[Empire Army 02] - Iron Company Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  IRON COMPANY

  Empire Army - 02

  Chris Wraight

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  To MD. With thanks and admiration always.

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands. Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Cods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There are many who pour scorn on the engineers. They call us madmen, fools, or worse. We have no honour in the Empire, nor in the lands beyond. And yet I foresee a great change coming. When the sword fails and where the spell miscasts, iron and blackpowder will still retain their merit. Our time has not yet come. But as the days grow darker, it surely will. Only when all the Emperor’s companies are Iron Companies will the future of our race be secured. Then we shall no longer be scorned, but lauded and justly appraised as the mightiest and most learned of men.

  —The Notebooks of Leonardo da Miragliano

  It was the end of winter, and the worst of the ice had retreated north at last. The ground still lay as hard as bone, and the trees were bare. Their black trunks rose starkly into the grey air. Men wrapped themselves heavily against the chill. The countryside was silent but for the echoing croak of ravens. When the sun rose, it was weak, its light watery. When it set, the cold came creeping back from the mountains, and families huddled around meagre fires, watchful of the flickering shadows.

  The streets of Hergig were almost empty. In the faint light of dusk, the narrow houses clustered together tightly, rising from the filth of the streets in uneven, jagged rows. The most elaborate of the buildings were roofed with slate and had frames of oak. The poorest looked tired and stained with age.

  Hochland was not a wealthy place, and there were more poor places than rich. The elector count and his court preferred to dwell for most of the year in their private estates near the southern borders. Only in the deep winter did they trail back to Hergig, sheltering in the massive Kristalhof in the centre of the city. The vast keep ensured they were isolated from the worst squalor of their subjects. Those who could afford it constructed their town houses around the prestigious Hofbahn district, as close as they could get to the keep. Those who couldn’t took their chances in the lower town, where the squalid dwellings were rammed up against one another and the militia patrolled in teams.

  Magnus Ironblood took a look around him. He felt tired and grimy. Of all the houses before him, only one was lit. A hand-painted sign hung on battered hinges: The Boar. There were a thousand inns with that name in the northlands. This one looked no different to the rest. The light coming from the doorway was dim. There was no sound of carousing from inside, just a low, surly murmuring.

  Still, the place served beer, and that was the important thing. Magnus walked towards it, his long leather overcoat swirling as he went. The expensive garment marked him out in such places. He no longer cared. Fitting in had never been his principal strength.

  He pushed the door open. The inn was little more than the lower room of a private house. Old straw lay on the floor, reeking. Tallow candles burned in alcoves, leaving black streaks against the daub walls. There was no bar, just a long table on which dusty bottles and kegs of beer had been piled. A shrewish woman sat behind it, counting copper coins into a jar. There were a few more wooden tables in the centre of the room, and long benches against the walls. As Magnus entered, some of the drinkers turned their heads towards the door. There weren’t many of them. They were all men, all old, all clothed in heavy cloaks and jerkins against the cold.

  Just like me, thought Magnus, dryly. This is what I’ve become.

  The drinkers went back to nursing their flagons. One man looked at Magnus for a little longer. He had a sparse grey beard and glittering eyes, and hunched over his drink protectively. He kept up his gaze for a few moments, before turning back to his beer.

  Magnus ignored him, and walked over to what passed for the bar. The old fool probably lusted after his coat. He could try and get it if he wanted. Better men had failed.

  “Beer,” Magnus said to the woman, curtly.

  She gave him an irritated look, as if serving customers was something to be avoided, and put her coins down.

  “Keg, or bottle?” she asked.

  To have beer from a glass bottle was a rarity. Magnus looked at the ones on show carefully. The glass was deep green and thick, with long corks protruding from the neck. They had foreign characters on the labels, angular and unreadable. Plundered stock, then. Anything could be in them.

  “Keg,” he said, throwing a single coin onto the table.

  The woman got up and filled an iron tankard with a dark brown liquid. There was virtually no head on it. It smelled almost like beer. There was more than a hint of the drain about it too.

  Magnus took it up and wandered over to one of the benches. He sat heavily. As he did so, he noticed that the man with the beard had left. None of the other patrons paid him any attention. He took a sip of his drink. It had a sour finish, but he’d had much worse. It was wet, it would take the edge off his mood, and nothing much else mattered.

  He pushed himself back against the wall, letting his legs stretch out against the floor, watching the furrows his heels made in the dirt. His boots had once been something to be proud of. Expensive leather, expertly sewn. Now they were just like him, faded and battered. He looked down at his legs. Though it was hard to remember, Magnus had once been considered tall.

  Handsome, even. Now he just looked big. The muscles that had pounded hammers on anvils were still there, but lay under an unwelcome covering of fat. His features had become lined and hard from the elements. His dark hair, jet-black when he’d been in Nuln, was now ragged and flecked with grey At least they matched his eyes now. Just like his father’s, pale grey irises like the flank of a Middenheim wolf.

