[Blackhearts 02] - The Broken Lance Read online

  Reiner raised an eyebrow. “Games?”

  FOUR

  ’Tis Always the General

  Reiner learned what Matthais meant by games four days later, when at last they reached the fort in the pass.

  The journey there was uneventful, a dull slog due south from Averheim through farm and dairy land with the Black Mountains rising like a row of rotting teeth beyond them the entire way. Just after noon on the third day they reached the foothills and felt the first chill breezes nosing down from the heights above. By nightfall, when they stopped to make camp in a thick pine forest, summer had fallen away completely and Reiner was pulling his cloak from his pack and wrapping it around his shoulders.

  “Why couldn’t Manfred send us somewhere warm?” he muttered to Franka as they lay shivering in their tent that night. “First the Middle Mountains, now the Black. Isn’t trouble to be found on the plain?”

  It only got colder the next day, as the long column of recruits wound along a torturous path deeper and deeper into the jagged range. At least the sky remained blue and the sun hot, when they weren’t in the shadow of some crag.

  That afternoon the path tipped down into a small cleared valley and widened into a well-maintained road. Meagre freeholds appeared on the left and right, where stunted cattle grazed on scrubby grass. At the end of the valley the column passed through the mining town of Brunn, which, though small, was still able to support a large, garishly painted brothel. Reiner smiled to himself. That alone proved that there was a garrison nearby.

  On the road beyond the village they began to come across parties of men with picks over their shoulders. Those heading south whistled and chatted as they marched. Those coming north were covered in dirt and trudged along in weary silence. Reiner was thus not surprised when, a short time later, Matthais pointed out a branching path, well worn with cart tracks, that he said was the way to the gold mine.

  Not a mile beyond that, the steep, thickly wooded hillsides of the ravine opened up, slowly revealing the column’s destination. Coming upon it from the north, it was an odd looking fort, for it was one-sided. There were almost no defences on the Empire side, only a low wall and a wide open gate. Beyond that rose various barracks, stables and storehouses, and an imposing inner keep on the right where Matthais said the senior officers had their quarters. Beyond that were the massive southern battlements, a thick, grey stone wall almost as tall as the keep and stretching the whole width of the pass. The top was notched and crenellated with slots for archers and sluices for boiling oil. Squat catapults sat atop four square towers, all pointing south. In the centre was a great gate—a wide tunnel through the thickness of the wall—with massive, iron-bound wooden doors and an iron portcullis at both ends.

  As they got closer, the new recruits were startled to hear a great cheer echo through the pass. Reiner’s eyes were drawn to the broad, weedy expanse on the Empire side of the fort that stretched between the two walls of the pass. On the right were neat rows of infantry tents—many more than were needed to house the fort’s original compliment of troops. To the left, the ground was devoted to horses. There was a fenced off area for them to roam free, a training ring, and a proper tilting yard, with lanes for jousting and straw dummies for practising lance charges. It was from here that the cheer had rung.

  Reiner and the other new officers shot questioning looks at Matthias.

  He smiled. “The games. Would you care to see?”

  “Certainly,” said Karel.

  So, while the veterans began herding the foot soldiers to their new quarters and assuring them that they would be fed and given their new kit in short order, Matthais led the new sergeants and junior officers toward a big crowd of soldiers of every stripe who ringed the tilting field, whistling and shouting.

  There was a canopied viewing stand on one side, to which they made their way, turning their horses over to squires and stepping up onto the wooden platform. A handful of men sat on the long benches—infantry captains by their uniforms—but unlike the enlisted men who watched so avidly in the sun, the officers hardly looked at the field, talking instead amongst themselves in low voices.

  “Greetings, sirs,” said Matthais, bowing to them. “I return with the new blood.”

  The officers looked around and nodded, but there were no glad cries of welcome.

  “Any for us?” asked one.

  “Yes, captain.” Matthais indicated three of the new men. “Two sergeants of pike and a gunnery sergeant.”

  “And ten lance corporals,” said another captain dryly.

  The captains returned to their conversation.

