His head slumped to his chest, Otto ground his teeth and left control to his mount; the hill pony he thought, with another wave of bitterness, that could act more appropriately than he, Otto von Eisenkopf, noble of the Empire!
The night wore on, measured out by the drumming of hooves, and the pounding thoughts: perfidy, treachery, failure, dishonour! Would they be in time? Otto looked to his side and there, sure enough, was Lutyens. The giant’s head lolled. By Sigmar! He was asleep in the saddle! Otto had an urge to hurl his dagger at him. How could he sleep? Otto’s fingers clenched the reins until they hurt. Couldn’t they make better speed? The old notion of a traitorous Molders deliberately delaying progress came back into his head. Angrily Otto forced it aside, knowing it to be wrong, but a shred of the notion persisted. The young noble cursed himself. By the Hammer, was he himself so shallow? Was he so base as to hope for the imagined treachery to be true just so as to have the gratification of salving his own pride? His world seemed to have crumbled; was he now crumbling too? The hooves, and his thoughts, drummed on.
By dawn they were climbing into the foothills but the light brought no relief to Otto. The sunrise hurt his tired eyes and as he looked back over his shoulder he took little comfort in what he saw. The dust-shrouded column wound after them, now slowed by the narrowed and steep road. The slower pace was bad enough but Otto wondered, with a twinge of what felt disturbingly like fear, what was going to happen when they did contact the Bretonnians? How could this rag-tag force defeat battle-hardened knights? Boncenne may have behaved like some base, fairground mountebank but he was an experienced general who had stood in the lists against the most martial of Bretonnian nobility.
Who could they set against this formidable warrior? Molders, compensating for his short stature with an aggressive swagger and that ridiculous beard? Von Grunwald, head of an ancient noble family but a crank obsessed with the pack horse-toted light guns he had designed? Himself, a young fool who had once hoped for a commission in the Reiksguard and was now riding only with mercenary pistoliers?
Daylight or not, the hooves, and the thoughts, drummed on: perfidy, treachery, failure, dishonour!
Suddenly there was a stir. One of the advance scouts came cantering back towards them. Otto tensed wondering if they had contacted the Bretonnians. Was all lost, their opponents already descending into the plains? The man rode up to Molders. He was breathless, his jerkin plastered with dust that had also stiffened his sweat-soaked hair into absurd tufts. Otto edged his mount closer to Molders to hear the scout’s report. The man was gathering breath. Was his gap-toothed mouth a grimace of worry or a triumphant grin?
“Report man, for Sigmar’s sake,” Otto muttered under his breath.
“The valley is clear, captain,” the man grinned. “It’s the perfect spot for an ambush. The track is quite broad, steep slope one side, more gentle hills the other, but it’s only an illusion of openness. The river is swift and deep, a formidable barrier to fleeing troops. Armoured men would never get across it.”
“Very good, trooper,” Molders replied. He turned and began quickly issuing orders, marshalling his troops.
The road became steeper, winding up the rocky, wooded hillside. The sun was shining strongly and the woods rang with birdsong but there was a tension in the air and Otto noted nervous movements all around him as even the seasoned pistoliers checked and rechecked their wargear.
At the top of the hill Molders gave more orders. “Von Grunwald, his guns and the archers will block off here where the path climbs steeply to the hilltop. The hackbut men will hold the steepest craggy slopes, yonder in the valley centre. The pistoliers and the light horse will close off the rear and block the Bretonnians’ retreat. They must keep especially well up slope bar some few, well hidden, to signal when the last of the enemy pass. It is our best plan; we must hope they don’t scout properly in their haste.”
Von Grunwald and his guns began deploying to cover the road up out of the valley. Watching the old man working with his men unloading the guns Otto’s anxieties returned. “This is an Empire noble?” he mused, bewildered, as he stared at the short, wiry old man wearing only tattered hose, his face grimy and his head crowned with an amazing shock of white hair.
