02 - Iron Company Read online

  Scharnhorst gave him an icy look.

  “Don’t tell me when I may or may not make allowances,” he said. “I’ll be the judge of that. And I don’t care about your problems, Ironblood. You can drink yourself to death in as many inns as you like, just as long as you’re not under my command when you do it. You are now, so you’d better get yourself together. Next time I see you, you’ll have shaved, and at least tried to look like an officer worthy of respect from the men. And do something about your stench. Even the flagellants don’t smell as bad.”

  Magnus tried to look as deferential as he could.

  “Very good, general,” he said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Scharnhorst nodded.

  “You do that,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he’d arrived. Magnus watched him walk up towards the Kristalhof. No doubt he had some banquet to attend or audience to conduct. The life of a member of the noble classes would always be different.

  He left the store yard and began to head back towards the blacksmith’s house. He’d have to tell Frau Ettieg that he’d be away for a while. She’d miss the rent money, but little else. As he walked through the streets, Magnus caught sight of a promising-looking sign. The White Hart. It even looked pretty clean. He stuffed his hand in a pocket, and was pleasantly surprised to find a few coins. That improved his mood. Scharnhorst was right: if he was going to try and pull an Iron Company together he would have to pull himself together first. But that could wait. Right now, he needed a drink.

  Silvio Messina regarded the man before him coolly. The drunkard was a vast, hulking brute. Ill-shaven, stinking, poorly clad. Like all the inhabitants of the Empire, he didn’t know how to look after himself. It was pitiful.

  Silvio ran a finger through his own elegant jet-black mane of perfectly glossy hair, and sighed. Hergig was a tiresome place, and this episode was more tiresome still. He certainly knew how to pick the wrong tavern. It just wasn’t his night.

  Lukas edged towards him, looking anxious.

  “Do you want me to call for the militia?” he hissed in a worried whisper.

  Silvio irritably gestured for him to withdraw. It was bad enough getting into bar fights in such a hole. Having a wide-eyed youngster to look after too was almost too tedious for words.

  “So keep out of this, ragazzo,” Silvio said. “It’ll be over in a moment.”

  As he spoke, the brute came at him, arms flailing wildly. There was an appreciative roar from the rest of the drinkers in the tavern. The animal was clearly well known here, and fancied himself as the cock of the walk. The fact that this knuckle-headed ass was the best on offer was another damning indictment of the provincials and their backwardness.

  Silvio waited until the last moment before slipping to one side. He evaded the cartwheeling fists of the drunkard easily. As the thick-set man reeled at him again, Silvio stuck out an impeccably crafted leather boot, and watched his assailant career into the beer-soaked floor of the inn. A roar of laughter broke out around the room, and tankards were thumped against tables.

  The man thumped his fists on the ground with frustration. Slowly, cumbersomely, he got up, and turned to face Silvio once more. As he did so, his eyes went wide. The rage left his face, and his hands fell to his sides. He stood, stupidly.

  Silvio allowed himself a dry smile of victory. His pistol, an exquisitely crafted gun from the studios of Salvator Boccherino of Luccini, was pressed lightly against the fat man’s forehead. Even in the dull light of the candles around them, its silver shaft glistened. The intricate engravings of the famously beautiful courtesans of Luccini graced the chamber, while the handle was inlaid with a flawless panel of mother-of-pearl. It was a beautiful thing. An elegant thing. No doubt the beasts of Hergig had never seen such finery. It was worth more than their pox-ridden inn and all its contents.

  But that wasn’t the best part of it. Most importantly for his current purposes, the pistol was utterly deadly. The barrel had been ground by Boccherino himself, and dispatched shot as straight and true as a virgin’s promise. Not that Silvio was worried about missing his target on this occasion. The brute was trapped like a pig in its pen, blinking and wondering desperately what to do.

  “Now then,” said Silvio, calmly, relishing his control. “I expect you’re reconsidering your position. What was it you were going to do to me? Now I recall it. Drown my head into your… what you call it? That firkin. And hold me down while I died in the muck you people call ale. Doesn’t look so likely now, does it?”

