[Blackhearts 02] - The Broken Lance Read online

  “Hey?” said the man, startled. “Why pick on me? What do y’need to know for?”

  Reiner chuckled with as much good humour as he could muster. “Well sir, If I’m to lead you, it would seem advisable to know something of you. And don’t worry that you will shock us. We are all villains here, aren’t we, lads?” He turned to each of his old companions in turn. “Pavel and Hals killed their captain when he proved incompetent.”

  “We didn’t, though,” said Pavel.

  “Kurgan killed him,” said Hals.

  They both laughed darkly.

  “Franz murdered his tent mate for making unwanted advances.”

  Franka blushed.

  “Giano sold guns to the Kossars.”

  “Who know is crime?” asked Giano, turning up his palms.

  “And I,” said Reiner, putting his hand to his chest, “am charged with sorcery and the murder of a clergywoman.” He grinned at the man, who stared around at them all, blinking. “So you see, you’re in good company.”

  The man shrugged, suddenly shy. “I… My name is Abel Halstieg. I am, er, I was, quartermaster for Lord Belhem’s Cannon. They claim I bought poor quality powder and pocketed the savings, thereby causing the destruction of the unit.”

  “How so?” asked Reiner.

  “Er, the guns misfired and our position was overrun. But it rained that day. The powder may have become damp.”

  “And since it was cheap powder in the first place…” drawled Pavel from the cart.

  “It wasn’t cheap powder!” insisted the quartermaster.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” said Reiner, soothing. “So, can you aim and fire a field piece then?”

  Abel hesitated. “With help. If pressed. But my talents fall more on the supply side.”

  “So it appears,” said Reiner, and turned away before Abel could contest the inference. “And you, sir?” he asked the other mounted newcomer, a sturdy, stone-faced veteran with long, dark hair pulled back into a braided queue.

  The man looked briefly at Reiner, then returned his gaze to his horse’s neck, where it had been since the journey’s beginning. His brows were so heavy that his eyes remained in shadow despite the brightness of the day. “I took money to kill a man.”

  The man’s brevity took Reiner off guard. He laughed. “What? No protestation of innocence? No extenuating circumstances?”

  “I am guilty.”

  Reiner blinked. “Ah. Er. Well. Will you tell me your name, then? And in what capacity you served the Empire?”

  There was a long pause, but at last the man spoke. “Jergen Rohmner. Master-at-arms.”

  “An instructor of the sword?” asked Reiner. “You must be quite the blade.”

  Rohmner did not reply.

  Reiner shrugged. “Well, welcome to our company, captain.” He turned to the cart, where the other two new recruits sat amongst the gear. “And you, laddie,” he said, addressing a smiling, gangly archer with a thatch of red hair and jug ears that stuck from his head like flags. “How come you here?”

  The boy laughed. “Heh. I killed a man too. Nobody had to pay me for it, though.” He shied a pebble at a passing fence post, startling a pair of crows. “Me and my mates was posted in some muddy Kiss-leff berg, drinkin’ their cow piss liquor, when this fool of an Ostland pike bumps me elbow and spills me drink. So I…”

  Reiner rolled his eyes. It was a very old story. “So you and your mates hit him a little too hard and he had the bad manners to die.”

  “Naw, naw,” said the boy, grinning. “Better’n that. I followed him back to his billet, trussed him up in his bedroll, and set his tent afire.” He laughed, delighted. “Squealed like a skinned hog afore he died.”

  There was silence as the rest of the company stared at the youth, who carried on skimming pebbles into the wheat field on their left, oblivious.

  At last Reiner cleared his throat. “Er, what’s your name, lad?”

  “Dag,” said the boy. “Dag Mueller.”

  “Well, Dag. Thank you for that illuminating story.”

  “Aye, captain. My pleasure.”

  Reiner shivered, then turned to the last of the new recruits, a round bellied old veteran with apple cheeks and extravagant moustaches, gone a little grey. “How about you, sir. What’s your tale of woe?”

