02 - Iron Company Read online

  Despite their size, the formations moved from the staging area and on to the main road north with little fuss. Magnus watched the outriders move up and down the columns of men, barking orders and dragging the serried ranks into a close approximation of good order. Things had started well enough. The army looked like it could fight. He’d been in many that had never looked like that.

  Finally, behind the last of the swaggering lines of mercenaries, the artillery train was given leave to pull off. Magnus shouted out a series of orders to the drivers of the carts. Ropes shivering, the horses leaned into the task. Gradually, with much swearing and beating, the heavy wagons broke into movement. Gouts of mud were thrown up from hooves and wheels, but the big guns were under way. Magnus walked over to his horse, a lumpen, dull-eyed creature with a shaggy mane and matted coat, and mounted expertly. He cast his eyes across the slowly moving column of wagons, and felt a glow of satisfaction. He had the tools with which to work.

  A sudden craving for a drink came over him. Magnus swallowed, feeling the rise of the nausea within him that always accompanied periods of sobriety. Not now. Things were just getting going. He had to stay clean.

  He kicked his steed into a steady walk, and rode over to where the rest of his company were mounted, waiting expectantly for him.

  “So here we are,” Magnus said, putting a brave face on his craving. “Back in the saddle. Anything to report?”

  “Food’s lousy,” said Silvio. “Hochland troops smell worse than greenskins, and those guns won’t fire without much of my work.”

  Lukas grinned.

  “At least we’ll be kept busy,” he said, brightly.

  Thorgad looked up at Silvio. Unlike the others, he went on foot. He’d been offered a mountain pony, but that had met with nothing but scorn. So the dwarf laboured in the mud, his cloak already stained with the filth of the road. Magnus knew from experience that dwarfs could march a long way before they became weary. But still, Morgramgar was many miles distant. A strange race.

  “If you keep complaining,” Thorgad said to Silvio darkly, “I might come up there and give you something to complain about.”

  Hildebrandt looked at the wagon train with concern, ignoring the bickering between the Tilean and the dwarf.

  “Messina’s right, sir,” he said to Ironblood. “I’ve not been here long, but we’ve pieces here that’ll shatter when we put the fire to them. This won’t be easy.”

  Magnus sighed, and let a tolerant smile spread across his face. The guns he had were faulty, the rain was incessant, he felt terrible, and his men were already arguing amongst themselves. In Scharnhorst and Kossof he was surrounded by officers who would rather he wasn’t there at all. All things considered, that wasn’t bad. At least no one had tried to kill him yet.

  “All right, lads,” he said, raising a hand to silence the squabbling from Messina and Thorgad. “We’ll take another look at the cannons when we reach camp. For now, I don’t want to lose our place in the column. There’s plenty here who’ll rejoice to see us fall behind, so I don’t want them to have the satisfaction. Keep an eye on the ironwork. Don’t let any of those damned zealots near the blackpowder. Otherwise, relax and enjoy the journey. We’ll be busy soon enough.”

  He kicked his horse again, and shoved his way to the front of the artillery column. Hildebrandt followed him, while the others spread out along the lines, watching the swaying wagons carefully.

  Magnus felt the pleasure of command dilute his lingering nausea. No one had called him “sir” for a long time. Not since…

  But it was better not to think about that. He drew in a long draught of cold, rain-laced air, and looked up at the distant northern horizon. Even so soon into the campaign, his heart had begin to beat a little faster, and some of the sickly pallor had left his cheeks. They were under way, and battle would not be long in coming.

  The ascent from the plains around Hergig to the highlands was tortuous. As a province, Hochland was covered in mile upon mile of dark, twisted forest. Some called it the Eastern Drakwald, an offshoot of the mighty woods that cloaked Middenheim in fear and mystery. Others called it the southern edge of the Forest of Shadows, the Hochland Deeps, or simply the Dark Country. Even more so than the rest of the sparsely populated Empire, the depths of the Hochland forest were unexplored and untouched by the hand of man. Mighty ravines scored their way across the tumbled landscape, draped in grasping ranks of sleek-barked trees and tangled undergrowth. At the base of those ever-shadowed gorges, barely lit by the shrouded rays of the sun, all manner of primordial beasts dwelt in a perpetual twilight realm. Only the foolish or the mad sought them out. Every child in Hochland knew the dangers of the deep forest.

