The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  ‘Recognise these?’ said Hildebrandt, turning the fabric over and letting the pieces clink against one another.

  Magnus took one and held it up, peering at the shard of steel intently.

  ‘They’re gunnery pieces,’ he said, looking at it with expert eyes. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘One of the guards in the citadel had a pistol,’ said Hildebrandt. ‘I had time to take it with me when we left. I’ve been taking it apart.’

  Magnus drew his eyeglass out, and studied the component carefully.

  ‘Just like before,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘This is good quality. Better than I’ve seen in a long while.’

  Hildebrandt handed him some more. They were all of the same standard.

  ‘What else do you see?’ he asked.

  Magnus pursed his lips. He handed the pieces back.

  ‘They’re dwarfish,’ he said.

  Hildebrandt nodded.

  ‘Just like the one we found in the passes. They’re all the same. We’ve got to face the truth, Magnus. These men are being armed by dwarfs.’

  Magnus frowned, and took another look.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Thorgad thought they were dwarfish too, but only in origin. We don’t know where these were made.’

  Hildebrandt lowered his voice.

  ‘Why’s the dwarf here, Magnus?’ he said. ‘Something’s going on in that fortress that he knows about. If his kind are arming our enemies, how do we know we can trust him?’

  Magnus let slip a cold smile.

  ‘If you fancy trying to prise the truth from him, you’re welcome to try,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it, though. Thorgad’s got no explaining to do to me. He’s just one of the crew. And without him, we’d never have got inside the citadel.’

  Hildebrandt looked unconvinced.

  ‘He’s got his own plans here, and you know it. It’s no good. There’s some secret about the weaponry in there, and he knows things he’s not telling. We could be better prepared. I don’t want to lead men into a bloodbath like we had in the passes. You should press him for what he knows.’

  Magnus felt the smile leave his lips. He was loath to look into a man’s secrets. He had plenty of his own. Sometimes he wondered if they were all that he did have.

  ‘He’ll tell me nothing. You know that. If I anger him, he’ll leave. And then we’ll never find out what reason he has for being here.’

  Hildebrandt collected the pieces together, and wrapped them carefully up once more.

  ‘So be it,’ he said, looking disappointed. ‘I can’t force you. But I’m keeping my eyes open around him. Messina may be a rat, but at least he’s a stupid one. There’s something about Thorgad, though. I hope you don’t live to regret not finding out what it is.’

  Magnus placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Tobias,’ he said. ‘They don’t have the men to withstand a full assault. It won’t be long before we’re picking up our bag of gold and heading back to Hergig.’

  Hildebrandt didn’t smile. An unfamiliar look played out on his large, open face.

  ‘Don’t try to reassure me, Magnus,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in too many campaigns for that. There’s something wrong with that place. Their equipment’s too good. They have machines. Even the troopers can hear them working. I fear for you if you enter there. I fear for all of us.’

  Magnus let his hand drop. Hildebrandt stowed the metalwork back under his cloak. Without saying anything more, he walked off into the gathering dusk.

  Magnus watched him go. Then his eyes flicked up to the mighty citadel, still silent, still lit by the series of unearthly lights. The clouds of smoke had dissipated, and now it lurked like a shadow at the base of the distant cliffs. Hildebrandt was right. There was something unnatural about it. They would assault it soon. More men would die, just to satisfy the ambition of a distant count who barely left his summer palace. Such was the way of the Empire.

  He sighed, and turned away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Why are men so afraid of the power of artillery? Because every state trooper knows that one day all warfare will be conducted behind the barrel of a gun. In the future, the sword and the spear will disappear from our battlefields, and the ranks of gunners will take their place. It matters not how many nobles complain of this, nor how many witch hunters confiscate our untried machines and devices. Our day will come. History demands it.’

  Attributed to Frau Meikle of Waldenhof

  The day dawned chill and grey, like all days in the high peaks. During the night, high clouds had been driven south, and now the sky was as clear and white as a pearl. There was an ominous cracking from the far heights, as if mighty sheets of ice were grinding past one another. Down in the valley where the army still camped, the stones were as hard and pale as bone. It was a harsh place.

  Though the sun brought little warmth, it did give light. As the first rays crept over the eastern line of mountain edges, trumpets were sounded by Scharnhorst’s heralds. The time had come. Sergeants and captains sprung from their hard beds on the stone, and rushed to don their equipment. Soldiers were kicked from sleep. Cold fires were stoked into life, and pails of icy water were rushed from the stores. Reveille had arrived, and food was delivered swiftly to hungry mouths. The slop and meat stew had been made marginally thicker than usual. The men would need their energy for the fight, and even the flint-eyed, penny-pinching cooks knew it.

  Magnus roused himself with difficulty. His wound had been plaguing him through the night, and his sleep had been fitful. For some reason, he had dreamed of his father again. The White Wolf of Nuln. For so many years that name had been both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, as it had got him into the college and secured his future in the trade. A curse, as he could never hope to live up to the mighty reputation. Even in death, the magisterial figure of Augustus haunted him. There was no escape, either at the bottom of a keg of beer, nor back on the hard road to war.

