01 - Empire in Chaos (33 page)

“Less than a day’s march away?” said Karl, his eyes brightening. The outrider
nodded.

“An army accompanied by the Elector of the Ostermark himself. It marches for
Talabecland, heading for Hazelhof.”

“Hazelhof?” said Grunwald, not recognising the name.

“A small village at the foot of the Kolsa Hills. It is of little consequence,
yet the enemy seems intent on controlling the area—agents of the Order of the
Griffon are trying to ascertain what it is they seek. We are to liberate the
area.”

“So you are the rearguard,” said Grunwald. The outrider nodded.

“The enemy chases us, like rabid hounds. And they are closing in on the
elector’s army—I fear it will not make Talabecland without battle. And it must
hold, regardless of the odds. It seems that the enemy are moving against us in
force—if the elector’s army breaks, then the enemy will be able to move into
Talabecland unopposed, and strike against the flanks of the armies there. It
would be disastrous.”

“What of the dwarfs stationed at Bechafen?” said Thorrik. The outrider gazed
at the dwarf for a moment.

“I know nothing of them,” admitted the outrider. Thorrik grunted, and walked
away.

“A day’s march,” said Karl thoughtfully. “Tell me, man, what of the enemy?
Where are their armies?”

The outrider sighed. “They are all around,” he said. “Vanguard forces push
deeper into Talabecland already, and I have heard that Ostland too is overrun.”

“The armies of Chaos from the north, the green tide of Orcs from the east…”
Grunwald shook his head.

The outrider frowned. “Enemies from the east?”

Karl waved a hand, dismissing the question.

“We must away,” he said. “Knights of Myrmidia! Ready yourselves! We march!”

“I will leave one of my men with you, to guide you to the Elector’s army,”
said the outrider. “Helmut!” he shouted, and a young noble, probably no more
than fourteen years of age, saluted sloppily. “You will guide these templars and
their companions to the army of the Elector count. Be wary of the enemy.”

Karl nodded in thanks, and extended his hand to the outrider. “Preceptor Karl
Heiden is my name,” he said as he clasped hands with the older warrior.

“Klaus Midders,” said the outrider. “I pray to Sigmar that we shall meet
again.”

“Indeed. Ride well, Klaus Midders,” said Karl. The outrider hoisted himself
easily into the saddle.

Eldanair shouted again, and several of the pistolier’s horses snorted and
tossed their heads.

The outrider Klaus pulled a brass eyeglass from a pouch at his side and
extended it, looking to the east where Eldanair was pointing.

“An enemy rider, alone on the rise to the east,” he said after a minute.
“He’s motionless—watching us. They are closer than anticipated. The elector
must be warned.”

With quick, sharp orders, the outrider organised his pistoliers. Two of them
he sent directly back to the army, carrying messages he swiftly penned and
sealed with his ornate signet ring. They galloped off to the west, riding hard.

Leaving just the young pistolier Helmut as their guide, the outrider wheeled
his steed and with a wave, led his soldiers in a trot towards the lone enemy
horseman.

“Thorrik,” said Grunwald, walking away from the others to speak to the
ironbreaker, who was sat on a stone smoking. “Will you join us heading east?”

The dwarf sighed and puffed on his pipe. “I have been gone from my clan too
long,” he said at last. “I am eager to return to my people. But it seems that
there is nothing at Bechafen now. Aye, I will come with you, manling. If nothing
else, I should be able to learn where Clan Barad fights.”

Grunwald slapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “I am sorry that it seems your
people are not there,” the witch hunter said. “Though I am glad you’re still
travelling with us.”

The dwarf nodded to him, his eyes glittering with rare
humour. “Aye,” he said. “For a manling you are not half bad.”

“Well, young man,” said Karl to the solitary pistolier. “Lead on.”

The moorland they travelled over was bleak and eerie and thick fogs
surrounded them often, wet and cloying, making their progress difficult. Strange
lights seemed to shimmer in the distance at times, and the silence then was even
more profound, the fog muffling even the rattle of Thorrik’s armour so that it
seemed dull and distant.