  The beastmen were the most feared and hated. Some said they were the changeling children of impious parents, left to fend for themselves amongst the crushing briars. Others said they were the true soul of the forest, remnants of a time before Sigmar when men lived in scattered bands and feared every fleeting shadow. Yet more said that they were a portent of the future, a grim warning of the End Times when the final hosts of Chaos would rise up again and mankind would fall before the limitless legions of the damned.

  Whatever the truth, it seemed that the numbers of beastmen rose every winter. At night, their bellows and whinnies could be heard in outlying villages and towns, causing grown men to pull their bedclothes over their ears and women to weep into their nightdresses. And all sensible folk knew that there were worse monsters lurking in the forgotten places. Tales were told of the creeping dead, limping through the marsh gas when the fog rolled down from the high peaks. Whispers ran through Hergig of skeletal witches, summoning all manner of foul sorcery over their bubbling cauldrons of maidens’ blood. There were legends of fey elven spirits flitting between the boughs, spiteful tree-sprites conversing in forgotten tongues under the sickle moon, and scuttling giant spiders ridden by their cackling goblin masters in the endless, cloying gloom.

  In the past, when the Empire had been stronger, perhaps not all those stories had been believed. Now, as the enemies of man multiplied once more and the undergrowth was alive with scurrying horrors, there were few who did not place credence on the old tales. The most outlandish myth of all, that the very cities themselves were riddled with the warrens of warp-spawned rat-men, sounded less crazy than it once had. They were truly dark times when such madness was believed even by learned men.

  Every so often, the terror would be banished for a time. A crusade would be launched, and pious men of the Empire would sweep into the dark places with cleansing flame. Priests of Sigmar would banish the horrors, and the blood of the beastmen would stain the earth. The famed Boris Todbringer was still worshipped by the far-flung folk of the northern Empire. Whenever there was a break in the endless warfare on his northern borders, he would muster companies of his grim-faced Knights of the White Wolf, and the creatures of darkness would cower in their forsaken hollows. And yet, once the slaughter was over and the proud warriors of Ulric had returned to their homesteads, the shadows would lengthen once more. No living man had penetrated the heart of the forest, and none would ever do so. The Empire could limit the spread of the ancient woods, but it could never hem them in entirely.

  Magnus reflected on that as the army wound its way north from Hergig and began to climb up into the highlands. They went by the ancient forest roads, the highways of the Empire in the north. The trees had been felled far from the trail, and the surviving trunks lurked sullenly in the distance on either side. All knew that such ways had not been made by men. Older hands had carved them from the living forest, and strange spells had been placed on them in time immemorial to ward off the throttling branches. Men were only the latest to make use of them, ignorant of their origins.

  As the ranks of men passed through the trees they sang bawdy songs of waylaid virgins and genial foresters, swinging their packs with abandon. The humour was forced, however. All stayed wary. The army was large, but not powerful enough to scare off all denizen
s of the woods. They all knew the beastmen were there, watching, waiting.

  As they passed through a particularly deep gorge, its sides rising high and jagged into the pale air, Lukas came alongside Magnus. His face was still cheerful, though the edge had been taken off it by the bleak country around them.

  “This place is like nothing I’ve seen before,” he said, looking at the dark eaves of the trees doubtfully.

  “No place for men,” agreed Magnus, avoiding peering too closely at the shadows. “You’re from Averland, yes?”

  “Right,” he said, unable to keep his eyes off the forest. “We keep the land tilled there. I never thought I’d wish to see another farmstead again in my life. But after this…”

  “Don’t look too closely, lad,” said Magnus. “We’ll be out of it in time. The mountains have their own dangers, but at least the air is pure and the stone is clean. This is cursed country.”