  “Not a patch on the last, I assure you, captain,” said the man with a sidelong glance at Dag. “My name is Helgertkrug Steingesser, but ye may call me Gert. The brass named me deserter and instigator, and the charge fits well enough, I suppose.” He sighed, but his eyes twinkled. “Y’see, there was a girl, a big, fine girl. Lived on a farm near where I was billeted in Kislev with the Talabheim City crossbowmen. Her man had died in the war. In fact, all the men of her village had died. It was a village of women. Lonely women. Big, fine women. And it came to me, y’see. The land was fertile, the country beautiful. A man could do worse, I said to myself, than settle down here and raise big, fine children.” He leaned back against their baggage, chuckling. And maybe I said it to more than myself, for when I decided to go, a score of my lads came with me, to fill in, so to speak, for the women’s dead husbands. Unfortunately, the Empire didn’t feel it were done with us. There were a battle the next day and we was missed. When the brass caught us up they accused us of running “cause we was afraid. I take exception to that. We wasn’t afraid. We was… er, eager for companionship.”

  The Blackhearts laughed, partly because it was a funny story, but mostly out of relief that it wasn’t another horrible one.

  Reiner grinned. “Welcome, Gert. And if y’find another village of lonely women on our way, don’t keep it to yourself, hey?”

  Franka shot Reiner a sharp look, but the rest laughed. Reiner turned at last to the fresh-faced blond corporal, Karelinus, who rode at his side. “And you, corporal, how did you come to be minder for such a pack of reprobates? In Manfred’s black book, are you?”

  “Eh?” said Karel. He had been staring at Dag, and seemed to find it hard to turn away. “Er. Actually, no. I, er, I volunteered.”

  Reiner almost choked. “You…?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, turning on his horse to face the others. “You see, I am betrothed, or at least I would be betrothed if it were possible, to Count Manfred’s daughter, Rowena. But a count’s daughter can’t very well marry a lowly lance corporal. I must be a knight at least, mustn’t I? Unfortunately, my father has had some reverses lately, and wasn’t able to pay the tithe to win me a place in one of the knightly orders.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid I made a bit of an ass of myself when I found I couldn’t get in, cursing my fate and vowing to Rowena that I would win my colours on the battlefield or die trying.” He brightened. “But then m’lord Manfred very helpfully suggested that I take this assignment. He promised me there would be plenty of opportunities to achieve my vow before we returned. That it was just the thing. A real gentleman, Count Manfred. Not every father would do as much for his daughter’s betrothed.”

  Reiner coughed convulsively, and he could hear Pavel and Hals mumphing with suppressed laughter. Even Franka, who knew well how to hide her thoughts, was having difficulty suppressing a smile.

  “I beg your pardon, corporal,” said Reiner when he had recovered. “A touch of congestion. Very decent indeed of the count to give you such a plum assignment. He must think very highly of you. Very highly indeed.”

  They rode on through the rolling farmland, and the ice having been broken, the conversation began to flow at last. Hals, Pavel and Giano traded war stories with the crossbowman Cert, while Reiner and Franka listened with bemused wonder as young Karel prattled on about his close relationship with Count Manfred and how nice everyone was in Altdorf. Abel, the artillery quartermaster, hung at the edge of their conversation, trying to turn it to questions about their arrangement with Manfred and what was expected of them. The swordsman Jergen rode on in silence, his eyes never lifting from his saddle bow, while on the cart, Dag, the lanky archer, out of pebbles, lay on his back an
d watched the clouds sail by as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  * * *

  They camped in the woods that night, for though there were inns aplenty along the way, Manfred had forbidden them to sleep under a roof on their journey. He wanted them to appear hungry dogs of war when they arrived in Averheim, desperate to sign on to service as far from the centre of the Empire as possible, and hungry dogs hadn’t the gelt to buy a cot by the fire.

  The next day passed much as the first, riding at a quick but not punishing pace through league after league of thick oak forest, the gloom of which pressed in on them and stifled their conversation. They passed fewer travellers here; a heavily guarded train of merchants travelling together for protection, a company of knights trotting by double file, pennons flying from their lance tips, a group of Sigmarite fanatics on pilgrimage from Nuln to Altdorf and travelling every inch of the journey on their bare knees. It seemed to Reiner proof of Sigmar’s grace that the mad holy men hadn’t yet been set upon by the horrors that lurked in the trees.

