[Empire Army 02] - Iron Company Read online

  After another hour of solid, nervous progress, at last the landscape seemed to relent. Ahead of them the path widened as the gorge closed, and they reached the head of the pass. Hildebrandt felt his fingers loose their clamped grip on his reins, and he let a low sigh of relief escape his lips.

  An axle snapped. It sounded like a tree falling. With a heave and snap of splitting wood, the wagon in front of him lurched drunkenly to its left. The horses reared in their tethers, and the wheels ground down into the soft earth. Shouts of panic came from up ahead. The wagon veered near the cliff edge, only pulled back by frantic hauling on the reins from the driver.

  “Cut the harness!” came a desperate cry.

  The horses had got trapped, and were going mad. One of them reared again, fighting to get loose of the cart. The waterlogged earth seemed to dissolve under it. It was carrying one of the siege guns. Tobias heard the snap of leather stays going, and the cart slid further towards the abyss.

  “Cut the damn harness!” came the cry again.

  The horses were scrabbling in the mud, unwittingly pulling the cart nearer to disaster. Tobias saw men leap from the wagon. The driver was still fighting to keep it on the path. He was going down.

  Hildebrandt knew what he had to do. His heart beating powerfully, he leapt from his horse and ran up to the stricken cart. The ground beneath his feet was liquid. It felt like the entire hillside was sliding. If the cannon took the whole ledge down with it, there would be no hope of getting the other wagons past the breach.

  Tobias sped past the reeling wagon and under the flailing hooves of the terrified horses. He was a big man, but under their flanks he felt little more than a child. He pulled his sword from his belt and slashed at the leather harness. Two swipes, and the straps sprung free, whipping at his face as they did so. One of the horses bolted up the path, neighing frantically, rearing afresh as its path was blocked by the men ahead.

  Everything seemed to be in motion. The earth was slick and wet, the cart was churning its way closer to the edge, the second horse was prancing jerkily in its harness. Tobias felt his nerve nearly go. In an instant, he saw a vision of himself being dragged over the edge. The cannon was huge. Getting caught up in the cart’s demise would be fatal.

  Hildebrandt cursed, and plunged towards the tethered horse.

  “Jump, man!” he yelled at the driver. The man was still trying desperately to right the wagon. “Get away!”

  Tobias had a vague impression of a white-faced, terrified figure pulling at the reins, and then it was lost in a whirl of movement. He felt the rock give way under his feet. With a lunge, he managed to cut the final cords of the harness, and the foam-flecked horse bolted. Its legs buckled on the edge of the precipice, and it went over. The animal screamed, an unearthly sound, before being dashed against the rocks below.

  The horses had been cut free, but it was too late to save the wagon. The momentum of the cart was carrying it past the edge. Even as he tried to scramble out of the way, Tobias could see the heavy iron muzzle of the cannon leaning over the brink. The driver of the cart, still trapped on the swaying wreck of twisted wood, was shrieking like a woman. He was lost. There was no way back.

  “Leap!” cried Hildebrandt one more time, though he knew it was hopeless. He was in danger himself. His boot caught in a rope trailing from the broken cart. He felt the sudden tug on his thighs. For a second, pure panic gripped him. He could feel himself being pulled over. Frantically, Tobias hacked at the rope. He was dragged along, hauled from his feet. His free arm hit the ground heavily. His fingers scraped across the loose earth, tearing through the mud.

  His sword bit home. The rope snapped, and with a sigh the entire cart seemed to collapse in on itself. The lip of the path crumbled, and the broken structure swung over the edge, trailing rope and twisted planks of wood. The driver, still caught in the mechanism, let out a strangled scream as he was borne over into the gorge. His voice trailed horribly for a moment, echoing up from the chasm, until it was obscured by the crash of iron against rock. Then nothing.

  The danger wasn’t over. Hildebrandt was still on the edge, and the earth continued to slide. He was on his stomach, trying to pull himself free of the landslip. It wasn’t enough. He was falling. It was like trying to swim up a waterfall. For a moment, he saw Elena’s face, staring at him with reproach. Then the last rock disappeared from beneath his boots. He was over the void.

