[Empire Army 01] - Reiksguard Read online

  “What has happened?” Delmar asked.

  “There is word from the north,” Proktor supplied.

  “What is it? Has Ostland fallen?”

  “Ostland!” Falkenhayn shouted from the pell, in a voice loud enough for the Provincials to hear it. “Ostland proved to be little more than a bump in the foe’s path. It’s Middenheim.”

  “Middenheim?” Delmar was shocked. “Middenheim has fallen?” It was impossible; the fortress-city of the White Wolf could never have been taken so quickly.

  Proktor shook his head. “It is besieged, and by such a great horde that… the army’s hope for victory is slim.”

  Delmar immediately thought of Griesmeyer, already riding hard back to the north. He looked over at the Provincials but could not see the novice from Middenland.

  “Where is Straber?”

  Proktor looked to Falkenhayn, but the other novice turned back to the pell. “What is it?” Delmar asked.

  “A messenger came for him,” Proktor said quietly. “His estates have been burned. His father’s body was found. The women were missing. It is thought they are dead as well. At least… it is hoped. Death would be a mercy to being captured by those monsters. He has ridden for home.”

  “As they all will.” Falkenhayn, sweating, came across from the pell. “It is as I always said, Reinhardt. They cannot be relied upon. It will be us Reiklanders who will carry the Empire.”

  “Brother,” Delmar replied, “Straber’s home is in peril. His father is dead. That means he is the lord of those lands. Of course he must go back and defend them.”

  “And when Middenheim falls and Nordland is threatened, will Gausser then go? Then Bohdan back to Ostermark, Krieglitz to Talabheim?” Falkenhayn flicked his sword as if knocking those novices away. “Perhaps, Delmar, each man should only defend that patch of ground on which he stands? Is that how we should defend our Empire?”

  “Calm yourself, brother,” Delmar said.

  “No, brother, I shall not calm myself,” Falkenhayn shouted. “You answer me, is that how we should defend our Empire?”

  Delmar looked to the others, but there was no sign of support from Harver or Breigh; Hardenburg still lay there, his face covered; Proktor was the picture of misery.

  “No,” Delmar conceded, “it is not.”

  “Thank you, brother,” Falkenhayn spat, and took his sword back to the pell.

  It was to be a full day before Falkenhayn had calmed down sufficiently to make his peace with Delmar. It was frustrating; they all felt it. To be closed up in the chapter house whilst the Reiksguard was fighting the Empire’s enemies was intolerable, but there was nothing that could be done except leave the order as Straber had, and none of the Reiklanders wished to do that. As the news of the siege of Middenheim raced around the city, it drove the masses of starving refugees to even greater desperation. If Middenheim could fall, where would be safe within the Empire? The Altdorf officials began to stockpile food in case a similar fate befell the capital. Traders, priests and storekeepers followed their example. What food had been available to the refugees in the streets was cut off. The officials proclaimed that everyone in the city had to tighten their belts. But for some their belts could be tightened no further, and their desperation drove them to greater acts of violence.

  As the tension built in the streets, so too did it grow amongst the novices. To gain peace, Delmar decided to follow Griesmeyer’s advice and inquire about Master Ott of Master Lehrer. Lehrer directed him to a section in the Reiksguard’s annals. The passage was still relatively fresh, having been written only a few years previously.

  There had been a battle, but Delmar could not tell where as, unlike the others, there was no location specified. It must have been at night, however, for there were repeated references to the dark in which the enemy had concealed themselves and in which the battle was subsequently fought. There was no specific mention of the name of the foe in this instance, merely the ambushes and traps they sprung upon the Reiksguard as they advanced. There was mention of Brother Ott, however.