  Matthais grinned sheepishly at the new men and indicated that they should sit along the first bench.

  Once seated, Reiner turned to the field and discovered that Matthais’ game was “tent-pegging,” an old parade ground drill where riders took turns trying to pluck brightly painted wooden tent-pegs out of the ground on the tips of their lances while at full gallop. It was a difficult trick, for the pegs were short, and broom stick thin, and it was more dangerous than it first appeared, for if one lowered one’s lance just the slightest bit too much, one could catch it in the ground and be catapulted from the saddle.

  This happened just as Reiner thought it. A knight flew through the air and landed in a cloud of dust on the hard-packed earth. The crowd of soldiers erupted in cheers and jeers as the knight pulled himself stiffly to his feet. He saluted the soldiers, then walked his horse off the field.

  Reiner frowned, puzzled, for the fellow was no youthful lancer, but a hardened knight, in his middle years, long past his training days. He looked around at the other men on the field. There were many young men among them, but just as many looked to be senior officers.

  Reiner turned to Matthais. “Who are the players in this game?”

  “Why, all officers corporal and above. The general insists every man be fighting fit.” He sat down next to Reiner. “We run in sets of five, with all who share the lowest score dropping out before the next heat. Any man unhorsed is out as well. We play until there is only one.” He laughed. “And ’tis always the general.”

  Reiner nearly choked. “The general plays as well?” He squinted out at the field, the lowering sun harsh in his eyes.

  Matthais pointed. “In the dark blue sleeves. You see him? With the cropped hair and the dented breastplate?”

  Reiner stared. The man Matthais had indicated couldn’t possibly be a general. He looked hardly older than Reiner himself, a laughing, handsome knight in simple armour, who slapped the backs of those who had made their pegs and joked with those who lost. A captain or obercaptain? Certainly. But a general? He lacked the gravitas.

  New pegs were set and a bugle blared. Gutzmann and another knight took their places in their lanes. A soldier dropped a flag and they spurred their mounts into a gallop, lowering their lances as one. As they reached the end of their lanes there was an audible “tock” and Gutzmann raised his lance high, a bright red peg squarely pinned on his shining lance point, while the other man came up empty. The crowd of soldiers cheered uproariously. It was obvious who their favourite was. Reiner decided that the fellow was a general after all, and one to be reckoned with. These lads would follow him into the maw of Chaos without a qualm. Woe to the fool who brought him low and let his troops discover it. Reiner shivered, hoping fervently that it wasn’t Gutzmann who was stealing the gold.

  As Gutzmann circled back to the top of the lane, he saw the new men in the stands and trotted over. The infantry officers fell silent as he approached, watching him.

  “Well met, Corporal Bohm,” he said, reining up. “So these are our new companions?”

  Matthais bowed. “Aye, m’lord. And a likely lot they are. Ready for anything.”

  “Excellent,” said Gutzmann. He bowed from the saddle to the new recruits, his eyes merry. “Welcome, gentlemen. We are glad to have you.”

  Up close, Reiner could better see the general’s age. Though he was as fit as a man half his
years, skin drum tight over corded muscles, there were deep lines around his pale grey eyes and silver in his neatly trimmed beard and at his temples.

  A knight called from the field and he turned his horse, but then looked back. “If any of your lads would care to try his luck, he would be more than welcome. We’ve only recently begun.”

  Matthais laughed and held up his hands. “My lord, we have been riding since before dawn. I think the gentlemen are more interested in rest and a hot meal than tilting at pegs.”

  “Of course,” said Gutzmann. “Foolish of me even to ask.”

  “No, no,” said Karel, standing. “I for one would love to play.”

  Reiner and the other new cavalrymen glared murder at the boy. If he had said nothing, there would have been no shame in allowing Matthais’ excuse to speak for them, but now that one had volunteered the rest would look weak if they demurred.

  “And I,” said Reiner through gritted teeth.