  On the third day, just as the sun was beginning to burn away the morning haze, they at last came out of the Drakwald and into the Reikland, the heartland of the Empire, an endless plain cross-hatched with fields and orchards. After so long in the forest, it was a beautiful verdant sight. But the initial impression of fertile plenty was proved an illusion when they got closer. The fields were green, yes, but as often green with weeds as with crops. The Empire had had a great army to feed these last few years, and fields that in happier times had been allowed to lie fallow to replenish the soil had been exhausted as the farmers tried to meet the demand for fodder. The crops that did grow were meagre and stunted, and the pigsties and cow pastures the Blackhearts passed were nearly unpopulated.

  It was all so fragile, thought Reiner. And so precious. For if this died, if the fields withered and the cattle became skin and bones, then the Empire died. The knightly orders might prate about blood and steel and the Drakwald being the hard oaken soul of the Empire, but the knights ate beef and bread and cabbage, not acorns and squirrels, and no one ever fought to defend a forest as fiercely as a farmer defended his farm.

  Late that afternoon they travelled along a stretch of road with pear orchards on both sides. The pears weren’t quite ripe, it being only the middle of summer, but in the rays of the westering sun their rosy blush was enticing. Reiner felt his stomach growling.

  On the cart, Dag sat up, sniffing. “Pears,” he said. And without another word, he hopped down and started trotting towards the trees.

  Reiner grunted, annoyed. “We’ve plenty of fodder,” he said. “No need to forage.”

  “I only want one or two.” Dag said, and ducked through the first rank of trees.

  Reiner sighed.

  “Not much on obeyin’ orders,” said Hals.

  “Well, he’s mad, ain’t he?” said Pavel.

  Gert harrumphed. “T’ain’t no excuse.”

  A few moments later barking erupted from the orchard. The company looked up and saw Dag laughing and running through the trees, arms full of pears, with a big farm dog at his heels. He stumbled over a root and the dog caught him, sinking its teeth into his calf.

  Dag fell, crying out and dropping the pears. He rolled onto his back, and before Reiner knew what he meant to do, drew his dagger and jabbed the dog in the belly. It squealed and recoiled, but Dag tackled it and held it down, stabbing it repeatedly in the eyes and neck.

  “Sigmar!” choked Karel. “What’s he doing?”

  “Mueller!” bellowed Reiner. “Stop!”

  The others cried out too, but before they could dismount, their cries were echoed.

  “Hie, ye brigand!” came a voice. “What do ye to my dog?”

  Six farm hands ran out of the trees, armed with pitchforks and clubs, and surrounded the archer. There was a boy with them, who stared blankly at the dead dog. A farmhand clubbed Dag across the back.

  Reiner cursed. “Come on, then.” He dismounted and jogged into the orchard with the others following. “Hoy!” he shouted.

  The combatants didn’t heed him. Dag was up, a mad grin splitting his face as he squared up to the farmhand who had struck him. “And what was that for, yokel?” He held his bloody dagger in a loose grip.

  “For? Why, ye killed my dog, ye madman!”

  “Then yer in need of killin’ as well, for letting him bite.” And before the farmhand could answer, Dag flicked blood at his eyes. The man flinched, and Dag lunged, slashing.

  “Stand down, Mueller!” screamed Reiner. “Stand down!”

  The farmhand reeled back, clutching a bleeding shoulder, but as Dag followed, the other farmhands rushed in, swinging their bludgeons. Reiner sprinted forward. Damn the boy! There would be murder done, and Manfred’s job botched before it began.

  There was a scrape of steel beside him and Jergen blurred past. He hauled Dag out of the ring of farmhands with one hand and swung his sword in a circle with the other. Pitchfork tines and the tips of staves dropped to the grass around him, lopped off like dandelion heads. He ended on guard, Dag hurled behind him, and the point of his longsword touched the wounded farmhand’s neck. The man froze, as did his companions, staring at their truncated weapons.

  Reiner and the others stared as well, stunned by Jergen’s speed, strength and terrifying precision.

  “Well… well done, Rohmner,” said Reiner, swallowing. “Now stand down, all. We’ll have no more dramatics if you please. I…”

  “Who put his hands on me?” cried Dag, bouncing up. “No man puts his hands on me and lives!”

