[Empire Army 02] - Iron Company Read online

  The survivors heeded his call. Soon he was surrounded by a dozen men. In the low light, their faces looked bewildered and angry.

  “Raise your guns and aim for the flashes!” bellowed Magnus, trying to instil some sense of purpose. “Fire on my mark, then withdraw. Damn you all, this is a bloodbath!”

  The men crouched down, and long guns were prepared. On Magnus’ mark, the entire line let off a rippling wave of fire. Once again, the shot whined into the dark. Whether it hit anything, no one could tell.

  “Withdraw!” cried Magnus, pulling at the handgunners nearest him as he fell back. “Don’t go chasing phantoms! We must keep our shape!”

  Gradually, the rest of the army seemed to be adopting the same strategy. The ranks of gunners were holding now, retreating step by step. Every so often, the crack of detonation would echo into the darkening air from the lines of defenders. There were no more volleys from the hidden snipers. They had gone. Like shades of death, they had retreated back into the shadows. As the night fell, even their guns would be no use. Somewhere in the night, the knights were riding hard, trying to find them.

  “Mother of Sigmar,” breathed Magnus, feeling disgusted and dejected. He and his men retreated back to the camp perimeter. There were bodies everywhere. Some moved weakly, crying in pain. Others were as still and cold as the rock around them. The toll had been dreadful.

  Gradually, the sounds of battle ebbed. Once Scharnhorst’s commanders realised the attackers had fled, they reined in their men to conserve ammunition. Chasing after them in the dark would be suicidal. In any case, it was clear that the attackers had planned to strike and then retreat. The defenders had been outthought, outmanoeuvred and outshot. It was a disgrace.

  Magnus reloaded, just in case, and sat heavily on a wooden crate. There were no more shots from the dark. Around him, handgunners stood stupidly, wondering whether to fire blindly or just hold their position. Magnus ignored them. They would have to absorb this lesson in tactics, and learn from it. There was nothing they could do now until the morning.

  From the gathering darkness, a man walked towards Magnus. It was Messina. He had his flintlock pistol by his side, and the muzzle still smoked. A smouldering fury was in his eyes.

  “Where were damned scouts?” he spat. “It was like trying to shoot fantasmi.”

  Magnus looked up wearily. The man was right to be angry.

  “The knights might catch some of them,” he said, though he knew it was unlikely. “We can’t chase after them in this light.”

  He looked at the handgunners. They were still waiting for orders. Now that the short, vicious firefight was over, many looked shocked.

  “Make sure you’re loaded and ready to fire again,” said Magnus to them, testily. “We’ll organise patrols, and get proper sentries for the camp edge.”

  The gesture would give them something to do, but Magnus knew it was futile. The enemy wouldn’t be back tonight. They relied on surprise to offset their lack of numbers. It had been a devastating tactic. He spat on the ground, got up and started to walk off towards the centre of the camp. All around him, torches were being lit and men were running to their stations. Too late. All much too late.

  “Where you going?” asked Messina, looking exasperated.

  Magnus turned to face him, his lined face lit up by the dancing flames.

  “To Scharnhorst,” he said, his voice flat. “We’ve got some talking to do. If he still doesn’t think he needs a proper strategy for the guns, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought he was.”

  With that, Magnus turned and stalked towards the general’s tent. His mood was black. All around him, the night was filled with the cries of the dead and the dying. The first encounter had come and gone. And they had lost.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Never forget that behind the sights of the gun there lies a man. He must be trained to use his weapon, just as he would a pike, a broadsword or a loom. The tools of war are dangerous and fragile things, and blackpowder makes them more so. The mastery must be taught slowly. Repeat the lessons, and repeat them again. Once on the battlefield, it will be too late for further schooling. If they enter battle not knowing how to kill, all they will learn is how to be killed.