Bewildered he might have been but Otto was still impressed by the speed with which the troops deployed, and at such quiet determination and discipline. Even if they were rough and ready, unpolished and mercenary by calling, they certainly seemed apt to their work. Indeed it seemed to him that he was the one out of place as he handed his mount to one of the local horsemen assigned to keep their horses safely out of sight down slope, away from the line of Bretonnian advance. All of his training had been to fight from the saddle and in the open and here he was facing his second action, once more on foot, and once more in hiding. Woodenly, Otto followed the other pistoliers down from the boulder-strewn crest.
They descended into the woods that overlooked the valley but stayed well up the slope, picking their way with some difficulty through the tangle. At one point Otto looked down through a narrow break in the trees; even with his inexperienced eye, he could see what a splendid site for an ambush it was. Lutyens, scrambling alongside him, was grinning from ear to ear and Otto was amazed to hear the normally taciturn pistolier whisper to him, “They are finished! This will be butchery.”
“We can hold back armoured knights?” Otto panted.
“Here,” the giant replied, “here we won’t hold them, we’ll destroy them!” He gave Otto a pat on the back which almost knocked him down the slope.
“But if they scout ahead?” Otto feared that the worry he felt might sound in his voice but Lutyens just grinned more broadly.
“When have Bretonnians ever scouted properly? They ride into battle as brazen as Marienburg harlots. Besides, they will feel they have no reason to. They think they have duped us. It takes more than some gilded duke to fool old Molders though!”
Otto was amazed at the affection in the big man’s voice as he spoke of his captain. But he had little time for reflection as he scrambled up the steep slope, his hose tearing on the brambles, branches scoring his face. He was almost trembling with exhaustion before, quite some distance higher, they came on Molders directing his forces down the steep, wooded slope to their final hiding place. The captain was jammed, seemingly at ease, in against a tree trunk, beard thrust out, his arms a jerky windmill of action as he signed his men into position. Where did these men get their endurance?
“Get comfortable,” Lutyens advised him as they reached their allotted position. “And watch out for the ants!” The memory conjured up by the jibe stung even more than the ants had. Otto found a likely spot, settled down and began the wait.
Hours dragged past. As Otto brushed a fly away from his face yet again, he was glad he had taken Lutyens’ advice and found a comfortable spot. Nestled behind the roots of a fallen tree, he was well hidden and could shift his position easily and without danger but it was still sweltering and it seemed as if he had been stuck here for days, not just hours.
The waiting cast a gloom over him. The nausea he had felt back at his father’s tent was back. He lay listless, staring up at the shifting patterns of sunlight streaming down through at the waving screen of leaves. It bewildered him and made the sick feeling worse. The whole world bewildered him now. He was dog-tired but as he carefully rolled over, turning his eyes from the light, he knew he couldn’t sleep. What if this was a mistake too? Had the Bretonnians really taken this route? He thought of their trickery and it depressed him. He thought of Sir Guillame stealing his best horse and fleeing like a common soldier, and his gloom was mixed with shame and anger.
More hours seemed to pass. He stared at a beetle crawling along a tree root. It was all right for the beetle, it just crawled around and did, well, whatever beetles did. It could live its life as it ought. But what about him? How should he live his life? What had happened to the rules and codes he had learned and loved? How could he live with honour? Eventua
lly, as the time crawled past, these feelings turned into self-pity, as Otto remembered his joyful anticipation of battle as he rode up to join his father. Five days ago, or five years? A vast gulf at any rate. Where were the fine plumed armet and shining plate he had imagined? No lance by his hand either, but a clumsy wheel lock pistol. Sigmar save him! It had come to this, lurking again. His second ambush! Two actions, both sprung from skulking. He almost let out a bitter laugh but choked it back just in time.