  A hand grasped his wrist. The grip was firm and unyielding.

  “Help me, damn you!” came a gruff voice, full of fear. “He’s heavy as a bear!”

  More hands pulled at him, dragging him from the brink. Tobias looked up, his heart still pumping. He was surrounded by men. Ironblood was there, as was Thorgad. Shakily, he pulled himself to his knees. The ledge had held.

  “Mother of Sigmar,” said Magnus, looking pale. “I thought we’d lost you.”

  Hildebrandt took a look over his shoulder. The cart had caused ruin on its descent, and a jagged gouge had been cut into the edge of the path. Stones still clattered down the slope. All along the surviving portions of the ledge, men stood, mouths agape, looking with horror at the broken cannon in the chasm below.

  Tobias felt his arms begin to shake uncontrollably. With shivering hands, he made the sign of the comet across his breast.

  “Thank you,” was all he could say to Ironblood, his voice thin and weak. “By all that’s holy, thank you.”

  Scharnhorst looked coldly at the engineers. They presented a sorry aspect. Ironblood’s appearance had improved slightly since Hergig, but the man still looked slovenly and grime-covered. His company were little better. The big one, Hildebrandt, seemed to have lost his nerve entirely, and stood silently to one side. The others, a Tilean and a young lad from Averland, were withdrawn and mute. Worst of all, there was the dwarf. It was embarrassing to have one of them witness this shambles. Though many commanders considered it an honour to have dwarfs marching alongside them, Scharnhorst was a Hochlander. He had little dealing with the dwarfs in the province, and he distrusted anything unusual. Scharnhorst sighed.

  “So you got the rest of the guns up the hillside?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Ironblood, looking almost belligerent. His eyes were rimmed with red. “Despite the landslide, we drew the remaining pieces through. It was hard work. We had to shore up the left hand of the ledge. That’s why it took so long.”

  The men were all in Scharnhorst’s canvas tent. The day was waning, and candles flickered in the half-light. All around the camp, fires were being kindled. The troops were exhausted after the climb. Aside from Ironblood and his motley company, Scharnhorst had his senior captains with him, including the leader of the flagellants. They all sat in the shadows, regarding the engineers darkly.

  Scharnhorst sighed.

  “Herr Ironblood,” he said, wearily. “You seem to think that losing one cannon is little cause for concern. And yet, if I understand it correctly, the one we let slip was one of our largest pieces. If we lose many more of them, getting to Morgramgar will be a waste of time. What do you expect me to do? Go up to the doors and knock?”

  Ironblood remained impassive. The man looked tired. That wasn’t surprising. They were all tired.

  “It’s a matter of regret,” said the engineer, keeping his voice steady. “But we couldn’t account for the ledge giving way. We did all we could. Without Hildebrandt here, it would have been much worse.”

  Scharnhorst sniffed. He was unimpressed.

  “From what I was told, the spark that set this off was a broken axle,” he said. “On a baggage cart in your care.”

  Ironblood visibly bristled at that.

  “I can only work with the material I’m given,” he said, and the insolence in his voice was evident then. “If I could have chariots of iron to carry our guns up the mountainside, then I would use them. I remind you, sir, that everything we’re using comes from your store yards.”

  The warrior priest Kossof hissed from the shadows. In
the flickering candlelight, his face looked like a mask.

  “Perhaps it is a shame that the whole train didn’t fall into the abyss,” he said, his voice a sibilant rasp. “Then there would be nothing to blast apart our brave troops from behind our own lines.”

  There was a murmur of assent from some of the other captains. Thorgad took a step forward, his face glowering with scorn. Scharnhorst fixed Kossof with a withering look.

  “Enough,” he said. “Don’t be a fool. We need as many gunnery pieces as we can get.”

  He turned back to Ironblood.

  “When Grotius told me we needed a master engineer to oversee our artillery, I was hardly persuaded,” he said. “He assured me that one of your sort was necessary. To ensure that there were no mishaps with the great guns. Needless to say, I am hardly reassured by your progress so far.”

