Tales of the Old World (13 page)

“I’m not sure, sir, but they didn’t seem up to much to me and Captain Molders
reckoned they were odd too, sir. I believe he thought them some kind of ruse.”

Otto stood up rapidly. His father was listening to nonsense, or worse,
treachery. Without waiting further, he brushed aside the hanging and strode into
his father’s quarters. Lutyens sat nearer, his huge bulk balanced precariously
on a camp stool. Facing him across a folding table sat Otto’s father, the Graf
von Eisenkopf. The Graf was a powerful man but even he looked small compared to
Lutyens. Perhaps it was this that seemed, to Otto’s eyes, to lend him a shrunken
air. To his anxious son, the Graf’s broad, open face looked pale even in the
warm lamp light. And was there more grey in that close cropped hair and beard?

“Father,” Otto began breathlessly, “I have additional information regarding
the Bretonnians’ plans.”

Lutyens swung his ice-blue eyes towards him and his father looked up coolly,
fixing Otto with the same stern gaze that had met his childhood misdemeanours.

“It must be important information, indeed, for you to have forgotten your
normal courtesy,” the Graf observed, calmly.

Otto coloured but began again. “This man…” He was about to berate the
pistolier as a completely untrustworthy source of information but something in
the gaze of his father made him change his mind. “This man may not have all the
facts. He has not spoken with our noble prisoner, Sir Guillame de Montvert.”

“I do not doubt it,” the Graf agreed. “But he has made his report promptly,
as a dutiful trooper should and I myself had hoped to speak with de Montvert, at
least before too long.” His voice was soft but the rebuke was not lost on Otto.
The young man knew better than to try to make excuses to his father, but inside
he felt a burning sense of injustice. The general was still speaking, now to
Lutyens. “Thank you, trooper, for your report. You are dismissed for the
present.”

The big pistolier rose and bowed somewhat awkwardly. “Yes, sir.” He was
usually slow of movement but Otto thought he detected reluctance in his measured
step as he departed.

On pretence of straightening the curtain, Otto checked that Lutyens had
indeed left. He turned and the Graf gestured to him. “Sit down, my son.
Congratulations on the capture of the prisoner. But I am surprised you have not
brought him to me.”

“I… I thought it good manners to allow a man of his rank to prepare himself
properly before presenting himself.”

“You are thoughtful but we are not at court, my son. We are defending our
land. It is more important for me to get information quickly.”

“Sorry, father.”

“No matter. Make your report.”

Much of the fire and anger had been chastened out of Otto. He related his
views to his father a great deal more quietly than he had imagined when riding
back. He described the ambush, mentioning his distaste for such skulking tactics
and telling how he had sprung forth and challenged the Bretonnian knight. He
considered voicing his suspicions about the loyalty of Captain Molders, but the
grim set of his father’s jaw made him change his mind. He would keep his fears
to himself for the present, and wait and see what actions were to be taken.

“So you sprung the ambush too soon.” His father’s voice was steely.

“I acted as a gentleman, father.”

“I placed you under the orders of Captain Molders and expected you to obey
him.”

Otto’s resentment boiled over: “Father! The man is a mercenary! He knows
nothing of honour. Listen to his accent, he sounds more like a Bretonnian! You
know the trouble these locals cause you. Brigands, as much a thorn for us as for
their enemies. How can he be trusted?”

His father banged his fist on the table, silencing him. He was about to speak
and then passed his hand wearily across his brow. Otto regarded him warily. He
did look tired. These past months since he had been appointed warden must have
been hard. Battling orcs or defending against beastmen in the east was arduous
but at least you knew where you stood with an orc. Here the damned locals on
both sides of the border were always feuding, raiding and seemingly caring
little for Emperor or King.

“Father, I am here to serve you loyally.”

The Graf returned his earnest gaze. “I know, Otto, but war isn’t like the
ballads or the parade ground. Molders is no knight but he is a veteran of this
border squabbling and I’ll stake my sword he is not false. I’m far from sure
about just how chivalrous this opportunist the Duke de Boncenne is. What I am
sure of is that the Emperor runs the South March on a tight purse and I have
precious few forces to impede Boncenne. If he pushes up to the Grunwasser, he’ll
lodge himself like a halfling in a bakery and be twice as difficult to shift.”