  The army went quickly, perhaps part-driven by some vague sense of fear, but mostly by Scharnhorst’s iron will. They set up camp infrequently, and only when the trees pulled back and the air was free of the rustle of hostile branches. Even then, at night there were howls from the tree edge. Some of the scouts, foraging far ahead to pick out the best route north, never came back. None asked after them. The men pressed on, hands on pommels, eyes flickering back and forth watchfully.

  Despite the clipped pace, it took them several days of marching for them to clear the bulk of the forest. Whenever they camped for the night, they piled the fires high. Tired limbs made for heavy sleep, but only the bravest slumbered completely through the strange calls and shrieks from the darkness. Just once did they come into the open, bellowing and whinnying. The first engagement of the campaign was short and vicious. The beastmen were routed quickly, driven back by a hail of arrows and shot. After that there were no more raids. But the songs ceased. The soldiers kept their eyes on the northern horizon, desperate to leave the oppressive, endless ranks of trees.

  When the breakthrough came, it was surprisingly sudden. The columns of men had been toiling for hours up a sharp defile, choked with roots, boulders and brambles. The horses were skittish, and the wheels of the carts fouled and needed to be freed often. For the first time since leaving Hergig, the pristine ranks of marching men broke into confusion, and the shouted orders from the sergeants and captains were abrasive and replete with curses. But then, just as the ascent seemed destined to go on forever, the vanguard broke into easier ground. The rest of the army coiled up after them. Rank by rank, company by company, they left the forest and marched into the open.

  At the rear, behind the long trail of infantry, the engineer companies were last to climb the steep ascent. Magnus had remained at the very back, marshalling the route of the heavy guns as they crawled up the treacherous ground. By the time they had reached the final ridge, the flanks of the horses were shiny with sweat, and the axles of the carts groaned under their load.

  When the last of them had crested the rise, Magnus looked up and surveyed the scene. The land yawned away in gentle curves of steadily rising wilderness. The peaks of the hills were bare of trees and covered in a dense carpet of gorse and heather. A mournful wind scraped across the open country, rustling the grass and sedge. After the close air of the forest, the highland seemed both severe and fresh. The army spread across it, grateful for sight of the horizon once more.

  And then, far in the distance, Magnus saw their destination for the first time. On the northern edge of his vision, the mountains rose, grey and purple against the haze. They looked impossibly far. The margravine had chosen her bolt hole well. Climbing through the passes to Morgramgar would be a trial for the best of commanders. Magnus could see that others in the army thought the same thing, and low murmurs of discontent rippled through the infantry companies.

  But Scharnhorst was in no mood to indulge petty gossip. Within moments of the last carts breaking into the highlands, the horns were sounded. Whips cracked, and the steady beat of hide drums started once more. Like a sullen beast of burden, the army started to march again. There would be no rest until the walls of the citadel stood before them. And then the real work would begin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After the slaughter at Skaalgrad, General Horstmann was taken before the Grand Council of Enquiry in Talabheim. He was unrepentant, despite losing the field and over half of his men to the foul Norscans. When asked what had precipitated his downfall, his answer was simple. Division in the ranks. He seemed to think that no further explanation was required.

  —Record of the trial and execution of

  Alberich Horstmann Talabecland State Archives

  For a few days, the rain had held off, and the worst of the stink over the soldiery ebbed. Clothes dried out, and rust was cleaned from the blades of weapons. Morale was high. But then the clouds closed once more, and the weather turned. Rain fell in steady streams without break or let. It got everywhere, into the kegs of dried food, into the crates packed with straw and iron shot, even through layers of wood and waxed cloth into the powder stores. It was relentless, an endless torrent of grey, cold misery, hammering on the downcast heads of the army as it toiled across the highlands. The ground became boggy and treacherous, and the horses stumbled as they went. In every direction, the sky was low and dour, mirroring the spirits of the men.

