03 - Call to Arms (13 page)

“Understood, sir.”

Saluting, Sergeant Bohlen made to turn away, only to pause and glance back at
his captain.

“Sir? I’ll see you later. Sigmar willing.”

“I’ll see you later too, sergeant,” Harkner nodded. He looked toward the
trees and the hidden horde of greenskins sheltering somewhere out of sight,
before he turned to the men of the file.

“I’ll see you all later. Sigmar willing.”

The situation was as dire on the western perimeter as it was everywhere else
inside the encampment. Rushing through the camp with the other men of his file,
Dieter saw the same scenes of disorder repeated in a dozen varying locations.

Outside a supply tent, a sergeant commanding a unit of handgunners argued
heatedly with a quartermaster as he tried to requisition a supply of black
powder for his men. Elsewhere, a great cannon had slipped its axle in the middle
of one of the thoroughfares through the camp, blocking access; its gunners
appealed fruitlessly for help in moving it, but no one listened. Nearby, a
messenger dashed from tent to tent and regiment to regiment, searching for a
particular officer with a vital dispatch, only to learn no one could help him
find the man he was looking for.

The army seemed less a coherent whole, and more a collection of confused
individuals. Everyone was caught up in their own personal dramas, following a
tangled web of contradictory and frequently out of date orders.

Dieter found it strange that the army’s senior commanders were almost nowhere
to be seen. It was now, when the army was in crisis, that their role was
paramount. In their place, it had fallen to individual sergeants and captains to
try and make some sense out of the confusion around them. It was plain they were
doing the best they could, but with no clear strategy or coherent plan to
follow, their efforts were often incompatible and frequently at odds.

“Look at this,” Hoist grumbled as they hurried to find the rest of their
regiment. “Someone needs to give the entire army a kick up the arse, sort things
out.”

“So says General Hoist,” Rieger said, beside him. “Perhaps you should take
matters in hand. ‘Sort things out’, as you put it.”

“I couldn’t make a worse job of it than whoever’s responsible for this mess,”
Hoist snorted.

“Careful what you say,” Gerhardt cautioned him. “Whatever you may think, you
are talking about our commanders. Remember, the punishment for insubordination
is having your tongue drilled through with a hot iron.”

“Do they really do that?” Dieter asked. He was out of breath from running,
but the idea was so gruesome and frightening he had to hear more. “Helmut told
me about such things, but I wondered sometimes if he wasn’t exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating? Hardly.” Hoist shook his head. “I’ve seen it done. You
wouldn’t believe the stink of hot fat and burned flesh when you drill a hot iron
through a man’s tongue. It takes seven men to do it: three to hold the victim
down, two to force his mouth open, another to pull out his tongue with a pair of
pliers, and the seventh to wield the drill. Even then, the victim’s troubles
aren’t over. A quarter of them don’t survive it: they die during the punishment,
or afterwards from infections.”

“It’s a bad business,” Gerhardt agreed. “The hole they drill in the tongue
never heals fully, so the man speaks with a whistle forever after. That’s why
they use it as a punishment, as an example to others. You’ve heard the
expression ‘mind your tongue’, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Dieter.

“Well, now you know where it comes from.”

They had reached the spot where the rest of their regiment was stationed.
Bohlen ordered the men of his file to join the ranks while he went to consult
with the other sergeants.

“Talking of bad business,” Hoist said, once they had greeted their comrades
and taken a place to the left of the regimental line. “I feared for the worst
when I heard Captain Harkner say he had posted the regiment to plug the gap
between two groups of spearmen. You know there are hard hours ahead when a
regiment of swordsmen are posted to the front of the line.”

Dieter immediately understood what he meant. The second they joined their
regiment it had become clear the Scarlets had been stationed in the front rank
of units positioned to guard the western approaches to the camp. The fact they
had been stationed so far forward was a sign of the confusion in the
Hochlanders’ battle line.

Thanks to Helmut Schau’s frequent lessons on strategy and tactics, Dieter
knew exactly how the army should have lined up. There was no great secret to the
battle plans used by most provincial armies, including Hochland’s. Most generals
favoured one or more solid blocks of infantry at the centre of their line,
supported by cavalry and missile troops on either wing. Other generals preferred
to make use of a central body of knights, or alternating blocks of infantry and
cavalry set behind a skirmish line of missile troops, but the current absence of
the army’s knights left no place for such delicate variations. By necessity, the
battle line would have to be built around the infantry.