  Magnus shook his head to clear it, and ran his fingers over his heavily stubbled chin. No time to shave. Things were moving. He pulled himself from the ground, wincing as his ribs creaked and the cold morning air flooded under the blanket. He reached for his overcoat with trembling hands, and wrapped himself in it. The mountains were hateful, and no place for honest men.

  All around him, machinery of war was being pulled forward. The time for the great cannons had passed. Now the instruments of choice were the rocket launchers, the volley guns and the other deadly tools of the battlefield engineer. Stomping to restore his circulation, Magnus walked over to the first wave of guns. The crews were pulling the covers from their pieces and dusting the fragile firing mechanisms down. When they saw him coming, they stood to attention and saluted. Magnus grinned wryly. Since the successful demolition of Morgramgar’s heavy guns, his stock had clearly risen with the men.

  ‘What do you call her?’ he said, stopping by a Helblaster and its crew.

  ‘Murderous Margrita,’ came the reply, without a trace of irony. Crews often gave their artillery pieces names, and always those of women. For the men who knew they could lose a limb to the whims of their devices, it seemed appropriate.

  ‘Very good,’ said Magnus, casting his eye quickly over the machine. Helblasters were equipped with nine ironbound barrels. The top three fired in unison. Once the shot was clear, the whole edifice could be rotated on a central axis, bringing a fully loaded trio of barrels to play in an instant. In all, nine shots could be released before the contraption had to be reloaded. Magnus had seen them used many times in many campaigns. They were devastating, capable of cutting down entire ranks of oncoming enemy troops. When they worked, that was. Like all complex pieces, the mechanism had its flaws. Even the slightest misalignment could ignite the blackpowder charges too early. An exploding Helblaster was one of the most spectacular s
ights on the battlefield. Anyone within twelve yards of it would be lucky to escape with just his legs missing.

  ‘Murderous Margrita’ looked in good condition. Several days in the mountains had not obviously done anything to dent her martial prowess. The bindings looked secure, the breeches were clean and well-oiled and the wooden chassis was neatly painted. The wheels and axle were solid, and the ornate triggers gleamed proudly in the weak light.

  ‘You should be proud of her,’ said Magnus, with approval. ‘Keep with the others, though. A massed rank of firing does more damage than a dozen individual volleys.’

  The crew nodded respectfully, even the old master gunner. He looked like a veteran of the capricious ways of gunnery, with several fingers missing and a wooden pole in place of his right leg. When he smiled, Magnus noted that there were only two teeth left in his head and his nose had been badly broken. He shouldn’t have peered into the breech, then.

  Magnus kept walking, observing with some pleasure the efficiency with which the guns were being broken out and rolled into position. Things had come a long way since the store yards of Hergig. The men had been drilled hard, and they’d learned much on the job. There was no greater tutor than the fear of death and dishonour. Every element of his command, from the ranks of the handgunners to the thunderous power of the heavy iron, was in better shape than when he’d found it. From what he’d seen of the enemy’s capabilities, that was no bad thing.

  Next in line was a slightly off-kilter looking Helstorm battery. These things were Magnus’s pet hates. All knew that the design was an inferior copy of a template from the far-off East. Unlike the Helblaster, which was dangerous enough, the Helstorm had almost nothing to protect the crew should something go wrong. Like most examples of its kind, the Helstorm in front of him had a complement of nine rockets arranged on a fragile-looking frame. In theory, each could be fired independently. In practice, the fuses were so close together that several would often be unleashed at once. Given that the rockets were placed in different positions, this resulted in unpredictable behaviour. Magnus had seen volleys of rockets plough into the rear of lines of allied troops, causing huge bloodshed and confusion. He had also seen Helstorms literally launch themselves into the air when a rocket got jammed, taking their crew with them and hurling them across the battlefield. When Magnus saw a Helstorm, he had some sympathy for the ordinary soldier’s dislike of war machines. They were devastating, in every sense.

  Magnus looked at the example in front of him warily.

  ‘Name?’ he said, but without much enthusiasm.

  ‘We haven’t got one yet, sir,’ replied a cheery-looking youth. The other members of the crew hung back. The master gunner wore an eye-patch. Never a good thing to see from the man responsible for aiming the thing. ‘She’s a new-build. Just out of the smithy in Hergig. We’ll see how it goes, and name her when we learn her character.’

  Magnus raised an eyebrow.

  ‘This hasn’t been fired?’

  The crew looked sheepish, and said nothing. Magnus sighed, and looked at the mechanism. It all looked in order, but you could never be sure.

  ‘Keep to the right flank,’ said Magnus, sharply. ‘Take double care over everything you do. If I see one of these rockets go into our own troops, I’ll have you strapped to her yourself and fired into the ground.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he stalked off further along the line. From behind him, there was a nervous muttering. There were a dozen or so more pieces all told, plus some mortars and the lines of handgunners. It was a good complement for an army of their size. More than enough to trouble whatever was in the citadel, certainly.

  The light was growing rapidly, and around them the army was moving into position for attack. His inspection complete, Magnus called out down the line.

