“This is your captain, Meyerling,” said Gutzmann. “Pistolier Captain Daegert Vortmunder. He is a good man. Heed his words.”
“I will, general. Thank you.” Reiner bowed in his seat to Vortmunder. “Captain.”
“Welcome aboard, corporal. If you can shoot as well as you can ride, we will get along fine.”
“I will endeavour to impress you, captain,” said Reiner.
The first course was served and the officers fell to. The food was excellent.
Gutzmann poured Reiner wine. “Matthais tells me you fought in the north. With Boecher, was it? Tell me how the end went.”
Something in Gutzmann’s voice made Reiner hesitate. Though the general’s expression was as friendly and open as ever, there was a hunger in his eyes that made Reiner shiver.
“I’m afraid I was far from the final battle, my lord,” said Reiner. “I was wounded trying to stop Haargroth’s advance, and sat out the end.”
“But you must know more of it than we, stuck as we are on the Empire’s hindquarters. Tell me.” It was a command.
Reiner coughed. “Well, you know the start, I’m sure, my lord: old Huss making dire predictions of invasion from the north, proclaiming his farm boy the reincarnation of Sigmar. Nobody paid any attention until we heard the first news of Erengrad and Praag. Thank Sigmar—or Ulric, I suppose—that Todbringer was quick on the uptake. And von Raukov of Wolfenburg as well. They put enough men in front of Archaon’s hordes to slow ’em down for a time and organise a defence.” He sighed. “That was the hardest part, I think. Getting so many disparate groups to fight alongside one another. Elves from Loren. Dwarfs from the Middle Mountains. Makarev’s Kossars. Todbringer practically had to drink from the chalice and swear to the lady to get the Bretonnians in. And still it almost wasn’t enough.”
“They had cannon, this time, the northmen,” said Gutzmann.
“Aye, terrible things that seemed almost alive. Their missiles were balls of flame.” Reiner took a sip of wine and went on. “We had some successes, but there were too many of the devils. It was like trying to stop a river with a gate. And other fiends crept out of the shadows to take advantage of our weakness. Filthy, goat-headed beastmen from the Drakwald, greenskins. They fought amongst themselves as much as they fought us, but it didn’t stop the tide.”
“And all the while Karl-Franz and the counts and barons of the south are dithering about who should go and who should stay, and not getting under way,” snapped Gutzmann.
Reiner hemmed noncommittally. “It may be as you say, my lord. I was at Denkh at the time, preparing for the coming onslaught. The hordes soon took Ostland and then the west of Middenland. That was when I had my moment of glory, such as it was. Took a sword in the leg on my second charge and that was me done, and Haargrath pushed on to Middenheim with the rest of Archaon’s horde.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind telling you I’m not sorry to have missed the siege.”
“A bloody business, then?” asked Shaeder.
Reiner nodded. “Tens of thousands dead by all accounts, commander. Archaon and his henchmen pounded the Ulricsberg for more than a fortnight. Fortunately the Ostland boys had held them off long enough for Todbringer and von Raukov to get their lads in and shore up the defences. Still, it was close for a while, and the northmen were over the walls in places, but then we had a bit of luck with the greenskins. Their chief got it up his snout that he had to be first in, and so went after Archaon. And with the elves and Bretonnians and Kossars harrying the northmen from the forest, they began to lose heart and fell back to Sokh to regroup.” He sat forward. “Karl-Franz arrived that day and attacked at once, but Archaon held him off, and the battle raged for three days, with Valten and Huss coming in on the second, and engaging Archaon himself in combat on the third.”
“It was there that Valten received his mortal wound, yes?” asked Shaeder.
“Aye,” said Reiner. “Huss carried him off while Archaon was engaged with the orc chieftain, who had attacked as well.”
Gutzmann snorted at that.
“On the fourth day,” Reiner continued, “the armies set to again, and it looked grim, for the beastmen attacked Karl-Franz’s cannon from the rear, but before either side could win any real advantage, a third force appeared.”
“Von Carstein,” said Gutzmann.
“So my lord has heard,” said Reiner.
“Only rumours. Go on.”