Otto saw Lutyens’ head turn. The blonde giant was wedged in what seemed like a tortuous position, yet he hadn’t moved once. Otto expected a reproachful glare over his choked laugh but Lutyens didn’t even look at him. He was concentrating on something else. Otto listened, straining to hear above the noise of the river, and eventually caught, faint but unmistakable, the sound of horses’ hooves and the jingle of harness. His tiredness vanished instantly; he started to peer around the roots of the tree but Lutyens shook his head. The young noble felt the tension in the pit of his stomach. His pulse raced. They waited.
Were the Bretonnians just an advance guard? Had they sent squires to scout the steep slope? The faint noises continued. The minutes passed. They waited.
Lutyens looked as if he was dozing, confound the man! The noise of the hoof beats got louder. Was this the main party? Still no noise of alarm. They waited.
Otto’s hand strayed to his pistol and closed on the grip. The sound of the unseen Bretonnians’ progress continued. Still they waited.
Suddenly it came: the notes of a Stirland hunting horn drowned almost immediately by crashing blasts. Von Grunwald’s falconets, Otto assumed. Lutyens was on his feet and skidding down the slope. Otto rose but almost tripped over his own stiff legs. Cursing, he plunged after the pistolier. The gorge now echoed with shouting men and neighing horses. On the right there was a continuous cracking as the hackbut men rained fire down on the unfortunate Bretonnians.
Otto was dimly conscious of other men charging downhill but through the tangle of trees and boulders he could see little. He tripped again, rolled and scrambled up. The noise all seemed to be ahead of him now. He skidded on towards the shouting and clash of fighting but was brought up on the edge of a crag far too high to jump. Down through the greenery he could catch glimpses of combat. Cursing again, he tried to make his way around the top of the crag.
There was a great crashing sound and a blood-stained figure appeared, struggling up through the trees. Otto stared into the wide eyes of a young Bretonnian squire. The squire fumbled with his bow. Otto raised his wheel lock and pulled the trigger. Nothing! Blast it! He hadn’t cocked the weapon. The squire had an arrow nocked as Otto, yelling with frustration, hurled the pistol at him. The heavy weapon hit the youth full in the face and with a cry he staggered back. Otto, sword drawn now, lunged after him but the squire had tripped on a rock. The man clutched vainly at the branches, and screaming, fell over the crag. Otto bent to retrieve his pistol. His hands shook slightly as he wound back the lock.
Sigmar! What kind of war was this?
When Otto finally burst out of the thick undergrowth at the edge of the road he could scarcely believe his eyes. A heaving mass of mounted men had been hemmed in against the river by the Empire forces. Molders’ men were scrambling over a mounting wall of dead horses and men to get at the Bretonnians, who seemed scarcely to be putting up a fight at all. Some of the pistoliers were lifting spears from their dead enemies, that they might better goad the seething whirl of panic-stricken men and horses towards the torrent gushing behind them. Otto, horror struck, just stood and stared, his head ringing with the shrieks of the dying men and horses, the reports of pistols and the strident cries of the pistoliers and their local allies. This butchery could not be battle! How could a man of honour fight like this?
Further up the path, the situation was different. The hackbut men were well protected by the crags that lined the road at that point and could fire down on their opponents almost with impunity. This very protection, however, meant that they could not press the Bretonnians so closely, and amongst the milling crowd a more purposeful wedge of cavalry was being formed. A leader of authority was gathering his most experienced knights and rallying them to attempt a break out back along the road. In the confined space and press of men there was scant room to use their lances, never mind charge, but with determination born of hardened experience and desperation they fought their way along the road. Otto could see the line of Empire troops buckle. Shaken into action, he rushed to aid them.
“Sigmar and the Empire!” he yelled, entering the fray.
Almost at once he was in trouble. Knocked backwards by a blow from a lance shaft swung like a club, he narrowly escaped the flailing hooves of a knight’s horse. The pistolier next to him was not so lucky and a hoof glanced off his burgonet bringing him to his knees. Seemingly frozen, Otto realised the felled pistolier was Captain Molders. With what seemed like unearthly slowness, Otto watched the knight raise the brass-bound lance haft. He recognised the arms on the surcoat as those of the Duke of Boncenne, himself. A wheel lock flashed; with amazement, Otto realised that it was he himself who had fired. The shot missed the Duke but felled his mount. The world sped up once more as Otto, consumed with rage, charged his foe.