  The others followed suit as well, and were quickly brought fresh horses and lances. As Reiner trotted out to the lanes he realized that this had become a test. Whether Gutzmann and Matthais had staged it on purpose or not, they and the other officers would now be watching the new men—to judge their martial skills, of course—but more importantly, Reiner thought, to see how game they were, how much enthusiasm and energy they could muster in the face of an unexpected and unwanted challenge. To see how well they “played the game.”

  It was a game Reiner needed to win. If he wished to learn the fort’s intrigues, he would have to become part of the inner circle, and with so horse-mad a garrison, this seemed the best way to do it. Fortunately, though Reiner was only an adequate sword, riding had always come naturally to him, and he had been even more skilled with the lance than the pistol. Only his slight frame had stopped him from becoming a lancer instead of a pistolier. He hoped at least to best Karel. The boy needed a lesson.

  Gutzmann’s officers watched as the general assigned the new men lanes. They were impressive specimens, tall and broad shouldered to a man, with proud faces and regal bearing. Even though Reiner was of an age with many of them, he felt a boy beside them. And though they called friendly welcomes to the recruits, their expressions remained noncommittal.

  Reiner missed his first peg—unsurprising, since neither the horse nor the lance was his own and the ground was unfamiliar, but he made his second, the impact with the peg sending a pleasing shock through his arm and shoulder. Then, after missing on his third and fourth runs, he caught the fifth square in the centre. It was gratifying how quickly the old skills came back. He hadn’t couched a lance since before the war, but what his mind had forgotten his body remembered, and soon he was riding just as old master Hoffstetter had instructed him to—rising in the saddle before impact, letting the lance glide along the ground at the correct height, so that instead of stabbing desperately at the peg at the last second, you guided your lance easily into line.

  Many of the new officers took only one peg. Some took none at all. So Reiner and Karel, with two apiece, made it into the next round with several of the others. But they would have to improve if they wanted to stay in the game long. Gutzmann’s knights all took three or four pegs. Gutzmann took all five.

  After three more runs Reiner and Karel were all that were left of the new men. And after another two, Karel was gone as well, having knocked the peg out of the ground that would have tied him with Reiner, but failing to keep it on his lance tip.

  Gutzmann gave Reiner an approving nod at the start of the next round, and the other officers began sizing him up. A bearish knight with a bristling black beard pulled up beside him. Reiner had noted him before. A loud, hearty fellow with an ear-splitting laugh and a steady stream of jokes—the sort of man Reiner would have left a tavern to avoid.

  “You do well, sir,” said the knight, sticking out a thick-fingered hand. “Lance Captain Halmer, third company.”

  Reiner recognized the name. “A pleasure, sir. You are the captain of Matthais’ company. He spoke highly of you.” Reiner shook the man’s hand, then winced in his crushing grip. “Meyer…ling. Pistolier.”

  “Welcome, corporal. It’s not often a new man gets this far. Luck to you.”

  “And to you.”

  Have to watch that one, thought Reiner, wringing the pain from his hand.

  Reiner stayed in the running for two more rounds, getting three each time while others got two or less. But the round after that he took only one peg on his first four runs. As he watched the other knights make their fourth runs and bring their tallies to three or four, he knew this would be his last run. Halmer only had two, but he had yet to take less than three and always seemed to come through in the clinch.

  Only this time, he didn’t. On his fifth run, Halmer’s horse stumbled a bit and his point went wide. He had only taken two pegs. Reiner’s heart thudded in his chest. His turn was next. If he took his last peg, he would tie Halmer for last, and they would both drop out—petty vengeance for Halmer’s crushing handshake—but Reiner had never claimed to be above petty vengeance. He could feel the lance captain’s eyes upon him as he circled back to the top of the lanes. He knew the situation as well as Reiner did, and his anger was palpable.

  Reiner could barely keep himself from grinning. Suddenly he knew he could take the peg. He had never felt more alive and in command of his abilities. Then he checked himself. He had been commanded to worm his way into the fort and learn its secrets. Making enemies of the officers wouldn’t further that aim. He would have to miss the peg and let Halmer win. The temptation to ride his last run with his lance at parade rest had to be fought off too. Halmer would not love him for letting him win, and neither would Gutzmann. The general wasn’t the sort of man who would tolerate a man not trying his best. So Reiner must make it look good.