  During one of their attacks, a foul missile had exploded over him. He had been covered with an evil smoke which had burnt his skin and filled his lungs with its poison. It was one Brother Talhoffer who had covered himself with his cloak and dared plunge into the cloud of gas. He had emerged, dragging the unconscious Ott with one hand and still carrying his sword with the other. Talhoffer had just called for aid when one of the frenzied creatures charged at him. Both of them had struck at the same time, the knight running the creature through with his sword, the creature chopping through the knight’s other arm, by which he held his brother, with a jagged glaive. At the loss of his arm, Talhoffer had apparently kicked the creature’s corpse away, dropped his sword, seized Ott with his remaining hand and continued to pull him to safety until other brothers arrived.

  “It is a noble tale,” Master Lehrer commented from behind his desk after Delmar had finished reading.

  “Our healers went to work on them both as soon as the army emerged from the pit. Talhoffer was recovered within a few days, though of course his arm was left behind. Brother Ott, however, languished for weeks. It was not until he had been brought back here, swaddled in bandages like a newborn babe, and was treated by the High Priestess of Shallya herself that he finally awoke. That daemon-smoke had taken his voice, and burned his eyes so that to see daylight gave him great pain; while it took time for his body to mend, so far as it could, it took longer to heal his spirit, for him to find some useful purpose again.”

  “He has found that, master,” Delmar replied earnestly.

  “Treat such knowledge with discretion, though, I ask you, novice. The moment of such an injury marks the end of a knight’s ability to serve in battle. For proud men such as Talhoffer and Ott, it is a type of death. I believe that you should know it, though, to help you to understand. They are men of experience, and it is beholden on you novices to learn all you can from them. They are all honourable knights, each with his own story.”

  “Do you have a story yourself, master?” Delmar asked. “Is it among these shelves?”

  “Aye, a short one,” Lehrer replied with mock weariness, “but that one you will have to find yourself. I will not aid you there.”

  The unrest within the chapter house was not limited to the novices. Talhoffer grew more and more critical of the novices’ progress as the days of the siege progressed. He dismissed Weisshuber from their ranks with an almost casual disregard. The novices discovered his possessions gone from their quarters; it was that abrupt. It came as a regret, but no surprise; the genial Stirlander simply did not have the proficiency for the violence inherent in the knightly occupation.

  Yet still Talhoffer reserved his most scathing words for his favourite target, Siebrecht von Matz.

  “If you stand there with your sword stuck out, Novice Matz, waiting for it to be beaten aside, then your opponent will oblige you.”

  “Guards should be moments of transition, Novice Matz, not poses for your heroic memorial. Keep moving.”

  “If you insist on cutting from your wrist instead of your elbow, Novice Matz, then your arm will fall off. I guarantee it.”

  “Ah, so that’s what happened to you,” Siebrecht, sore and harangued, muttered bitterly. He had had enough of this.

  “He’s fast,” Verrakker commented, “and skilled. You have to give Novice Matz that.”

  “So he has some skill, brother,” Talhoffer said through clenched teeth, trying not to move. “What of it?”

  The two knights stood with Brother Ott upon the top of the tower of the chapter house. It was as good a place for privacy as any. All Altdorf was lain out below them; the Imperial Palace, the Great Temple, and buildings, so many buildings crammed with people.

  Talhoffer had commissioned a portrait of himself and had judged this the perfect backdrop. He might have reconsidered if he had known what a hash the artist was to make in bringing his canvas and easel up the small spiral stairca
se.

  “Please hold your pose, my lord.” The artist, already irate and behind time, tried to keep the chiding tone from his voice.

  “I had hoped that you were driving Matz all the harder because you recognised his potential and wished to prevent him being complacent. Yet you dismiss that skill so easily, brother,” Verrakker said. “Is he not one of the ablest fighters of all the novices you have tested?”

  Talhoffer took his time in consideration. “On foot, perhaps. On a horse he has little to distinguish himself from the rest.”

  “Then why have you made him your whipping boy?”

  Talhoffer turned to his fellow knight. The artist let out a small grunt of irritation, and Talhoffer rounded back on him.

  “Oh, paint your backdrop, man, and give us a few moments’ peace.”

  The artist duly bent back down to his work, and Talhoffer and Verrakker crossed to the other side of the roof.