  Ironblood looked like he wanted to interject, but Scharnhorst talked over him. The little man would have to wait for permission to respond.

  “According to the plan, we should be coming to the approaches to Morgramgar soon. We’re now far behind, held back by your antics in the passes. It’s not good enough, Ironblood. I won’t tolerate another delay at your hands. Is that clear?”

  Ironblood had by now gone red with rage. Scharnhorst could see the man clenching his fists, trying to suppress the protests that were undoubtedly building within him. The general didn’t care to hear excuses. It was results that mattered.

  Eventually, Ironblood controlled himself.

  “I understand, general,” he said. He looked like the words were being dragged from his mouth. “I’ll speak to the men. We’ll look at the carts again. We’ll make any repairs necessary tonight.”

  Scharnhorst nodded.

  “Good. See that you do. Now go. I have matters to discuss with the others.”

  Ironblood baulked at that also. No doubt he thought of himself as a senior commander. The man would have to learn his place. He was a technician, nothing more. If he couldn’t look after his own little realm, then he could hardly be expected to take his place at the high table of command.

  The engineer bowed stiffly, then turned on his heel and left the tent. Awkwardly, the others followed him without a word. The flaps fell back into place, and the candle flames guttered.

  Scharnhorst looked around at his advisers. They looked half-drowned. The rain continued to fall, drumming on the tent roof, and their spirits had sunk.

  “Anything to say?” he snapped, trying to rouse some response from them.

  Johann Kruger, the captain of the Knights of the Iron Sceptre, looked up. His lean, aristocratic face looked less lined with fatigue than some of the others.

  “The engineer Ironblood spoke the truth,” he said, calmly. “The artillery train is in bad shape. Your man Gruber gave them little of quality to work with.”

  Scharnhorst sneered.

  “You’re defending him, Kruger?”

  Kruger shrugged.

  “We’ll need those guns when we reach Morgramgar,” he said. “Don’t make an enemy you don’t need.”

  Only one of the noble blood would dare speak so freely to a general, Scharnhorst thought. Kruger was bound by allegiance to himself and Sigmar only. Scharnhorst despised the attitude, but needed the man’s expertise. One of the wearying aspects of command.

  “The same advice goes for you, master knight,” said Scharnhorst, adopting a warning tone. “I’ll heed your advice, but remember who’s in command.”

  Kruger looked unperturbed by the admonishment, and sank back into contemplation. In his place, Kossof spoke again.

  “Is this not a sign, general?” he said, making an effort to knock the rough edges from his normal harsh speech. “We can bring this heretic to heel without the use of the new science. Why else would Sigmar send the rain? Why else would our prized gun be the first to fall?”

  Scharnhorst didn’t like the look of smug triumph in the man’s eyes. Something about Kossof turned his stomach.

  “I won’t tell you again, Kossof,” said Scharnhorst. “The plan of campaign calls for artillery, and as long as we arrive with any pieces intact, we’ll use them.”

  He leaned forward, and pointed a lean finger at the priest in the half-light.

  “And I warn you,” he said, “don’t pursue your superstitious vendetta against Ironblood behind my back. If he rectifies his error and proves himself on the field, I’ll bear the man no ill will. You should do the same. There’ll be no dissension in the ranks of this army.”

  Kossof glared back at Scharnhorst for a moment, clearly taken aback. No doubt the man had thought he was reinforcing the general’s own views. The priest would have to learn otherwise. Scharnhorst was a fair man. Hard, perhaps, but fair. The only thing he didn’t tolerate was failure. Beyond that, there were no favourites.

  “I understand,” said Kossof, bowing slightly. “Herr Ironblood needn’t fear interference from me.”

  “I hope not,” said Scharnhorst, putting feeling into the words.

  He reached for the charts and ledgers. There was much business to get through before he would let the officers back to their beds. The start of the campaign had been bad enough. If they were going to get to Morgramgar without some serious infighting breaking out, things had better improve soon.