The Duke’s horsemanship was superb and he was out of his stirrups and saddle and leaping to his feet even before his dead mount had crashed to earth. He flung the broken lance at the still reeling Molders, knocking him flat. Then he swept out his sword and leapt at Otto.
“Base cur!” the young Empire noble cried as he aimed a vicious thrust at the man’s head. “Are you warrior or charlatan to resort to such trickery?”
The Duke was a skilled and powerful warrior, and he blocked Otto’s thrust with ease, riposted and knocked the young noble back. Otto just kept his footing and the Duke, following up his own thrust, slipped in turn. He regained his balance but had to step back and for a moment the two opponents stared at one another. The Duke’s face was as blank as the plates of his armour, his hard, dark features hardened yet further by the steel frame of his helm. The thin moustache and thinner lips seemed graven on his visage and, along with the stiff guard the Bretonnian had adopted, gave Otto the momentary but disconcerting impression that he was facing some form of animated, metallic statue.
“Base cur!” Otto repeated. The Duke made no reply but suddenly lunged forward in a lightning attack. Otto did well to turn or dodge the flurry of blows but was unable under this relentless storm to press his own attack. The young noble burnt with righteous indignation but, even through his fury, he realised the danger of this awesome warrior and the need for calm and concentration. The noise and confusion of the rest of the battle had faded, leaving Otto facing his enemy in a private miniature world as wide only as the stretch of their blades. Otto regained his rhythm but against the power and longer reach of the taller Bretonnian was able only to keep up a stout defence.
As he parried blow after blow, the young noble, lighter armoured though he was, began to be conscious of his waning strength as the strain of the past days caught up with him. The Duke seemed to sense it, too, and pressed his attack even more relentlessly. Thrust followed thrust and Otto was driven back, away from the main action. Using every shred of his skill, Otto turned the attacks and desperately strove to find an opening for his own blade. He was breathing heavily and realised he could not long maintain his defence. Pushed back, step by step, he strove to maintain his concentration on the Bretonnian’s lightning blade. Focused on his opponent he failed to see the dip behind him and suddenly pitched backwards, landing winded, his sword clattering away across the pebbles. He stared helplessly up as the Duke, face still impassive, stepped over him, changing his grip in readiness to drive his blade down.
There was a gasp of pain but it was the Duke who cried out as a giant, gauntleted fist smashed into the side of his head from behind. The Bretonnian crashed over and frantically scrabbled for his sword as he stared up at Lutyens, who had pulled a wheel lo
ck from his sash and levelled it at the knight. The shot cracked but flew wide as Otto struggled up and knocked the pistoliers arm aside.
“No, Lutyens, I will finish this… to my code,” the young man panted. Pointing to the fallen Bretonnian with his recovered blade, he put what strength he had into his voice and commanded, “Rise and defend yourself, de Boncenne!”
The Duke lifted his own sword and rose. He face was still blank but, as he resumed his attack, his thrusts seemed to have lost some of their power. Whether it was due to Lutyens’ blow or shock from his young opponent’s actions, he was definitely less resolute in his offence.
Otto, despite panting with near exhaustion, realised he had a chance. Desperately he gathered his strength and smashed a thrust aside far harder than he had done before. Feinting quickly, he stepped back a pace and, wielding his sword in two hands, swung it around in a great circle, and hewed the head from his enemy with one blow. His face splashed with hot blood, he barely registered his victory. He recovered his swing and raised his sword for another blow, before swaying and collapsing, saved only from toppling over the lifeless body of his enemy by the strong arms of Lutyens.
Tales of the Old World Page 11