  A line of sweat ran down the man’s temple. From the corner of his eye, Silvio could see that the rest of the tavern’s occupants were staying in their seats. Some looked transfixed. Others were merely enjoying the show. He let his finger run up and down the length of the solid silver trigger mechanism, savouring the power.

  “As I see it, you have no idea what kind of gun this is,” said Silvio, sadistically. “If you were forty feet away and running into the dark, still she couldn’t miss. You’re out of your depth, fat man. Count yourself fortunate I was only after your wife. If I wanted your hovel and your stash of coins, I could take them too. Any time.”

  The brute was becoming enraged again, but held his position with difficulty. He knew that a single move would finish him. Silvio enjoyed watching the tortured expression on his face.

  “So I tell you the truth,” said Silvio, toying with his prey like a cat. “It’s probably not so bad a thing that you found us when you did. I hate to tell it to you, but she’s really not that good. I mean it, have you people ever heard of a bath?”

  That was possibly taking things a bit too far. There was a low murmur of anger from the seated drinkers around them. They didn’t mind one of their number being humiliated, but casting aspersions on all of them was dangerous. This thing had better be wrapped up.

  “You’re lucky I’m in such good mood,” he said, pressing the muzzle of the pistol more firmly against the man’s flabby flesh. “Another day, I’d leave a hole in your skull. Now, back away, slowly. You let my companion and me leave this place in peace. Come after us, I’ll not be so forgivable. Do not forget, my aim is true, in shooting as it is with all things.”

  His hands shaking, either from rage or fear, the drunkard slowly took a few steps backward. His tiny, piggish eyes blazed with an impotent fury. Silvio checked to see that Lukas was by his side before retreating towards the doorway. He kept the pistol raised, his eyes sweeping the tavern for threats. The natives seemed cowed by his display for the time being.

  As he reached the door, Silvio allowed some of his customary swagger to take over. He bowed to the assembled gathering in mock salute.

  “Thank you, fine sirs, for your most exquisite entertainment,” he said, his voice silky. “I am overjoyed to learn that men of Hergig are as hospitable and accommodating as their wives and their daughters. When this silly business is over, we may think of coming to visit again.”

  That final insult lit the fuse. Chairs were kicked over and tables rammed to the walls as the tavern rose up in a wall of rage. Silvio turned to Lukas, a wicked smile on his lips.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  The two of them turned and fled into the night, curses and bellows of spluttered anger following them as they went. Thankfully, the pursuit did not last long. The denizens of the tavern were mostly too drunk to stand, and those with some sense were wary of the pistol. After a show of chasing them from the inn, they gave up the hunt, grumbling and muttering as they returned to their lukewarm drinks.

  Once they were sure the last of them had stumbled off, Silvio and Lukas stood panting under the eaves of a half-derelict town house. Silvio felt a thrill run through his refined body. This was why he loved being a mercenary. There was nothing quite like the rush from taking advantage of the stupidity of the locals. And if things ever went wrong, his most loyal companion, the esteemed Boccherino pistol, was always there to ensure a hasty exit.
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  He turned to Lukas, and grinned.

  “This is life, eh?” he said, his teeth flashing white in the dark.

  The sandy-haired youth from Averland didn’t look too sure. He was still too timid, too green. Like all the men of the Empire, he didn’t have enough imagination.

  “You’re a madman,” said Lukas between breaths. “We could’ve been killed.” Silvio laughed.

  “By that rabble?” he said, disgustedly. “By Luccina, I’d have been ashamed to have been scratched by one of them.”

  “You’re right,” came a voice. It wasn’t Lukas’. “That would have been sloppy.” Silvio whirled around, raising his pistol quickly. “Declare yourself!” he hissed.

  A man’s shape emerged from the shadows. He was as dishevelled and grimy as the wretches they had left behind in the tavern. He was heavy-boned, and wore a long leather overcoat. His greying hair hung in lank curls to his shoulders, and the stench of drink hung around him. Only his bearing gave him away. He might have looked like a vagrant, but Silvio could see he was nothing of the sort.

