wall of pikes lowered his weapon to rest on an aiming fork, pulled back the trigger, and let loose.

  Two hundred muskets cracked and roared, enveloping the valley. Birds scattered from every direction, and white smoke covered the line and hung like fog as the men stooped instantly to re-load. From his vantage point, and far enough away from the smoke, Kurt saw the damage.

  The Helvati shield-wall had instantly come undone. Wood splintered and flew in chips over the tight-packed tribesmen. Half the front line seemed to slump or sag against their fellows, shields and spears or axes dropped to the dirt as men collapsed. Few of them had likely ever seen or even heard musket fire. But in testament to their great courage, none fled.

  Instead they surged from the broken wall and charged. With shields held high they screamed and leapt at the wall of pikes, trying to push back the spears with their weight and weapons. Three rows of iron pikes pierced and repelled the bravest, throwing them back before the line with stab wounds to chests and faces. Others advanced behind them more cautiously, batting at the spears and trying to get inside close enough to strike back.

  With the shield wall coming apart, Kurt’s light infantry renewed their attack. They peppered any exposed men with arrows and javelins, simply running if pursued. Most of the tribesmen ignored this and moved to support the warriors against the shield wall, adding more and more weight to the press of bodies and shields, and with enough time perhaps would have succeeded. Then the muskets fired again.

  Kurt closed his eyes as screams mixed with the beautiful, terrible roar of gunfire, and blood, wood and powder coated the clash of men. At point blank range, the force of the round, iron balls went through man and shield to come out and maybe kill on the other side. Still the Helvati held. Still they pushed and swat at pikes and pressed themselves forward with a warrior’s cry, strong and brave and worthy of respect.

  Kurt sighed.

  “Cavalry. Left flank.”

  The standard waved. Torsten drew his sabre, and a hundred light cavalry mixed from a motley crew of ten divisions rode West in single file. They moved their mounts from walk to cantor, sweeping in a half circle until their path aimed them at the Helvati flank. Then they charged.

  Many of the tribesmen no doubt saw them coming, but with their line locked against the pikes, stood helpless.

  Torsten and the 2nd led the pack and aimed their mounts just behind the line, riding past the cluster of men at a gallop. They swung their heavy sabres like scythes. Kurt watched heads vanish from behind the misshapen shieldwall as men dropped in a terrifying rhythm of violence. The Helvati rear line ripped apart, falling from Kurt’s view as men collapsed.

  What remained of the shield-wall had submerged in dying comrades and chaos, surrounded on all sides by charging cavalry or light infantry, all the while pushing uselessly against a wall of death. Finally, the tribesmen ran.

  “That will make a good command post.” Kurt pointed at the largest looking hall, ignoring the butchery that followed any route. Private Rald, always at Kurt’s side, tore his eyes from the battle and nodded, mouth open a little. “Well?” Kurt waved a hand before the man’s eyes. “Get setting up. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  He spurred his horse, ignoring the many eyes of the younger men still not accustomed to such slaughter, and rode towards his new camp.

  Chapter 5

  Kurt swept what might have been a child’s toy off the Helvati chief’s ex-table, and replaced it with a pistol.

  “First letter—you’ll need copies. I want these nailed to every church and beerhall in the Eastern duchy, or district, or whatever the hell Republicans call it now.”

  Rald smirked. “Yes, sir.”

  “Republican army seeks…” Kurt stopped and thought better of it. “Scratch that. New business venture seeks carpenters, labourers—especially farm-hands—blacksmiths, stonemasons, and builders…for construction of new townships in Eastern territories. Work is stable and lucrative with potential for farmsteading. Families welcome. Venture protected by the East Republican Army. Seek Colonel Gottfried in…well, pick an appropriate town, Private, for details and transport. End message.”

  Kurt spoke this all quickly, but Rald’s hand moved in practiced code, deft now in handling the furious dictation.

  A few screams from outside caused Kurt to stop and glance out one of the few windows. Iron clanged against iron then stopped. A woman wailed.

  “Second letter.” Kurt flinched as a feminine scream from outside broke the relative stillness of the hall. “This one’s to be taken to the guilds and craftsmen. ‘Trading company requires iron nails, dried fish and meat, grain…” he waved a dismissive hand. “Get Larder to tell you what we need. Quarter payment to be made on statement of volume, the rest on delivery to aforementioned township. End message.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kurt moved to the window and glanced outside. Iron kept clanging against iron, and if anything the wailing increased.

  “And who shall I say the delivery is for, sir?”

  “Hmm?” Kurt moved to different angles as he looked outside, but saw nothing. Delivery. Right. Who to send? His eye twitched as he realized it had to be Torsten. He’d need a permanent base of sorts in the township, and Torsten was the only man he could trust to handle so much money and supplies and not steal most of it. Kurt supposed he could afford to lose him for a few months. Anyway he’d need a man he could trust guarding the road. Oh, right, I suppose we’ll need to build a road.

  “In the township, sir, what name shall I put to receive the supplies?”

  “Sergeant Torsten, but call him Mr. Torsten.”

  All the messengers grinned. Torsten’s stubborn, gloomy nature was surpassed only by his hatred of civilians.

  Kurt flinched again at another ear-piercing shriek.

  “For God’s sake will someone deal with that?”

  Two of the greenest messengers leapt to their feet and moved outside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “Personal message next. Addressed to Duke Val Siebmach.”

  Kurt grinned as he remembered the first officer he’d ever served. Over the years of course he’d had many masters—all noblemen—some of whom he’d impressed, or befriended, others he’d saved, some few he’d killed.

  In campaign after campaign Kurt had climbed the non-commissioned ranks and been privy to more and more of the officer’s world, culminating in his attachment to Colonel Gottfried. Most suc
h men had come and gone as their influence allowed, and in the current madness of the forming republic, all had returned home to their ancestral lands. Many, though, still owed Kurt favors.

  “Skip the lengthy introductions, Private. Just write down ‘Remember Bavanburg? I’ll be needing it in coin.’”

  Kurt pictured the old bear reading that, and smiled. Duke Val Siebmach was just ‘Captain’ Siebmach when Kurt met him—a brash, arrogant glory-hound who’d been captured in his very first battle. After some deliberation, and with a little luck, Kurt had led twenty men into enemy territory to rescue him.

  In the cover of darkness he’d stood over a host of bloodied corpses, opened a rotting cell and found Siebmach sprawled inside. He’d thought him dead, or very nearly, but the big man rose and grabbed his arms, the sheen of sickness and maybe madness in his eyes.

  “My honor. You’ve saved my honor. Whatever you ask, whatever, it’s yours.”

  Kurt remembered looking at the man’s wounds and thinking he wouldn’t last the night.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  But somehow the big brute lived, and then thrived, and they served together for two profitable years. With a bit of temperance the Duke proved himself a good, reliable officer who took advice—one of the few. And he was by far the richest, as well as the most familiar of Kurt’s theoretical benefactors. Kurt wrote several more such letters, though, not sure how much coin he’d need for this mad little endeavor in a foreign valley. He figured the more the better.

  By the third such letter Kurt realized the wailing outside had stopped, and his messengers hadn’t returned. His gut fluttered as it sometimes did, and he spun and glanced at the half-open door.

  A blurry shape threw itself against the wood a moment later. The door smashed forcefully inwards, crashing against the wall. A great bull of a man stooped under the frame, and snarled as he stood straight. It was the Helvati chief.

  His face and clothes were now spattered with blood; his left hand had been cloven or maybe shot-off at the wrist; he carried a gore-smeared hatchet in his right. His eyes took in the room, resting briefly on the messengers before finding Kurt in his chair. He charged.