  —Heinz-Karl Fromann, Chief Instructor,

  Stirland State Gunnery School

  Messina was fuming. The campaign was turning into a dangerous and exhausting farrago. A half-competent general would have laid in precautions for a raid against their position, especially as they were now closing in on Morgramgar. The scouts and outriders had been dispatched far too easily. Even now, far into the mid-morning, several were still missing. Scores of soldiers had been killed before they’d even had a chance to pick up their weapons. For an army the size of Scharnhorst’s, the casualties were bearable. But the blow to morale was real. The men were already teetering on the edge of fatigue and disrespect. Now that the incompetence of their masters had been fully exposed, they were even more so.

  What made it worse was that the attackers had all used long guns. There was not an arrow in sight amongst the bodies of the slain. The ordinary halberdiers now looked askance at the engineers. Messina knew exactly what they were thinking. That the enemy was being better led, and was better equipped. And that their own commanders were arrogant fools.

  “Again,” snapped Messina, looking down the line of handgunners. “We’ll do it again until you get it all right.”

  Under Ironblood’s orders, he had taken several dozen of the best troops in the gunnery companies, and was now drilling them mercilessly. Their performance had been sloppy. Damned sloppy. Whatever training they must have had in the past was clearly poor. While the bulk of the army was busy putting the camp into some kind of order, Messina and Herschel had been trying to instil discipline into the Hochlanders’ firing. If they were attacked again with such rates of fire, they would lose as many men again. Speed of reloading was everything.

  In front of his unforgiving gaze, the state gunners filled the pan, charged the barrel, loaded the shot, rammed it down, replaced the rods, fixed the cord, raised their rifles and fired into the distance. Their movements were getting better. The shame of the debacle the night before had driven them to improve. Some of the Hochland hunters were good shots. But they were slow, terribly slow.

  After releasing their flurry of shot, they stooped quickly and reloaded their guns. A second volley cracked out across the echoing plain. That was better. Not as good as the enemy had been, but better.

  Messina felt a presence at his shoulder, and turned. Herschel was observing quietly. The boy looked like he hadn’t slept much. For all the Tilean knew, it might have been his first taste of real combat, and Messina could imagine that it hadn’t been what he’d imagined.

  “Keep it up, ragazzi!” he shouted to the handgunners. “I want twelve more before you return to camp.”

  He turned away from them, and walked slowly back to the wagons. Herschel came with him.

  “How’s it going?” said the young man.

  “They are not bad soldiers, I think,” said Messina. “But their training has been poor. I don’t have the time to turn things upwards. We must accept they are the better shots.”

  Herschel nodded. He looked worried.

  “Herr Ironblood took some men out this morning,” he said. “To see where the attackers had come from. We found footprints. They’d been taking aim from an incredible distance. There’s no way we can compete with that.”

  Messina stroked his elegant chin thoughtfully. Despite everything, he still took care over his looks. He was clean-shaven, and his clothes looked almost clean. That marked him out from the bulk of the officers, let alone the average infantryman.

  “So they can fire further as well as faster,” he said. “That is unfortunate. I’d put my money on these Hochlanders to hit their targets, but they have to get into their position first.”

  Herschel took a deep breath, and the worry remained heavy on his face. The lad was inexperienced,
but was still nobody’s fool. In the short time Messina had known him, he’d been impressed by the boy’s knowledge of ballistics. When he spoke, the men listened to him. That was no easy feat.

  “Can I ask you something, Silvio?” Lukas said, cautiously.

  Here it came.

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve been on many campaigns,” said Herschel. “You’ve served under many master engineers. What do you make of Magnus Ironblood?”

  Messina drew in a breath of cold air. This was delicate. Unity was a virtue. But the truth was even more valuable.

  “I have heard the name, of course,” he said. “I am sure you have too. But names don’t command armies. You remember how he looked when he found us? Something made him into that state. He has fallen. Perhaps he can’t get it back. I don’t know.”

  Herschel looked pensive.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But we were badly beaten last night. There should have been plans in place. Any rabble could have attacked the camp. There was nothing arranged. Frankly, I could have done…”

  He trailed off, and gave Messina a worried look.

  “Don’t worry, lad,” said Silvio. “You can speak freely with me.”

  Herschel shook his head, clearly full of doubt.