  “Is there a reason you take a particular interest in this novice’s well-being, brother?”

  “That is the very question I am trying to ask you.”

  Talhoffer ignored Verrakker’s words and continued on his original line. “You and he are both from Nuln, are you not? Some old loyalty there perhaps?”

  “You tell me, brother. Is his home the reason you dislike him so?”

  “Ah!” Talhoffer scoffed. “Petty provincial prejudices are beneath one who has schooled counts and kings, brother.”

  “So I would have thought.”

  Irritated at Verrakker’s insinuation, Talhoffer dropped his usual superior air.

  “I have no cause against his skill or the city of his birth, brother. It is his attitude to which I take offence.”

  “And what of that?”

  “That he does not wish to be here. Even Ott can see that. The other novices, as unskilled, raw or insufferable as they may be, they all have the spirit that comes from understanding what a privilege they have been given. For Matz, the sooner he plucks up the courage to leave, the better. For all of us.”

  “It is not your place to judge his spirit, brother. It is mine, of which you are well aware.”

  “Oh, yes, you and Brother Purity.”

  “Where did you hear that name?” Verrakker snapped, his tone so sharp that it cut Talhoffer to the quick.

  Talhoffer, in surprise, stumbled over his words, then began again.

  “You are not the only one to know some of the order’s secrets, brother,” he said.

  “That is a matter for the inner circle. And until and unless you are elevated to those ranks you shall not speak that name again. On your oath, Talhoffer.”

  Talhoffer backed down and Verrakker was glad of it. He did not like having to push his authority with the fightmaster. Ever since he had been admitted to the order’s inner circle and Talhoffer had not, it had been a sticking point between them. Evidently, the matter still rankled with the fightmaster.

  “You and your secrets,” Talhoffer started again. “Even your little pretence to the novices that you are some doddering invalid.”

  Verrakker saw that the fightmaster was trying to salvage a little of his own dignity and adopted a more conciliatory tone.

  “You learn much of a man by how he treats his lessers.”

  Talhoffer gave a short bark of a laugh. “Just like the sword, Verrakker, those who live by secrets will die by them.”

  “I have enough people telling me my destiny, brother,” Verrakker said, indicating an end to their conversation. “We should concentrate on the novices and the task in hand.”

  “Very well, then,” Talhoffer declared, once more gathering up his haughtiness around him. “I will judge Novice Matz solely on his skill, and leave the question of his spirit to you and… your judgement. Let it be on your heads,” the fightmaster chuckled at his own joke, “as to whether this weak-willed stripling should ever be allowed to call himself a Reiksguard knight.”

  “Thank you, brother,” Verrakker replied, but Talhoffer was not finished.

  “So, as I have answered your question, brother, will you do me the privilege of answering mine? Why do you take a particular interest in this novice?”

  “I take a particular interest in all my charges, and I do believe that we shall need the sword of every single one of them in the weeks ahead.”

  “You have heard something more from the siege?”

  Verrakker nodded. “Our army is converging upon the siege lines. There is a battle, a great battle that is about to occur. Our scouts have a count of the size of the enemy. And I do not believe we will win.”

  The two knights both turned and stared out over the battlements, over the city, over the maddened crowds, over the river and the forests. Though it was far too distant for them to see, they both looked to that great bastion of the north: Middenheim, where the fate of the Empire was being decided.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HERR VON MATZ

  The ten remaining novices marched, fully armed and armoured, in close order. At a command from Talhoffer, they halted, drew their swords and instantly began the drills that he had taught them, stabs from high, from low, and downwards swings.

  Talhoffer looked the novices over with a critical eye. Only Krieglitz was performing up to the fightmaster’s standards; Gausser had power behind his blows but they were too slow; Bohdan and Alptraum were slow to learn them, Bohdan especially, as he was older than the rest and more set in his habits. Siebrecht, though, was quick, of sword and wit, but he was lazy and only did the least he could to escape the fightmaster’s censure.