“He raised the dead, my lord. Men of the Empire and of the north alike awoke where they had died and attacked both sides indiscriminately. Archaon’s forces fled north while Karl-Franz withdrew his army to Middenheim. The Sylvanians followed, and von Carstein called for the Emperor’s surrender and the surrender of the city, but Volkmar stepped out and told him to be on his way, and though I can scarcely credit it, he did. He turned about and buggered off to Sylvania again without another word.”
“And that was it,” said Gutzmann dryly.
“Yes, my lord. Middenheim held, and Archaon’s army was dispersed.”
Gutzmann snorted again. “And Altdorf calls it a great victory.”
“Your pardon, my lord?”
“The Empire was saved not by the reincarnation of Sigmar or the might of Karl-Franz’s knights, or the much vaunted Company of Light, but by an orc warboss and an undead sorcerer.”
Reiner coughed. “Er, they may have been in at the end, my lord, but the brave defensive actions of the men of Ostland and Middenland that kept the hordes at bay cannot be discounted. Middenheim would surely have fallen without them.”
“And if they were well led,” cried Gutzmann, “the hordes would never have reached Middenheim at all! How many men died unnecessarily because our hide-bound counts continue to think that the only way to defeat an enemy is to fight him head to head, no matter the circumstance? If they hadn’t insisted on swinging Sigmar’s hammer at targets better slain with a stiletto, it might have been over in weeks, not months.”
“My lord,” said Reiner, annoyed in spite of himself. Gutzmann might well be the tactician he thought himself, but he hadn’t faced the hordes. He hadn’t stood toe-to-toe with a Kurgan warrior. Reiner had. “My lord, they were a hundred thousand strong. And the smallest of them as big as two normal men.”
“Exactly!” said Gutzmann. “A hundred thousand titanic men who must eat pounds of food every single day to keep up their strength.” The general leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Tell me. You fought them. Did you notice their supply lines? Were they victualled from some northern stockpile?”
Reiner laughed. “No, my lord. They were barbarians. They had no supply lines. They barely had an order of march. They raped the lands they moved through for their dinner.”
Gutzmann jabbed a finger at Reiner. “Exactly! So, if one of our noble knights, our paragons of martial virtue, had had the forethought to harvest all the crops and slaughter all the game in Archaon’s path, then burned the farms and forests before he reached them?” He banged the table with his palm. “The northmen would have starved on their feet before they were halfway from Kislev, or more likely fallen to eating each other, the savages. Either way, they would have reduced their numbers considerably with almost no losses on our side. Instead Todbringer and von Raukov sent hastily equipped, unprepared forces against them, which, though they may have slowed them down, also fed their cooking pots and kept them strong.” He laughed bitterly. “The knights of the Empire so love their tests of arms that they sometimes think that it is better to fight without winning than it is to win without fighting.”
Reiner was no student of military science. He had no idea if Gutzmann’s theories would pass muster with other generals, but they sounded sensible.
Gutzmann shook his head. “It is madness that I should have been sent here while Boecher and Leudenhof and fools of that calibre were sent to defend the Empire in its darkest hour.”
Commander Shaeder leaned forward, eyes anxious. “But of course we must do as the Emperor bids us, my lord. Certainly he knows better
than we how best to defend our homeland.”
“It wasn’t Karl-Franz who banished me!” snapped Gutzmann. “It was that hen-house of Altdorf cowards who were so afraid of my victories in Ostermark that they imagined I would break it from the Empire and crown myself its king. As if I would ever do anything to harm the land I love.”
“Then why,” said a captain of pike from down the table, “do you turn your back on that land?”
“None of that!” barked Shaeder, glaring at the captain. “You forget yourself, sir.” A few of the cavalry officers slid nervous glances toward Reiner. Reiner’s heart pounded. What was this? This sounded exactly the sort of thing Manfred had asked him to look out for.
“I do not turn my back on the Empire,” said Gutzmann quietly. “It turns its back on me.” His mouth twisted into a sneer of disgust. “I wonder sometimes if ft would notice if I were gone.”
The table fell silent. Gutzmann looked around, as if only now remembering where he was.