Listening, Otto was a tumult of emotions: shame yet resentment at this
chastisement, worry for his father and a tingling sense of excitement at being
involved in such tense matters.

“I must have more information,” his father was continuing. “Molders will
report as soon as he arrives. Meanwhile bring me the knight and I will question
him.”

“Yes, father. Will he be dining with us?”

“No he will not!”

Otto winced. “I will fetch him at once.”

As Otto left, Molders was just coming into the tent. The pistolier captain
pulled his shoulders back even further than normal and gave a strangled snort as
he passed. The young noble glared at him before stiffly walking to his tent.

When he arrived, the Bretonnian was sitting by the fire, wrapped in Otto’s
second cloak and thanking Henryk who had just topped up his goblet. The knight
looked up, “Ah, greetings, Otto. I compliment you on your hospitality.” He
gestured with his goblet.

“I fear I must interrupt your rest, Sir Guillame. My father…” Otto hesitated
slightly, “My father desires to speak to you. I am sure he will not detain you
long. I will wait until you return and we can dine together. I shall escort you
to the Graf at once.”

Otto’s plans to dine were to be frustrated, however, and scarce three hours
later he was in the saddle again.

Otto prided himself on his horsemanship and was indeed reckoned a natural in
the saddle, but he had never encountered riding like this before. Throughout the
scant hours of darkness that were left they pressed on like men possessed. There
was no moon and Otto wondered how his horse could see to pick his way over the
rough hillsides, never mind how Molders was guiding the troops. Dawn brought
easier going as they reached the moorland plateau which marked the no-man’s land
on the south march between Bretonnia and the Empire, but there was no change in
pace. The pistoliers dispersed themselves more widely but they did not even stop
for breakfast, the men sipping from their flasks and eating on the move instead.

Otto was very weary but inside he was a conflicting mass of emotion. Pride
that his father had seen fit to dispatch them to check his own theory and scout
for a Bretonnian force coming over the moor. But there was anger at Molders’
barely concealed contempt for what he saw as a wasted errand. The captain firmly
believed that the main Bretonnian attack was coming by the southern route. The
man was mad, or worse, an enemy agent. How could he doubt the honour of knights
such as Sir Guillame? No! They would locate the Bretonnian force, his father
would marshal his troops and battle would be joined on the moor.

It would be Otto’s first battle. Not a large one admittedly, in fact more of
a border skirmish over a couple of valleys and those wretched coal mines, but
what mattered the size of the conflict when true honour was at stake? He had
heard the pistoliers talk of the Duke of Boncenne as an upstart, keen to get his
hands on the profits of those mines. How could they think so of a duke? They
were the mercenaries! More likely the duke viewed the whole venture as a test of
honour, an adventure to prove himself in his new post of march warden and quite
right too! Any noble of courage and mettle would do similarly.

The day wore on. They had halted briefly but Molders was relentless, and by
late afternoon they had picked up the cart road which ran from Dreiburg across
the border. The pistoliers followed the road but were still well spread out in a
long skirmish line. Otto looked to his right where Lutyens was riding, blonde
hair streaming out behind him in the stiff breeze, his huge form dwarfing his
small mount. It was worrying how the giant had always been somewhere near. Had
Molders posted the big man to keep a special watch over him? Was the pistolier
captain aware of Otto’s suspicions? Anxiety twisted in his stomach. If the
pistoliers proved to be traitors it would be very easy for them to kill him. He
would stand no chance against so many. A cloud passed over the sun and the wild,
open landscape of the moors seemed suddenly bleak. The craggy rock outcrops took
on the guise of sinister watching heads, roughly haired with heather, peering at
Otto. The incessant chatter of the chill streams, a babble which had once echoed
Otto’s bubbling spirits now seemed to mock him as they approached the rise to
the scarp edge where the moor descended in a rocky jumble to the Bretonnian
plains. Here Molders halted his men, and, leaving most with the horses, led a
few forward on foot to look out over the land ahead.