They travelled as swiftly as they were able. The young pistolier was clearly
in awe of the knights, as well he would be, thought Grunwald. The pistolkorps
was an organisation that many noble lords sent their sons to join, and it was
generally regarded as a place where a young man could earn his spurs in battle.
From the pistolkorps many of the men went on to join one of the knightly orders,
the templars of the Blazing Sun amongst them. Still, Grunwald found the
upper-class bearing of the boy irritating, and though he regarded the knights
with the utmost respect, his disdain for him and Annaliese was palpable. As for
Thorrik and Eldanair, the boy did not so much as glance in their direction.

“That was a sloppy salute you gave your commanding officer, boy,” he said
after an hour’s hard march.

The pistolier looked down at Grunwald arrogantly.

“I am the son of a baron. Klaus Midders is a lowborn—a mere drill
instructor.”

“I too am a
mere
lowborn,” said Grunwald dangerously. The
pistolier flushed an angry red, and opened his mouth to say something. He caught
himself, his eyes flicking to the pendant hanging around the witch hunter’s
neck, and closed his mouth. “Very wise,” said Grunwald.

“You are of the church of Sigmar, therefore your low birth is of lesser
importance,” said the pistolier sullenly.

“Helmut!” said Karl sharply. The young pistolier straightened instantly,
snapping off a sharp salute to the preceptor. “Ride ahead and ensure the way is
clear.” The boy nodded and dug his heels into his steed. Karl smirked. “Why bait
the boy, Grunwald?”

“I don’t like his type.”

“He’s a spoilt brat—there are thousands of them. Never going to get ahead
in the world if that is the way you treat all of your betters.”

“Do I
look
like I have any interest in getting ahead by toadying
myself to the likes of his breed?”

“
His breed.
Ouch. I am of noble birth myself, you know.”

“There are two types of nobleman, Karl. And you are not
his
kind.”

The preceptor laughed. “Perhaps. It will be beaten out of him if he is chosen
to join the templars of the Blazing Sun.”

“If he lives that long,” said Grunwald. He felt suddenly rather petty for his
actions, and stalked further ahead, walking alone.

Karl dropped back alongside Annaliese, glancing in irritation at the tall
figure of Eldanair ghosting her footsteps.

“Nothing like a walk in the countryside, eh?” he said lightly as the girl
smiled at him. She laughed at his levity, and Karl smiled broadly.

“And how is the maiden of Sigmar today?” he said.

She scowled at him, though her eyes laughed at his quip. “I wish you would
not call me that,” she said.

“I apologise,” he said, bowing and sweeping his hand before him. “I see you
are still practising at swordplay with the elf before the dawn of each day.”

“Eldanair is a fine teacher,” she said.

“A marvel, I’m sure,” said Karl. “Your timing and balance is improved. You
move well. I would suggest a blade over that hammer, as it would complement your
speed more, but I don’t think that anything I say could convince you not to use
it.”

Annaliese smiled. “You know me too well.”

Not nearly enough, he thought.

The army of Wolfram Hertwig, Elector Count of the Ostermark, was encamped at
Seuthes, a village some ninety miles south-west of the capital of the state,
Bechafen.

Five miles out from the Empire army they were challenged by swarthy men
appearing out of the mist with arrows aimed at them. They wore no uniform and
had appeared silently and with great stealth—most likely militia scouts,
thought Grunwald. Not part of the formal state army, but employed in times of
war. At other times they might have made their way hunting, either game or
bounties. Their leader, a hulking scout called Dietrich with arms as thick as
Grunwald’s thighs, was taken by surprise as Eldanair rose up like a wraith
behind him and placed a blade to his throat.

Her hands raised, Annaliese stepped forward speaking and signing to Eldanair
that these were friends, and the elf somewhat reluctantly removed his blade.
Dietrich frowned, unnerved that the elf had managed to sneak up on him, rubbing
at his neck.

Escorted by these scouts, they were taken down to the army, the last fighting
force remaining within the state. From the high moors, the land dropped away
sharply, and the village could be seen below. Thousands of tents were picketed
in the snow-covered fields beyond, and makeshift defences and emplacement were
being hastily dug. Several great cannons, mighty war machines crafted in far
away Nuln, were being heaved into place, and engineers were pacing out distances
to ensure they knew how much powder to load.

“Looks like the elector has chosen to make his stand here,” said Grunwald.