He laughed suddenly, and waved a hand. “But enough of hypotheticals. This should be a merry occasion.” He turned to Reiner. “Come, sir. What are the new songs in Altdorf and Talabheim? What do they play on the stage? We are starved for culture here in the hinterlands. Will you sing for us?”
Reiner nearly choked on his wine. “I’m afraid I am no singer, sir. You would be hungrier for culture when I finished than when I started.”
Gutzmann shrugged. “Very well.” He turned to the hall. “Anyone else? Will any of the new men give us a song?”
There was a long pause as the recruits squirmed uncomfortably. But at last Karel stood, knees shaking.
“Er.” He swallowed, then began again. “Er, if my lords would care to hear a ballad, there is one that the ladies ask for at the moment.”
“By all means, lad,” said Gutzmann. “We are all ears.”
Karel coughed. “Very good, my lord. Er, it is called, ‘When will my Yan come home?’”
Reiner braced himself for the worst, but after a few more hesitations Karel stood straight and began singing in the voice of a Shallyan choir boy; high and pure. The room sat silent and rapt as he sang the story of the farm girl waiting for her lover to come back from the war in the north, only to have him return on the shoulders of six of his friends, dead from a poisoned arrow. It was a heartbreaking song, sung with a heartbreaking sweetness, and when at last the farm girl decided to wed her lover in death by scratching herself with the arrow that killed him, Reiner saw many a knight dabbing his eye.
It only seemed to make Gutzmann angry, though he masked it well. “A beautiful song, lad. But how about something jolly now. Something to lift our hearts.”
After a moment’s thought Karel broke into a song about a rogue brought to ruin by a false nun, which had the whole hall singing along by the second chorus, and after that the atmosphere became relaxed and the conversation turned to light topics and filthy jests.
Towards the end of the meal, when pudding laced with brandy had been served and Gutzmann was involved in a loud conversation with some knights to his right about tent-pegging contests of yore and who had fallen and who had broken an arm or leg, Captain Shaeder leaned toward Reiner.
“You must forgive General Gutzmann,” he murmured. “He is a passionate man, and the inaction of this posting frustrates him. But we are all loyal men here.” He laughed stiffly. “If the general had a few more years, he would understand that no post is less important than another. And there are many who would be happy with any post at all.”
“Very true, commander,” said Reiner. “And I took no offence, fear not.”
Shaeder inclined his head, nearly dipping his beard in his pudding. “You ease my mind, sir.”
After the meal was done, Matthais volunteered to lead Reiner to his quarters, apologizing that he must bunk in a tent outside the north wall, rather than the pistoliers’ barracks within the fort.
“We are too full at the moment,” he said.
“Aye,” said Reiner. “I noticed. Don’t quite understand why. The way you described our situation there doesn’t seem the need for so many men.”
“Er, yes, well…” Matthais coughed, suddenly awkward. “I believe I mentioned before some trouble in Aulschweig?”
“Aye. Infighting amongst the rulers or some such.”
Matthais nodded. “Exactly. Younger brother wants older brother’s throne. The usual Border Princes’ nonsense. But there’s a danger of it coming to a boil presently. The younger brother is Baron Caspar Tzetchka-Koloman, a blow-by who has a castle just the other side of the border. The older is Prince Leopold Aulslander. Altdorf wants Leopold to remain in power, as he is the more stable and level-headed of the two, so we may have to intervene if Caspar makes his play. Thus, extra troops.”
“Ah,” said Reiner. “All becomes clear.” Or did it, he wondered. Matthais’ explanation made sense, but the angry pike captain’s outburst at the dinner table still rang in Reiner’s ears.
“At least you’ll have a tent to yourself,” said Matthais, “if that’s any consolation.”
Reiner’s heart leapt, all thoughts of intrigue gone. Alone with Franka? “Oh, I think I will manage.”
Matthais had been laughing and merry as they left the hall, but now, as they walked through the fort in the cold night air, the young knight lowered his voice. “Er, I hope you read no treason in General Gutzmann’s words tonight, corporal.”
“Not at all, Matthais,” said Reiner. “His seems a reasonable enough complaint, considering the circumstances.”
Matthais nodded earnestly. “Then you understand his frustration?”