The captain signalled that Otto should come too, and again the young man was
irked to find himself chaperoned by the hulking Lutyens. Using the rough,
boulder-strewn slope as an excuse, Otto tried to pick a route that led him away
from his unwelcome shadow but wherever he moved Lutyens’ slow footfall
followed. Otto’s heart beat faster, faster than the climb should have
occasioned, as he wondered what lay at the scarp edge. Would this be the scene
of his death at the hands of traitors? A supposed accident on the cliff edge?
Apprehensively his hand rested on his sword hilt but he felt powerless. He hung
back when, approaching the skyline, the pistoliers dropped and crawled towards
the edge. Lutyens stopped beside him. Ahead, Molders was cautiously peering
through the gap between two rocks. He reached down to a pouch at his belt and
pulled out a small brass tube. A spyglass, an item of expense and rarity, looted
doubtless! The captain scrutinised the land ahead.

There seemed to be a ripple of expectation amongst the pistoliers. Several
glanced back. Their faces showed interest, expectation. Were they Molders’ most
trusted henchmen, here to witness Otto’s murder? The captain turned impatiently
and even behind that spade of a beard, Otto could clearly detect a wolfish grin.
He gestured imperiously for Otto to come forward. The young noble moved forward,
tensed for action. There was a touch on his shoulder and he whirled, sword
half-drawn before his arms were caught in Lutyens’ iron grip.

“Get down, by Sigmar! You will reveal us!” the giant hissed.

Shaking, bewildered, Otto crawled to where Molders beckoned with his
spyglass. There was a glint in the captain’s eye as he gestured to Otto to look
ahead. Heart pounding and trying to watch the pistolier out of the corner of his
eye, Otto glanced around the boulder in front of him.

He gasped at what he saw and his fears vanished in a rush of vindicated
pride. Some distance from the bottom of the slope a long line of horsemen was
trotting towards them, the sun glinting off their helmets and spear points.
Squires screened the advance of the main force which was arranged along the road
behind. He had been right! He glanced over to where Molders was lying but the
captain did not look round. Molders was scrutinising the slowly advancing
Bretonnians. Otto looked at them too. The main force was quite a distance away
and some dust was rising but Otto could see a collection of bright banners
floating above the head of the procession and beneath them a splash of colour he
took to be the caparisons of the knights’ chargers. Behind marched a column of
infantry, a mixture of archers and men-at-arms most probably.

Molders just kept staring through the spyglass and the outriders were nearly
at the bottom of the slope before he made any move, silently gesturing to Meyer,
his lieutenant, to take the glass. Otto smiled to himself. Most probably the
captain was sour at being proved wrong. Meyer looked for some minutes before
lowering the instrument, his thin lips pursed and dark brow creased with
concern. He passed the glass to Lutyens with a soft oath, “By Sigmar! A ruse.”

Molders grinned harshly at Otto before wriggling backwards with Meyer,
gesturing to Lutyens to pass the glass to Otto. The young noble paused to admire
the instrument. It was crafted exquisitely; dwarf-made, Otto thought. Lutyens
was impatiently signing to him to hurry so he lifted it to his eye. It took him
a second to focus it and when he did he let out an involuntary whistle,
immediately cut short by a vicious jab from Lutyens. The image was miraculous,
far superior to that given by his father’s own prized telescope, one of the best
the craftsmen of the Empire could produce. He could see every detail of the
faces of the horsemen, now beginning to pick their way up the long slope, and he
was surprised at what an unkempt crew they appeared. This was nothing to the
shock he got when he trained the glass on the knights leading the column further
back along the road. He picked out the Duke by his banner and horse trappings
but through the Dwarfish instrument he could see that the figure on the charger
was not the darkly handsome, moustached warrior he’d heard of. Indeed it was
only a young stripling of a youth, gawky and pale. The rest of the procession
was equally startling. There was the occasional warlike veteran but most seemed
youths or old men and many of the spearmen seemed armed with farm implements,
not weapons of war. Lutyens was tugging at his boot. His mind in turmoil, Otto
squirmed back and then ran over to where Molders was issuing a furious stream of
orders.