  As the soldier dropped the flag, Reiner spurred his horse forward and lowered his lance. It whispered through the sparse weeds of the field like a shark through a shallow sea, homing in on the peg. He knew his aim would be true. He knew he could pink the peg right in its centre. It took every ounce of self control to twitch his lance just a hair to the inside, and he almost played it too close. The peg spun from the ground as he hit its edge.

  Reiner reined up, laughing and cursing, then rode back, rueful, to the top of the lanes. “I had it, my lords,” he said. “Truly I did. It was the wind from my horse’s nostrils blew it aside.”

  Gutzmann and the knights laughed, and Halmer joined in, but Reiner felt the captain staring after him, cold eyed and suspicious, as he turned in his lance and rode back to the sidelines. Franka glared out at the field as she took his reins and helped him from the saddle. “I wish you’d beaten him. Boasting bully.”

  “I wish I could have allowed myself the pleasure.”

  Franka turned big eyes on him. “You let him win?”

  “I let Manfred win,” said Reiner, sourly. “Even from Altdorf he makes me dance.”

  FIVE

  Paragons of Martial Virtue

  After Gutzmann had won the game to the cheers of the soldiers, the officers retired to the fort’s keep for dinner in the great dining hall. The new sergeants and corporals were invited to eat with their new comrades, and as the one who had stayed in the game the longest, Reiner was singled out by Gutzmann to join him with his senior staff at the table on the raised dais at the head of the room. The table was long, but even so, it barely had space enough to hold all the officers in attendance. It looked as if Gutzmann had almost doubled the fort’s original complement of men—many more than were needed to guard the pass. Both cavalry and infantry captains sat at the table, but Reiner noticed that the cavalrymen sat in the centre seats, nearest Gutzmann, while the infantry were relegated to the wings.

  The general made a place for Reiner beside him on his left, forcing a grey-haired, square-bearded knight to shift down. “Corporal Reiner,” he said as Reiner scooted his chair in and tried to keep his elbows close to his sides, “May I present Comma
nder Volk Shaeder, my right hand.”

  The venerable knight inclined his head. “Welcome, corporal. You stayed nine rounds I hear. Quite an accomplishment.” He had the soft, grave voice of a scholar, and wore ascetic grey robes over his uniform, but he was as tall and broad as the rest.

  A silver hammer of Sigmar hung from his neck by a chain. It looked to Reiner as if it weighed as much as an anchor.

  “I would be lost without Volk,” said Gutzmann. “He sees to the day to day business of the camp and lets me gallivant about playing at soldiers.” He grinned. “He is also our spiritual navigator, keeping us always pointed toward Sigmar.”

  Shaeder inclined his head again. “I do my humble best, general.”

  “To Volk’s left,” continued Gutzmann, “is Cavalry Obercaptain Halkrug Oppenhauer, Knight Templar of the Order of the Black Rose, or Hallie, as we call him.”

  A bald, red-faced giant gave Reiner a friendly salute, beaming through a flowing golden beard, his blue eyes twinkling. Reiner recalled that he had been one of the last to drop out of the game. An amazingly nimble rider for a man his size. “A fine display today, pistolier,” he said. “Too bad you haven’t the weight to make a lance.”

  Reiner returned the salute. “I curse my luck every day, obercaptain.”

  “And on my right,” said Gutzmann, motioning with his hand, “is Infantry Obercaptain Ernst Nuemark, Champion of the Carroburg Greatswords, and hero of the siege of Venner.”

  A tanned, clean-shaven man with close-cropped hair so blond as to seem white leaned forward, and nodded solemnly at Reiner. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, pistolier,” he said. He didn’t seem terribly pleased.

  “The pleasure is mine, obercaptain,” said Reiner formally. This was the first time Reiner had seen Obercaptain Nuemark. He hadn’t attended the games.

  “And where is Vortmunder?” asked Gutzmann, looking around.