“Why not keep the army moving towards the east?” questioned Karl. “Get
closer to reinforcements?” The scout leader, Dietrich, answered him. “The forces
of the Raven Host are massing along the border of Talabecland and the Ostermark.
If we had kept moving, then we might well have ended up caught between two enemy
armies. Better to turn and face one than fight a battle on two fronts.”

“The enemy controls the border?” asked Karl. Dietrich nodded.

“The curs are gathering in strength. We fight ’em here, or we fight ’em
somewhere else,” he said, shrugging. “I reckon this elector’s got some sense at
least—this ’aint a bad place to make our stand.”

He was a simple, down to earth and direct man, with none of the pomposity
that often surrounded the military. Grunwald liked him.

It
was
a good place to face the enemy, he decided. Down the steep,
rough incline the enemy would descend, down into the dip. Ice covered the murky
pools in this natural marsh, and the enemy would be slowed as it pushed through
it, all the while being targeted by the Empire bows and handguns.

Having struggled though the mire, the foe would then be forced to climb a
steady slope of clear land towards the Empire forces. It would be long and
tiring and the icy ground would likely be thick with the dead.

The state soldiers working to ready the defences wore the purple and yellow
liveries of the Ostermark, though there were many pockets bedecked in the yellow
and red of Talabecland, and the men heaving the cannon into place wore the black
of Nuln.

It was a hive of activity, as the Empire forces readied themselves for
battle.

“Still, if we can trust the word of those uptight pistolier bastards, then we
are gonna be in for one hell of a fight,” said Dietrich. “Messages came in about
an hour ago, just before we headed out. They say the army heading our way
spreads from one horizon to the other.”

“Sounds like great odds,” said Karl sarcastically. “We might as well start
the victory celebrations early.”

“Still, I don’t trust the word of a pistolier further than I can piss,” added
Dietrich. “Excusing me language,” he added, tipping his hat in the direction of
Annaliese. She laughed, finding the sight of the massive scout looking abashed
comical.

“I’ve heard far worse in my time, Dietrich,” she assured him. “And I’ll hear
far worse yet, I’m sure.”

Grunwald calculated quickly as they descended towards the village. He guessed
there must have been around three thousand soldiers camped here, judging from
the number of tents and lean-tos erected on the far field. Not a large force by
any stretch, and if the reports of the pistoliers
were
correct, they
would find themselves heavily outnumbered in the forthcoming battle. Still, that
was a concern that he had no power to affect, and so he pushed it from his mind.

“Your elf there,” said Dietrich, nodding towards Eldanair, who was walking
nearby, his face pale and expressionless.

“He’s not
my
elf,” said Grunwald.

“Whatever. I’ll be leading the boys back out before dawn,” continued
Dietrich, “and if he’s willing, I’d like to have him along. Certainly showed me
up earlier,” he added, rubbing at his neck where the elf’s slim blade had been
placed, right alongside the artery.

Grunwald shrugged. “As I said, he isn’t my man. And I don’t think he would be
interested in being hired. But, if he’s willing, it’s his own business.”

“Fair enough,” said Dietrich. He looked over at the elf. “He speaks
Reikspiel?”

“No,” answered Grunwald.

“Ah,” replied Dietrich. “That might make things tricky, then.”

“She seems to have the knack of talking with him though,” Grunwald said,
jabbing a black-gloved thumb in Annaliese’s direction.

“Preceptor!” called one of the knights, a young man from Reikland.

“What is it Jarek?” said Karl.

“Look,” said the young knight eagerly, pointing down into an open field to
the south of the village. Squinting his eyes against the glare of the snow, Karl
could see two blocks of knights wheeling and charging across the open field,
practising their movement as a cohesive unit. The banners held aloft by one
knight within each of the regiments was unmistakable. Karl laughed out loud.

“Templars of Myrmidia! Finally!” he said. “And if the goddess is looking
favourably upon us, they may even have some spare warhorses. Come!” he called.
“Let us rejoin our temple!”

Grunwald strode through the village with Annaliese and Eldanair. Soldiers
hefting powder kegs and lead shot gave them long looks before returning to their
work, muttering amongst themselves. Eldanair had drawn his hood down low over
his face once more, but no doubt rumour of the elf had already circulated
amongst the soldiers—word travelled fast within an army.