  Hildebrandt wiped his brow clear again, watching as the water slewed from his shoulders onto the ground below. He was relatively lucky, with a stiff leather jerkin and heavy hood. The ordinary infantrymen trod sullenly in their inferior gear, moving onwards only to keep the chill from their breasts, soaked to their hides.

  The big man looked back over the row of lurching carts. The going was tough in the mire. Axles creaked, and lashings came loose. Trying to keep such temperamental machinery on the road was worse than keeping a woman happy. At least women gave you some reward for your pains. The guns were fickle mistresses indeed.

  Not for the first time, he wondered whether he’d done the right thing in taking up Ironblood’s commission. Hildebrandt was old enough to escape the Imperial draft, and could have been expected to live the remainder of his days out in relative peace. It was not so much that he was too old to serve, but more that he’d done his time. There were only so many dead bodies a man could see before his mind began to turn. He’d witnessed old soldiers in the gutters of Nuln and Hergig, wedded to the bottle, dousing their self-pity in strong ale before the cut-purses finished them off. That was no way for a man to go. Not when he had a brace of children waiting for him by the hearth and an honest woman to warm his bed.

  Despite all of that, the decision had not been hard to make. He owed it to Ironblood. The man had saved his life in the past, and they had fought like brothers when they were young. Hildebrandt had watched the man’s descent into squalor with alarm. Now that Magnus seemed to have rediscovered a spark of self-command again, Tobias had a duty to see him through the campaign. One more failure would finish Ironblood. That could not be allowed to happen. Once this campaign was over, they could both think again. For the moment, cracking Morgramgar open was the only thing they could look forward to, the sole object of their attention. The alternative was to repeat the past. Hildebrandt knew some of what had happened back then, but not all. What he did know was enough to make him want to ensure that it never took place again.

  He raised his eyes from the slow-hauling carts and squinted up the trail ahead. The land was rising rapidly. They were passing into a narrow gorge at the foot of the peaks. On his left, the earth was gradually falling away as the trail rose. On his right, the cliffs were soaring into sheer walls of striated stone, as sharp as teeth at the summit and flecked with sparse vegetation. The road wound between the extremes. Soon it would be little more than a ledge between the mountain’s shoulder and the chasm to the left.

  Hildebrandt pushed his horse into a canter, and joined Magnus further up the column. He looked grey and tired. An empty gourd flapped at his side. Hildebrandt could smell ale
on his breath.

  “This is dangerous,” he said, grimly. “Wide enough for the guns?”

  Magnus nodded. He seemed alert enough.

  “I was thinking the same,” he said. “We’ll have to go in single file. Carefully. Is everything lashed securely?”

  Hildebrandt looked back at the ramshackle caravan.

  “Aye,” he said. “But the rain plays havoc with the bearings. Some of these carts would come apart at a sneeze.”

  “Get Messina, Herschel and the dwarf to spread out down the train,” said Magnus. “First sign of trouble, shout. I don’t want to see Gruber’s precious machines at the bottom of the gorge, and neither will Scharnhorst.”

  Hildebrandt pulled his horse round, and trotted back down the line of heavy-laden carts. The drivers looked nervous, and kept tight under the shadow of the cliff on their right hand. The horses knew the danger, and their eyes rolled as they strained. The creatures were tired, and their spirits looked fragile. After several days in the wilds, Hildebrandt knew how they felt.

  The column crawled on, climbing ever more steadily into the heart of the mountains. The rain fell remorselessly, scything through the gusting wind as if it wasn’t there. Streams formed along the rock-strewn passage, gurgling and bubbling down the trail, making footing treacherous. Men swore under their breaths as they hauled their gear. No songs were sung, and the only speech was the hoarse yelling of the captains, urging one more push before they laid camp for the night.

  Hildebrandt rode ceaselessly up and down the train, watching the progress of the wagons intently. Messina and the boy did the same. As the path narrowed and the drop to their left became more sheer, the tension mounted. It would only take one wheel to go.