  “Put your gun down, lad,” the man said, walking towards them casually. “It’s a nice piece. A Calvasario?”

  Silvio kept the pistol raised, watching the newcomer with suspicion.

  “Close,” he said. “You know your marques. How does man of Hergig acquire such knowledge?”

  The man laughed, a strange, bitter sound.

  “I’m no man of Hergig,” he said. “So it’s a Boccherino. Very nice. Though I dislike Tilean pieces. Flashy, but temperamental.”

  Silvio kept his aim steady.

  “I told you declare yourself,” he said in a low voice. The man shrugged.

  “You don’t scare me, lad,” he said. “You put on quite a show back there, but you were never going to shoot. I’ll give you a name, though, for what it’s worth. Ironblood. No doubt you’ve heard of it.”

  Silvio frowned. It was familiar. Where had he heard it? Somewhere back in Tilea, perhaps. He had an image of a pistol. An outrageous, three-barrelled monster. A work of genius. Surely, it could have nothing to do with the man before him. The man looked little better than a wandering savage.

  “It means nothing to me,” he said. “What do you want?”

  Ironblood shrugged.

  “Have it your way,” he said. “As for what I want, that should be obvious. You’re here to fight. I’m here to hire. You’ve worked in an engineer’s company before?”

  Silvio nodded cautiously.

  “Many times. In the Border Princes, Ostland. I had given up on work here. The Hochlanders don’t seem to know what any one of them is doing.”

  Ironblood smiled grimly.

  “Then we’re agreed on that, at least,” he said. “They have guns, though. Heavy cannons, mortars, some lighter pieces. And they have handgunners. Some of them are very good. Huntsmen, mostly, drafted in by Ludenhof from the countryside. They just need someone to lead them. Someone who does know what they’re doing.”

  Silvio let his finger relax on the trigger. Beside him, Lukas stayed mute. This was interesting.

  “Can you afford me?” said Silvio, letting his habitual confidence bleed into his speech. “You’ll not find a better master of handgunners. I can shoot golden tassel from Karl Franz’s nightcap at hundred paces. What’s more, I can teach the others to do the same. If these Hochland guns are all they’re told of, of course.” Ironblood shrugged.

  “Some of the older ones are,” he said. “What can your friend do?”

  Silvio started to reply, but Lukas spoke over him, the words spilling out in his enthusiasm.

  “I’ve studied at Nuln, sir,” he said in his young, high voice. “Under Captain Horgrimm. I can handle a long riflegun, and man a standard mortar battery too. I know the theory of the volley guns, and have been second in command of a rank of cannons. Big siege cannons, they were. I even took over once, when one of the recoils caught the captain.”

  Ironblood looked at Lukas with a mix of scepticism and amusement.

  “Can you command men, boy?” he asked.

  Lukas looked downcast.

  “I’m learning,” he said, weakly.

  “The boy’s new,” said Silvio. “I teach him what he needs to know. His family is Herschel. He comes with me. But I’ll say again, how much are you offering? We are not some flea-infested dogs of war. I’m not so sure you can pay our price.”

  Ironblood laughed at that, and his heavy body shook with mirth.

  “Don’t try to bargain with me, lad,” he said, grinning. “If you weren’t for sale you wouldn’t be here. And you’ll get no better offer. Unless you fancy joining the flagellants or the halberdiers. I can’t quite see that, looking at your fine clothes.”

  His expression became more serious.

  “Listen, the money’s good,” he continued. “I’m under commission from the count’s agent, and you won’t want for payment. We’ll be a small company. Half a dozen men, at most. There’ll be little glory in this messy campaign, but there will be gold. So what will you say?”

  Silvio thought for a moment. The man Ironblood spoke the truth. It was probably going to be the best offer they’d get. Slogging along in the mud with the regular state troops was not something he was prepared to do, even for a generous share of the bounty. As he looked into Ironblood’s eyes, Silvio could see that the man was used to command. If he and Lukas weren’t going to leave Hergig and look for some other fight to take up, this was the obvious thing to do. And once on the road, there were bound to be possibilities. There always were.