  ‘All right, men!’ he cried, standing on a shallow ledge overlooking the land in front of the fortress gates. ‘You had your training. You know the plans. Keep disciplined, and keep together. We know the enemy has some tricks, but we’ve shown they can be beaten. Cover the infantry when they advance, and for the sake of Sigmar don’t fire on our own people. Only advance when you get your orders. Good luck, and Sigmar be with you.’

  It wasn’t a very inspiring speech. There were a few half-hearted cheers from some of the younger crews. Most of the rest just got on with things, harnessing the horses and pulling their war machines into position.

  ‘They’re shaky-looking machines,’ came a familiar voice next to Magnus. Thorgad stood next to him, looking disapprovingly at the devices.

  ‘Glad you could join us,’ said Magnus, dryly. ‘This isn’t really your sort of work.’

  Thorgad shook his head.

  ‘Agreed. I’ll be happier when I’ve got flesh to cleave. But there’s a place for blackpowder. I reckon you’ll need it.’

  Magnus looked up over the battlefield. Morgramgar stood on the far side of the wide open space, as dark and inscrutable as ever. The death’s-head standard moved slightly in the breeze. The humming was still there, but it seemed reduced in volume. Whatever dark purpose the machines had been put to was clearly achieved. They knew battle was coming. On the tall ramparts, there was a telltale glint of steel. At last, there were sentries visible. Things were coming to a head.

  ‘Have you seen Hildebrandt?’ asked Magnus. ‘We’ll need him.’

  Thorgad shook his head.

  ‘He’ll be along. But you should be more worried about your rival, Messina.’

  A sudden feeling of uneasiness made Magnus pause. He’d almost forgotten about the wayward Tilean. The tunnelling had taken up so much time and energy that Messina’s actions had seemed almost inconsequential.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Thorgad shook his head dismissively.

  ‘Too late to do anything about it now,’ he said, looking over towards Scharnhorst’s command retinue. ‘Human business is none of my concern anyway. I think the signal’s about to be given.’

  As the dwarf finished talking, there was a loud blare of trumpets from the heralds. Riders broke from the cover of high ground, and began delivering sealed orders to the various captains arranged across the open ground.

  From his vantage point at the rear of the entire deployment, Magnus had a good view of the preparation. Men were hurriedly taking their positions, rushing to form lines and complete detachments. Slowly, with some confusion and much yelling of orders from harassed sergeants, the familiar patchwork of an Imperial army began to take shape. Scharnhorst’s forces were strung out in a long line facing Morgramgar’s south-facing walls. On the left flank, the flagellants clustered. Heedless of orders, they feverishly banged drums and blew horns, chanting the name of Sigmar over and over. They had passed into their strange battlefield trance. Magnus had seen it before. They would be almost impervious to wounds once they were unleashed.

  On the right of the flagellants were the first companies of halberdiers and pikemen. They were mostly composed of mercenary companies, and wore a variety of colours. Aside from the flagellants, they were the least orderly of the army’s detachments, and Magnus could make out officers moving between them, trying to knock them into shape.

  Beyond them, at the centre of the assault, were the Knights of the Iron Sceptre. Kruger was visible at their head, mounted on his giant sable charger. In their spotless armour and perfect formation, they were a formidable company, the iron heart of the entire army. On their right, the Hochland companies of halberdiers and handgunners had been arranged. They were kitted out in the red and green of their state, and stood silently in neat regiments. Unlike the flagellants, they made little noise. Most of them knew they would soon be fighting their countrymen, and there was little stomach for the forthcoming slaughter. Their commanders marched among them, trying to drum up some aggression. Magnus watched the spectacle grimly. When the blood started flowing, then they would remember how to kill.
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br />   On the extreme right flank of the army were the shorter-range artillery pieces, the Helstorms and the Helblasters. They were protected by a sullen-looking company of state troopers. Standing in front of a row of those monsters couldn’t have been a popular assignment. Behind them on slightly higher ground were placed the long-range guns, the mortars and the surviving cannons. Their crews were still busy with the final adjustments to their range. All were pointed at the gates. With the removal of covering fire from the walls, they were now perfectly capable of hitting them. Once they were down, the charge would be ordered. For now, all eyes were on the guns.

  Magnus looked back towards the centre of the deployment. As before, Scharnhorst stood on a low mound just behind the main companies of Hochland troops. He was peering through a spyglass, looking intently at the enemy fortifications before giving the orders to commence battle. Around him, his commanders shouted orders, which were quickly relayed down the lines. There were only three reserve companies held back. When the time came, the general clearly wanted a swift kill.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Thorgad, motioning down the slope.

  Hildebrandt was walking up to meet them, red in the face.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Magnus. ‘This is about to begin.’

  The big man looked worried.

  ‘Your chests,’ he said. ‘They’ve been tampered with. The Blutschreiben components. They’ve been taken.’

  Magnus felt as if the earth had been knocked from under his feet. He stared back at Hildebrandt stupidly for a moment, taking in the news slowly.

  ‘How do you–’ he began.

  ‘I went to the wagon to retrieve the last of the ammunition for the big guns. We were unloading crates when a chest of yours was knocked from its place. The lock broke. There’s nothing but straw in there.’