  The beer went down well. Before he knew it, the flagon was nearly empty. Magnus left the dregs where they were. You never really wanted to know what was in them. He gestured to the woman for another. She brought one over, grumbling as she came.

  “And?” she said, holding out a grimy palm.

  Magnus paused. His payment should have been good for more. His were rare coins, minted in Nuln, almost the last remaining from his final cache. He thought about protesting, but the beer had sunk deep into his body, making him lethargic. Who cared if he was being cheated? The money would be gone soon enough anyway.

  He pressed a second coin into her hand, and the woman skulked off. Magnus took a thoughtful sip. For what he was paying, he might as well try and enjoy it.

 
As he lowered the rim of the tankard, the door opened again. A gust of frigid air sighed into the room. A man entered. He looked nothing like the others. His flesh was smooth and clean, his robes expensive. Aside from the thin layer of mud lining his soft boots, little of the street clung to him. As his fingers moved, the weak light caught on metal. He was wearing rings on his pale, effeminate fingers. Walking around Hergig like that was dangerous. He was either very stupid, or very powerful.

  The man pushed his long cloak back, revealing a sleek, rounded stomach. Everything about him was self-satisfied, from his grooming to his pink, fleshy face. The woman hurried up to him, her earlier irascibility swept away.

  “Herr Grotius,” she said, handing him a bottle of beer. “You do us honour.”

  The man looked at her distastefully, and reached for some payment.

  “Not necessary, not necessary,” the woman said. “Will you have anything else?”

  The man Grotius looked around him. His expression seemed to imply that nothing, absolutely nothing in this miserable place could possibly be of the slightest interest to him.

  “No,” he said. His voice was syrupy, and conveyed a casual disdain with a minimum of effort. “I won’t be here long.”

  The woman withdrew, looking back at the newcomer nervously as she did so. A few eyes around the room were raised in his direction, but flicked down again as soon as he looked around. Magnus suddenly felt a chill run through him. Grotius was walking towards him.

  “Herr Magnus Albrecht Ironblood?” he said.

  Magnus nodded warily. The man pulled a chair from a nearby table, wiped its surface with the corner of his cloak, and sat down carefully.

  “May I join you?”

  Magnus looked at the man with suspicion. The rest of the drinkers seemed to know who the newcomer was, and went back to their low-voiced conversations.

  “Do I have a choice?” asked Magnus.

  Grotius smiled thinly.

  “Of course you do. But I’d recommend spending a few moments in my company. We have something of significant mutual interest to discuss.”

  Magnus took a deliberate swig of his drink, weighing up the situation. The man had the air of an official, a court flunky. If that were true, it boded badly for him. He had never had a good experience with officials. They were parasites, paid gold to administer the affairs of their benefactors while the masses starved.

  “Is that so?” said Magnus. “Then you won’t mind telling me who you are, who sent you and how you knew I was here.”

  The man raised an eyebrow.

  “You really don’t know who I am?” he said, musingly. “They told me you were new to Hergig, but still.”

  The man took a sip from his bottle, and winced. He put it down as if it was full of wasps. As he did so, the doors of the tavern burst open. They slammed against the walls heavily, and a group of men burst in. Three or four of them, plus a slovenly woman with a painted face. They called out for beer. Their red cheeks and bleary eyes indicated they’d already had a lot.

  The woman frantically tried to calm them down, but one of them broke into a song. Magnus sat back, smiling. The lyrics were enlightening, something about a miller’s daughter and an oversized grindstone.

  Grotius, however, didn’t see the funny side. He stood up, and fixed the ringleader with a cold stare.

  For a moment, the man kept going. But his friends saw the danger. He was dragged into the shadows and hastily quietened. As realisation dawned, Magnus saw the man’s face turn ashen. He slumped into the corner and was given a dirty flagon to cool his spirits. They clearly knew who Grotius was. It was only him, it seemed, who was at a disadvantage.

  Grotius’ gaze swept the rest of the room. All eyes were lowered. The hum of conversation returned. The man sighed irritably, and looked back at Magnus.

  “My name is Valerian von Grotius. I’m an agent of Count Ludenhof. My duties are many. You should know from the outset that I’m in the complete trust of the elector. That may inform our discussion, since you’re clearly new to Hochland.”

  Magnus maintained his sceptical expression. This was getting worse.

  “As for how I found you,” said Grotius, “it was a simple matter. The name Ironblood still carries some weight in the Empire, no matter how much you’ve tried to extinguish it. Even now, despite your lamentable fall from prestige, you don’t much resemble the scum from around here. When news reached me that you’d ended up in Hergig, I was able to draw on a few outstanding debts. In that, as ever, I was ably served.”

  Magnus inclined his head sardonically. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Your sort never seem short of willing helpers.”

  Grotius ignored Magnus’ tone.