  “Enough, Mueller!” shouted Reiner, turning on him. “Shut your fool mouth.”

  Dag glared at Reiner, eyes blazing, but Reiner, more by instinct than intent, glared right back, forcing himself not to blink or look away. Dag’s anger seemed to surge. He growled in his throat and raised his dagger, but after a long moment, he shrugged and laughed.

  “Sorry, captain,” he said. “Ain’t mad at you.” He sneered at the farmhands over his shoulder. “’Tis these gape-gobbed yokels who can’t keep their curs to heel that…”

  “Ye were stealin’ our pears, ye thievin’ murderer!” cried the farmhand Dag had wounded—though he didn’t move, for Jergen’s blade was still at his throat. “T’ain’t bad enough we’ve to send all our crops north to feed Karl-Franz’s army—for starvation prices, too—now ye uniformed bandits come south to snatch the food from our mouths?”

  “And kill our dogs,” said another.

  “Snatch the food from yer mouth?” retorted Hals. “Look at all the plenty around ye. Livin’ in luxury while we been freezing our fundaments off in a Kislev snow bank, protecting yer worthless hide. There’s gratitude for you.”

  Reiner’s men, who had up to this point sided with the farmhands against Dag, were beginning to range behind Hals.

  “And why didn’t you pick up a pike?” asked Pavel.

  “Aye,” said Abel from behind him. “Cowards.”

  “Because someone had to stay behind and feed ye, y’ass!”

  The two sides began to edge forward, drawing daggers and hefting clubs.

  “Hold, curse it! Hold! All of you!” cried Reiner. “Let us not all go mad. There’s been enough blood shed already. Adding to it won’t solve anything.”

  “But he killed my dog,” said the farmhand. “He cut me!”

  “Aye,” growled Hals. “So take it up with him. It weren’t nothing to do with Captain Reiner and…”

  “It is to do with me,” said Reiner. “For, much as I could wish otherwise, I am your captain, and if I cannot control you then I am to blame.”

  “Like him and his dog,” said Dag, triumphant. “If he’d have kept him to heel…”

  Reiner spun on him. “His dog was doing its job. You, you stone skull, were disobeying orders. You were in the wrong, do you understand me?”

  Dag frowned for a moment, looking from Reiner to the farmhands and back, then seemingly light dawned. He grinned and gave
Reiner a broad wink. “Oh aye, captain. I understand ye perfectly. I’ve been bad. Very bad. And I won’t do it again.”

  Reiner groaned. It was like talking to a post. “I shall make certain of it.” He turned back to the farmhands. “So, since I am to blame, I will be the one to make amends. Now, I know no one can put a price on the loyalty of a dog or the pain of a wound, but gold is all I have and not much of that, I’m afraid. So what will you ask in recompense?”

  Reiner was worried that there would be difficulties over who would tent with whom that night, since he was sure no one would want to sleep next to Dag, but surprisingly, Jergen volunteered—with a monosyllabic grunt—and the rest of the company breathed a sigh of relief.

  Reiner and Franka tented together; a boon for Franka, who would therefore not have to guard the secret of her sex both night and day, but torture to Reiner, who would have to endure her nearness without being able to touch or kiss her.

  As they curled up in their separate bedrolls Franka rose up on her elbow. “Reiner.”

  He looked up when she didn’t continue. “Aye?”

  She sighed. “You know I’m not one to advocate murder in cold blood, but… but this boy is dangerous.”

  “Aye,” said Reiner. “But I cannot.”

  “But why not? He’s mad. He’ll kill someone.”

  “Is he mad?” asked Reiner.

  Franka raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  Reiner leaned in and lowered his voice. “Do you think Manfred is a fool?”

  “What has that got to do with it?”

  “Manfred admitted as we left that this job was a test, aye?”

  “Aye.”

  “So, if you were Manfred, and you wanted to know what we did, how I led, if we betrayed you or the Empire, is Karelinus Eberhart the man you would ask to bring you your report?”

  Franka frowned for a moment, then a look of comprehension spread over her face. “You think there is a spy.”

  “There must be. Karel can’t be anything but a decoy. He’s a babe in the woods. One of the others must be working for Manfred as well.”