  “I know how to fire a long gun,” he said. “I know all the technical matters. But commanding an army… Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut.”

  Silvio smiled at him.

  “Perhaps you should,” he said. “But not with me. I think that you are right. We’ve got to get things up together, and soon. We’re nearly at the place, but there’s time for more of those attacks. Ironblood thinks we’ll just have to put them up, hold formation and suffer the losses.”

  Silvio glanced over his shoulder at the practising handgunners. The volleys were still erratic. They were up against a foe they couldn’t hope to match.

  “Luccina only knows why we’re so outgunned,” he murmured. “These places should be home to nothing more than bandits and sheep. There is something strange going on. If we’re going to think it through, we’ll have to be creative.”

  He clapped his hand on Herschel’s shoulder and drew his face close to the boy’s.

  “I have some ideas myself,” he said, in little more than a whisper. “Ironblood won’t like it, but he’ll never have to know. Are you in the mind for some danger? If we carry it off, there might be money in it.” Herschel looked uncertain.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “Ironblood ought to know about anything we’re doing.”

  Silvio smiled tolerantly. The lad was young. He’d have to grow up quickly.

  “You may have noticed that our captain is not as respected as he would like,” he said, keeping his voice to a confidential murmur. “Now, I do not suggest that we do anything disloyal. He is paying us, after all of it. But reputation is everything. If we were to do something by ourselves, something that might turn things just a little in our favour, it would do no great harm. To catch a general’s eye is never a bad thing. We have to think of our own position.”

  Lukas still looked unconvinced.

  “What do you have in mind?” he said eventually, his mind clearly working through the possibilities.

  Messina grinned.

  “I thought you might never ask me,” he said. “Come with me. But keep it to yourself. We’ve a lot to gain, and a lot to lose. And that’s just how I like it.”

  Hildebrandt watched Magnus walk heavily back into the camp and collapse onto a pile of old sacking. The man looked spent. He’d been busy most of the night organising watches to prevent a repeat attack, and most of the morning leading search parties to track down the snipers. Both efforts had been unfruitful. The attackers weren’t fools. They would choose their moments, sweeping down when they weren’t expected, and retreating as soon as the army could respond. It was a dirty kind of fighting, but effective nonetheless.

  “Did you find much?” asked Hildebrandt, warily.

  Magnus snorted.

  “More of the same,” he said. His voice was thick with tiredness. Magnus looked almost as bad as he had done in Hergig. His hair was lank, and there were hollows of grey under his eyes. “They’d slit the throats of the outriders. Crept up as the night fell. Nothing left behind. Just some powder-burns on the rocks, the odd piece of shot. Like ghosts. Damned ghosts.”

  Ironblood sighed, and let his powerful shoulders relax. Hildebrandt looked on with concern. The big man was feeling the effects of his brush with tragedy still. The entire army was strung out on its feet. There were whispers amongst the soldiers. Most of them didn’t bear repeating.

  “Their guns are better,” said Hildebrandt, simply.

  Magnus rolled his eyes.

  “You think I don’t know that? What are we supposed to do about it?” Hildebrandt paused.

  “You brought the chests with you,” he said. “The machine from Nuln. I saw it. Do you plan to use it?”

  Magnus sat up sharply, his eyes flat with suspicion.

  “Have you been spying on me, Tobias?” he said.

  Hildebrandt sighed with irritation.

  “Of course not,” he said. “It’s there for all to see. But I know what’s in them. The others don’t.”

  Magnus scowled. When he was tired, he became belligerent.

  “You have no idea what’s in them,” he said, scornfully, hauling himself to his feet.

  Hildebrandt felt his own anger rising. After being persuaded to come on this terrible campaign, the least he deserved was some respect.

  “It’s the Blutschreiben, isn’t it?”

  There was a smug note of victory in his voice. He was closer to Ironblood than anyone. Despite all that had happened, Hildebrandt knew he wouldn’t have left the past entirely behind.

  Magnus didn’t reply at once. He had a dark look in his eyes.

  “It’s locked away,” he said finally. “That’s how it’ll stay.”