“Of course,” Reiner replied, pretending the sort of bluff courage he knew lancers of Matthais’ kidney valued. “Any man would be disappointed to be kept so far from the front.”
“But you see the unfairness of it,” the youth pressed as they exited through the north gate. “The deliberate slight. The danger into which the Empire was placed because of fear and favouritism.”
Reiner hesitated. Matthais’ eyes were shining with almost religious fervour. “Oh, aye,” he said at last. “A damned shame. Absolutely.”
The young captain grinned. “I knew you’d see it. You’re a bright fellow, Reiner. Not a stubborn old fool.” He looked up. “Ah. Here we are, your canvas castle.”
He reached for the tent flap, but it opened from within.
Franka bowed in the opening. “I have laid out your things, my lord.”
Matthais nodded approvingly. “You’re wise to bring a valet from home. I’ve had to make do with a local boy. Horrible fellow. Steals my handkerchiefs.” He executed a clipped bow. “Goodnight, corporal. Good luck with your new duties tomorrow. You’ll like Vortmunder. He’s a bit of a Kossar, but it’s all bluster.”
“Thank you, captain. Goodnight,” said Reiner, returning the bow, then letting the flap drop.
He waited for Matthais’ footsteps to fade, then turned to Franka, grinning. “Ha! Alone at last. I have been waiting the last four months for this moment.”
“And you will wait yet another three, my lord,” she replied tartly. “For my vow is as strong here as it was in Altdorf.”
Reiner sighed. “But we have the opportunity now! In three months we might be on the march, or trapped in Manfred’s town-house again, with no chance for privacy.”
“It will only make it the sweeter when the time comes.”
“Bah!” Reiner started unlacing his jerkin. Then he stopped and looked back at Franka. He smirked. “Unlace me.”
“What?”
“You are my valet, are you not? Unlace me.”
Franka rolled her eyes. “You wish to continue the charade out of the public eye?”
“And why not. It will keep us from slipping when we are in company.”
Franka scowled. “My lord, you seek to cozen me.”
“Not at all. I don’t ask to unlace you, do I?”
Franka snorted. “Very well, my lord. As my lord wishes.” She stepped
forward and began tugging roughly at his laces.
“Easy, lass,” Reiner laughed, as he fought to stand still. “You’ll scuttle me.”
“‘Lass’, my lord?” said Franka, ripping open his last stays. “You call your valet ‘lass’? My lord’s eyes are failing, perhaps.” She grabbed his collar and began yanking it down from his shoulders.
“Franka… Franz… you…” With his arms trapped in his sleeves Reiner couldn’t keep his balance. He staggered and fell. Franka tried to catch him, but instead went down with him, tipping the cot over. They ended in a muddle of blankets, the light wood frame on top of them.
Franka flailed a slap at him, laughing. “You did that a’purpose!”
“I didn’t!” Reiner cried. “You were too rough, sir!”
He caught her wrist to stop another slap and suddenly they were in one another’s arms, clinging desperately and kissing deeply. They moaned their desire, their hands moving feverishly. Reiner rolled to pull her on top of him, but Franka broke away with a sob.
Reiner sat up. “What’s this?”
“I am sorry, captain,” she said, hiding her face. “I do not mean to tease, but I am not as strong as I pretend. This is why I beg you so not to press me. For it would take so little to make me give in, and then I could never forgive myself.”
Reiner sighed and pulled her head to his chest. “Ah Franka, I…”
There were feet approaching the tent. “Corporal Meyerling!” came a voice. “Are you within?” It was Karel.
Reiner and Franka leapt up like guilty schoolboys. Reiner tore off his jerkin and tossed it to Franka. “Here, take this and put it away. And dry your eyes. Hurry.”
Franka turned to Reiner’s travel chest as Reiner righted the cot and piled the blankets on top of it. “Come in,” he called. Karel ducked through the flap, his saddle-bags and armour over his shoulders.
“Corporal Ziegler?” said Reiner.
“They are overbooked, corporal,” Karel said, smiling. “Thought they had more tents, but they didn’t. I said you wouldn’t mind if I bunked with you.”
02 - The Broken Lance Page 5