  “A happy consequence of office,” he said, looking down at his rings absently. “I’ve been waiting to meet you for several days. I’m glad to finally have the honour.”

  Magnus belched loudly.

  “So now we’re all happy,” he said. “Suppose you tell me what you want, and then leave?”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Grotius’ features for the first time.

  “I’ll be pleased to leave you to your many pressing affairs,” he said, looking at Magnus’ stained jerkin with faintly veiled disgust. “Do you think I enjoy coming to such places?”

  He collected himself.

  “You’re unfamiliar with the politics of Hochland,” Grotius said, settling against the creaking back of his chair. “Let me illuminate you. Much as we might wish it otherwise, the benign rule of Count Ludenhof is not as universally appreciated as it might be. As with all the states of the Empire, there is discontent, there is envy, and there are rivals to the sovereign office. Through the enlightened policies of his advisers, the count has maintained the security of his position with considerable efficiency. But there are always issues, always the threat of strife.”

  As he spoke, Grotius looked genuinely pained by the spectre of disloyalty to the count. Magnus sighed, took a deep swig of his drink and slumped further against the bench.

  “There is a woman of noble birth, the Margravine Anna-Louisa Margarete Emeludt von Kleister,” continued Grotius. “She’s the mistress of several familial estates to the north of the province, bordering on the Hochland Mittebergen, the Middle Mountains. The source of her wealth has never been entirely clear, but she has deep pockets. Among her possessions are several mines. It’s possible she’s discovered a hidden source of precious metal, maybe even gold. If so, that gives her substantial independent means. She could mint coinage, even hire mercenaries. It is a situation which has proved increasingly intolerable.”

  “Sounds like some woman,” said Magnus. “Maybe we should meet.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” said Grotius. “But you might find it difficult. For over a year, she has rebuffed any attempt to draw her back within the fold of legitimate government. Reasonable requests for a tithe of her wealth have met with no reply. Repeated embassies have returned with no response. She has, in effect, become a rebel.”

  Magnus sighed deeply. Grotius looked in the mood to spin out his tale. Magnus was tired, and the potent ale was beginning to generate a low throb behind his eyes. The murky business of Hochland’s internal politics was no concern of his.

  “So bring her to heel,” he said. “Ludenhof will have to learn to control his women.”

  Grotius looked awkwardly at him.

  “The thought had occurred to us. Sedition is not tolerated here any more than it would be in Nuln or Altdorf. When it was clear the margravine had ceased to fall within the writ of the state, an armed delegation was sent to her estate with orders to arrest her. She was not there. According to reports, she had raised her own troops with gold and promises, and set up court in a remote citadel in the mountains. The implication of this is clear. She intends to resist arrest, and build up her strength over the winter. In the spring, she may have gathered enough men to move against the elector. Obviously, this situation could not be tolerated. One of our agents
reported that she had amassed a considerable store of arms which could only grow. On my advice, an army was mustered and sent to bring the rebels to heel.”

  Grotius’ sense of awkwardness seemed to increase. Some of his easy self-assurance had dissolved.

  “That was over a month ago,” he said, quietly. “They have not been heard of since. We have no idea of their fate. There are many, myself included, who believe them destroyed.”

  Magnus let out a low whistle. Despite himself, he was beginning to become intrigued.

  “You lost an army?” he said. “Careless. If you ask me, heads should roll. Right at the top.”

  Grotius gave him a withering look.

  “And so we come to the present situation,” he said. “There is a rogue margravine hidden in the Mittebergen, gathering fresh troops to her side with every passing week. No attempt to contact her has been successful. The integrity of the state is compromised. The count is greatly troubled, and has sworn to bring the affair to a speedy conclusion. Funds have been transferred from his personal account in Altdorf for the raising of a second army. He is determined to crush the rebellion before it can blossom further. Hochland will not be divided.”

  Magnus drained his tankard, and looked at Grotius.

  “Fascinating,” he said, licking his lips. “But I’d listen a lot better if…”

  Grotius snapped his fingers irritably, and the woman at the table instantly began to pour a fresh flagon of ale. The drunkards in the corner were getting steadily louder again. One man was gnawing at a chicken bone in the shadows, the pink juices running down his chin. Another had brought out a scrawny fighting cockerel and was showing it to the woman proudly. All across the Empire, in every squalid hole and cranny, similar scenes were being played out. It was a dreary thought.

  “So now we come to it,” said Grotius, watching as the beer was delivered. “The army is gathered and is nearly ready to march. All is in place, save for one element. Our master engineer, Marcus Frolich, was on the first campaign. His machinery, his crews, all are lost. We have guns in Hergig, but no one to operate them. We could send for a replacement from the college in Nuln, but our request would take days to arrive, and weeks to respond to. So when I discovered that an Ironblood was in Hergig, you can imagine my satisfaction. You are here, and, despite everything, your name still means something. Or at least it does to those who know about such things. There is money in this, Herr Ironblood. Money, and a chance to recover yourself.”