  “How long do we have?” he said, retaining his sceptical expression for the sake of form.

  “The army leaves in four days,” said Ironblood. “You’ll need to give me your answer in the morning. You’ll find me at the Grand Army store yards. Ask for me by name.”

  “Very well,” said Silvio, keeping his voice neutral. “So we’ll think about it.” Ironblood nodded.

  “You do that,” he said. “But don’t take too long. And for the sake of Sigmar, stop pointing that pistol in my face. You look like a fool.”

  Silvio bristled a little, but lowered the weapon. As he did so, Ironblood bowed to take his leave, and retreated back into the night. Silvio watched him walk off, consumed by his thoughts. This looked like a good bet, but it never paid to be hasty.

  “What are you doing?” said Lukas urgently, once Ironblood was out of earshot. “We should be jumping at this! It’s why we’re here, after all.”

  Silvio looked at him wearily. He liked Lukas, and the boy was a good engineer. But he would have to learn some guile, or his career would be short and painful.

  “We’ll do it, don’t worry,” said Silvio, casually extinguishing the taper on his pistol and sheathing it in its holster. “But I don’t want him to think we are too keen. That is fatal.”

  He took a deep breath, and looked around him. The dark streets were nearly empty. Lukas waited expectantly.

  “Come on,” said Silvio at last. “There will be another inn open somewhere. If we’re going to join this strange thing, we’d better make most of what’s on offer.”

  He looked down at Lukas. The boy was as eager as a puppy.

  “Just don’t embarrass me,” Silvio said, stalking off with Lukas in tow. “I still haven’t given up on finding wench. You make them nervous.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  These are nice drawings. They are by your children, yes?

  —Reputed remarks of High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer,

  on being presented with a copy of the Notebooks

  of Leonardo da Miragliano by the Emperor Karl Franz

  Hergig was poor, and it showed. The thoroughfares were narrow, the buildings old and shabby. Most were made of wood. Aside from the imposing Kristalhof, there were few stone constructions. Even the city walls seemed in poor repair, despite the fact they had been necessary for the city’s defence many times in living memory. The skulls of slaughtered beastmen still hung over the main g
ates, presumably intended as a warning to their kin not to come back. Magnus didn’t blame them for staying in the forests.

  The morning had dawned cold again. He had a hangover again. It was thirsty work, recruiting. His mood was dark. Why had he come to such a place? What had possibly drawn him to this Sigmar-bereft wasteland? The people were stupid and superstitious. There were more temples to Shallya and Taal than to the divine protector of the Empire. Perhaps it had been the reputation of the gunners. The Hochland long gun was undoubtedly a piece of engineering mastery. Even the gunsmiths of Nuln admired the best examples. But when Magnus had arrived in the city, he had been disappointed. There were few smiths left. Many had fled south to escape the endless wars. More had been poached by richer employers in the lands to the south, their secrets scattered across the Empire and feverishly copied by less-skilled hands. A genuine Hergig piece was now a rare and precious thing. Magnus wondered if there was anybody left in the city who really knew how to make one.

  Even if there had been, there was still more talent in his own bloodstream than in the whole province. The Ironblood pistol was whispered about reverentially in the corridors of the College of Engineers. True flintlock, a rarity in the Empire. Three barrels. Exquisitely bored. The cleanest workings you could imagine. Nearly impossible to fire without igniting truly. And the deadliest aim of any gun he had ever used. The very fact that his name was associated with such a masterpiece occasionally filled him with a terrified awe. Only three had ever been made. Now two were lost, and the third was in a crystal casket deep within the college vaults. He had heard rumours that a second was still in use somewhere in the Empire. A witch hunter. A woman. From time to time, he pondered trying to track her down.

  The same thing stopped him every time. Shame. He had not made the guns. His father had, the great Augustus Ironblood. The old White Wolf of Nuln, so-called because of his mane of ivory hair, sweeping down from his severe, lined face. At one time Magnus had wanted nothing but to follow in the old man’s footsteps. And he had started well. Too well, perhaps. And then…