  The Reiklanders’ progress, meanwhile, was far more acceptable. Talhoffer could tell that they had fought together before. They attacked in unison, covered each other and responded to Falkenhayn’s orders in an instant. Harver and Breigh in particular, Talhoffer noted, fought beside each other as though they had done so their entire lives. None of the Reiklanders had the strength or innate skill of a couple of the Provincials; Proktor was too slight and Delmar’s swordsmanship far too untutored, but they fought far better as a squadron and that was how they would have to fight in the Reiksguard.

  If he had had enough time Talhoffer knew he could have brought the Provincials up to that standard. This could have been one of the finest novice squadrons he had taught, but Verrakker was adamant that there was not the time. Push them on, push them on, he had told Lehrer and the fightmasters, they will rise to it. They will be ready.

  Well, Talhoffer would show Verrakker how ready they were not. He had given the sergeants a small mission of their own, and they were now strapping something to the pell. One of them raised his hand to show that they were finished, and Talhoffer called the novices over.

  “Though we are part of the greatest realm of man, mankind exists in other nations all around us,” Talhoffer announced, “Bretonnia and Estalia to the west, Tilea and the border lands to the south, Kislev and the tribes of the Norse to the north,” Talhoffer’s eyes glossed quickly past Gausser, for the Nordlanders’ heritage was more intertwined with the Norse than they would ever admit, “and the horse brigands of the east. It is our nature to march under different banners and test our strength against each other. Just as we have our knightly orders, so too do they have their champions. Here!”

  The pell was dressed in a full suit of armour, so that it could almost be a man stood there. It was not Reiksguard armour though. It was crudely forged and painted black.

  “The men of the north: some wear little more than furs and skins and can be fought like normal men, but others are encased within plate as thick as a Bretonnian’s, even as thick as a dwarf’s.” Talhoffer walked slowly around the armoured pell.

  “Hammers and maces at the head. You don’t need to cut the skin if you can bash their brains loose instead,” he said as he indicated the helmet. “If you only have a sword, however, and most likely you will… Novice Reinhardt, Novice Gausser, step forwards.”

  The two novices did so, and a sergeant gave them each a sharpened metal long swor
d. Talhoffer stepped away.

  “Novice Reinhardt,” the fightmaster ordered, “one of your strongest cuts, if you please.”

  Delmar took up a roof guard with the weapon and then, after a breath, stepped forwards and drove the sword down with all his weight against the armour’s shoulder pauldron. The blade struck the plate with a crashing ring and the impact nearly jarred the weapon from Delmar’s hands. With the novices crowding around, Delmar stepped up to look at the damage and was disappointed to see that there was only a slight dent.

  “Back. All of you,” Talhoffer chided. “Novice Gausser, can you do better?”

  Gausser stepped up and targeted the pauldron on the other side. Delmar could see the Nordlander’s massive shoulder muscles knot, then release as he swung the sword down like a mallet. The ring was even louder this time, and Gausser stepped forwards with a satisfied look on his face to examine the plate. His face fell, however, when he saw that the dent he had created was only slightly deeper. It had certainly not penetrated the armour.

  “Do not be disappointed, novices. It takes a blade of magical keenness for a man to slice apart full plate. No, if you only have a sword with which to strike at these armoured warriors then here is what you may do. First, the murder stroke.” A sergeant wearing armoured gauntlets stepped up, grasped Gausser’s long sword in both hands by the end of the blade and then brought the hilt down on the armour’s helmet. He stepped away, leaving a sizeable dent in the helmet’s crown, enough to have killed the wearer.

  “Come in and look now,” Talhoffer said to the novices. “You see the cross-guard acts as a rudimentary hammer. It can also be used to hook your opponent’s weapon away if you wish to wrestle him to the ground. Second, the thrust with the half-sword. Better when the foe is on the ground, but as circumstances demand. Novice Reinhardt, a thrust, but through the gap in the armour. Use your free hand to grip the blade half-way down its length and use that to hit your target. It is accuracy, not speed that matters here.”