  The dawn broke. The rain had stopped falling at last, and a frigid wind tore across the highlands, freezing the sodden troops as they huddled together in the mud. Only the officers and knights had tents to shelter them from the elements. The ordinary soldiers slept in thin blankets, wrapped tightly around them to ward against the worst of the chill. Many of them had stacked their wargear on top of them as they slept, partly to keep it out of the mire, partly to add a little more protection from the knife-sharp wind.

  Magnus woke suddenly, his body somehow remembering the routine of battle from all those years ago. His head was sore, buffeted both by the cold and the iron-hard ground. Every muscle ached from shivering, and his joints were as stiff as an elector’s starched collar. He opened his eyes and looked around. The fire had long gone out, and there was just a meagre patch of damp, charred earth where it had been. The other engineers lay huddled around it, still asleep.

  Hildebrandt snored loudly. The man had hardly spoken since his encounter with the cliff edge, and had drifted into a deep slumber as soon as he’d hit the ground. Magnus had never seen him so scared. There was a time when both of them would have laughed at a brush with death. Maintaining a front was all-important. It would not do for the men to think you were weak. But Tobias seemed to have forgotten that. He’d been shaken, and badly. Perhaps he now had more to lose. Whatever the truth, he hadn’t spoken to Magnus about it, and Magnus hadn’t asked.

  Messina and Herschel slept also. The two of them had worked hard the previous night, checking the gun-hauling wagons and making minor repairs. Ironblood had been impressed by the Tilean. Despite his raffish appearance and superior bearing he knew what he was doing. He was strong, too. The boy Herschel had been keen, and worked hard under Messina’s direction. Any misgivings Magnus had about bringing him along looked like they’d been misplaced.

  Groaning slightly from the effort, Magnus hauled himself from his tangled cloak, and stood up. The wagon nearest him was piled high with crates and tarpaulin-covered chests. Just to be safe, Magnus went up to one of them and pulled the material back. His own collection of ancient chests were still there, all still locked, all still safe. He gazed at the ornate metalwork of the nearest, and let his finger run down the side of it absently. Had he been foolish to bring all the gear along? Probably not. In his absence, Herr Etdeg would no doubt have tried to break into the stash. Safest to keep it by his side, however expensive and difficult it was.

  “There’s something special in there, no?” came a familiar voice from a few yards away.

  Thorgad was sat on a pile of sacking puffing on a long clay pipe. He was looking at Ironblood steadily.

  “None of your damn business,” said Magnu
s, irritably. He pulled the tarpaulin back hurriedly, and walked away from the cart. “How long have you been up?”

  “A few hours,” said the dwarf. “I’m amazed at the sleep you umgi need. I can remember campaigns under the earth where we went without sleep for days at a time. None of us suffered from it.”

  Magnus ignored the boast, and came over to sit by the dwarf. His bones felt like their marrow had been replaced with rods of ice.

  “Got any food?”

  Thorgad handed him some strips of dried meat. The donating animal was unidentifiable, and they were almost black with age. Magnus took one, and ripped a corner with his teeth. It was like biting into cured leather, and he felt his jaw ache with the effort.

  “Traggot,” said Thorgad. “Broiled wolf hide. Dried over peat. Not many umgi get to try it.”

  Magnus grimaced.

  “They’re missing out,” he said, still chewing.

  “We’re nearly there,” said Thorgad, letting gouts of smoke drift up into the grey air. “Whatever your general says, we haven’t lost much time. The loss of one cannon will mean little when we get to Morgramgar.”

  Ironblood gave the dwarf a sidelong look. Was Thorgad trying to make him feel better? That was out of character, and something to worry about. When a dwarf turned his hand to sympathy, then things were truly bad.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Magnus, attacking the chunk of meat. It remained solid and unmoving in his mouth.

  “Tell me,” said Thorgad. “Your name is a famous one among your people. I’ve asked around. Ironblood brings respect. And yet, when I met you, you looked like you were ready for the dung heap. What went wrong?”

  Ironblood looked at him sourly, swallowing the meat at last with some difficulty. It had been hours since he’d allowed himself even a sniff of ale, and his mood had soured.

  “Are you always this direct?” he said. Thorgad smiled bleakly.