  There it was. That old defiance. That old pig-headedness. It would be the death of both of them.

  “Morr rot your bones!” spat Hildebrandt. “How long are you going to let it hold you back? It’s brilliant! Your father never got it right. You were almost there, Magnus. Almost there!”

  Magnus took an angry step forward, his hands trembling.

  “Almost!” he cried. “How good is almost? It wasn’t good enough for us last night. It won’t be good enough if the siege guns crack when we roll them up to Morgramgar. And it wasn’t good enough back then either.”

  His voice wavered. Old memories were rising to the surface like oil in water.

  “It wasn’t good enough for him,” he said, softly, withdrawing, his eyes losing their focus. “There’s been enough death. It’s not ready.”

  From the shadows, Thorgad emerged. He was carrying a huge pile of cannon shot, half his own height. The dwarf had been working flat out since the attack. His axe had been little use in the fracas, and he seemed ashamed not to have contributed more. When he saw Hildebrandt and Ironblood in conference, he put down his burden and came over to them.

  “A damn mess this has been,” he growled, rubbing his beard.

  At the sight of the dwarf, Hildebrandt felt his own anger ebb. The strain was getting to all of them.

  “I’m sorry, Magnus,” he said, bringing the debate to an end. “I shouldn’t have spoken. But it’s frustrating, knowing…”

  “I know,” said Magnus, quietly. “They’re out shooting us. But we can weather the storm. They’re only coming at us now because they fear the siege. Once we have the heavy iron lined up, then they’ll be in trouble. We have to hold our nerve.”

  Ironblood looked at Hildebrandt directly. Amidst all the sullen weariness, there was a spark of defiance left. Not much of one, but it was there nonetheless. The old man was hard to grind down.

  Thorgad spat on the ground.

  “So what’s next?” he said.

  “We’ll keep drilling the m
en,” Magnus said. “They’ve got to get their rates of fire up. As for the rest, the knights and the lunatics, that’s not our task. Scharnhorst can look after them.”

  Hildebrandt nodded. The knowledge that the Blutschreiben still existed, albeit packed away and dismantled, was tantalising. But now was not the right time. He could return to the subject later.

  “Very well,” he said. “Messina and the boy have been busy with them all morning. I’ll lend them a hand. We’ll be at Morgramgar soon enough anyway.”

  Thorgad looked doubtful, but said nothing. Magnus let out a deep, shuddering sigh, and sat back down again.

  “By Sigmar, I hope so,” he said. “When those cannons are delivered and we’re sending death at them from a safe distance, then I’ll relax. Until then, we’ve got a contest.”

  At noon, the army moved onwards once more. The dead were disposed of quickly and with little ceremony. There was no time for burial, and the bodies were merely piled together and thrown into a crack in the granite plain. Lime was thrown over them, and Kossof gave a blessing. As he spoke to the assembled ranks, hostile eyes were directed at the engineers. Whispers had spread throughout the troops that Ironblood was still drinking, that he had spiked the defenders’ guns to make them fire more slowly, that he was somehow in league with the enemy. It was wild talk, and baseless, but fatigue and fear did strange things to the men’s minds.

  When they returned to the march, they made slow progress. The land wound inexorably upward. The path passed between two mighty shoulders of hard, tumbled rock. It was dark and scoured of all but the hardiest grasses by the wind. The wains struggled, the men laboured, and the chill air bled the last of the energy from tired legs.

  The very landscape seemed set against them. But there was more than cold stone to contend with. In the constant moan of the wind, there were fragments of fell voices. It might have been imagination, might not.

  High up in the crags, there were definitely things moving. Stones would skitter down slopes, clattering into tired ranks of infantry. Echoing roars sounded from far off in the peaks, and were answered by distant hammer-blows. These were not portents of Anna-Louisa’s men. They were the noises of the unknown mountain reaches, far above the tolerances of mortal men. Whatever dread sentience dwelt in those terrible extremes, it did not descend to trouble them. But all were aware of its presence, and the knowledge added to the febrile atmosphere in the army itself.