It was the precise composition of the infantry forces making up the battle
line on the west of the camp that had caused Hoist’s disquiet. Ordinarily, units
of halberdiers and spearmen would be placed at the front of the line in order to
meet the enemy’s charge with a forest of spearpoints and the longer reach of
their weapons. Regiments of swordsmen were used to support these front rank
units, either positioned just behind them as a mobile reserve, or divided into
smaller detachments assigned to fight in unison with larger groups of spears or
halberds. The fact that the Scarlets had been pressed into service as a front
rank unit was a measure of the confusion and desperation currently convulsing
the Hochlander army.

“We’ll just have to make the best of it,” Gerhardt said. He looked at Dieter,
standing beside him.

“You know, you don’t have to stand here at the front of the line with the
rest of us old hands. You’re new, and you haven’t been drilled. You can take up
a position in the rear rank of the regiment, further back from the action. You
needn’t worry about repercussions. No one will think bad of you because of it.”

“I’m not worried,” Dieter told him. “But I’m not moving.”

“You see?” Hoist said, almost fondly. “I told you the boy was all right. He’s
like a young bull. He’s got balls the size of—”

“Quiet, Hoist,” Gerhardt cut him off.

He stared at Dieter intently, as though trying to search out any hidden
defect of character from among the angles of his face.

“Understand, this is serious, Dieter Lanz. As far as I’ve seen, you’ve not
put a foot wrong as a soldier. You’ve done everything that’s been asked of you,
when it’s been asked, and you’ve done it well. You’re handy with a sword. That’s
good. You’ve got brass and iron inside you. That’s even better. But, so far,
you’ve only faced skirmishes. This is a battle. A real battle. It’s a different
kettle of broth entirely.”

“It makes no difference,” Dieter replied. “We’re in the same file, so that
means we fight side by side. Unless I hear differently from an officer or a
sergeant, I’m not moving. I’ll hold the line with the rest of you.”

“Big as cannonballs,” Hoist said, proudly. “You have to admit I unearthed a
diamond this time, Gerhardt. Of course, he’s a fool for wanting to stay in the
front rank when he could go rearward. Then again, we’re all fools. You have to
be to join the infantry. Now, if I was a knight, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be
far away from this battle, along with the rest, on whatever easy errand General
von Nieder sent them on. And, to make it even sweeter I’d be sitting on a
horse’s back, letting him take the strain rather than relying on my poor, tired
feet.”

“An unlikely scenario, Hoist,” Rieger put in. “You have to be of
noble
birth to become a knight.”

“And who says I’m not? Didn’t I ever tell you the story of my dear mother and
her encounter on a Talabec riverboat with the Graf Erich von Doppelfell?”

“Better leave it until later,” Gerhardt told him. “The enemy seem set on
interrupting your tale.”

There was movement from the tree line. Watching wide-eyed while the other men
talked and argued amongst themselves, Dieter had seen shadowy figures moving
through the forest. A group of orcs riding on the back of enormous boars emerged
from among the trees. As yet, he could see barely a handful of riders, but the
crashing sounds and boarish snorts coming from the forest behind them indicated
they were only the advance party of a much larger force.

“Looks like they’re going to hit us with some of their best fighters first,”
Gerhardt said. “They know they have the advantage and want to make the most of
it.”

“But I thought orcs were supposed to be stupid?” Dieter said. “From the way
you talk, you make it sound like they know what they’re doing.”

“They do know,” Gerhardt grimaced. “Don’t ever believe anyone who tells you
that orcs are stupid. Granted, they’re not much good when it comes to building
towns, planting crops, making pots or doing any of the other things that human
beings rate themselves highly for achieving. The truth is, orcs have no interest
in those things. They’re only clever when it comes to the areas they are
interested in. Which, generally, means fighting and killing their enemies.”

“Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to see our army is in trouble—not even
an orcish one,” Rieger commented, agreeing with Gerhardt. “The second they
caught sight of our camp, the orcs would’ve noticed our lack of cavalry. Once
they saw that, it stands to reason they would’ve decided to send their boar
riders forward, to try and roll us over.”

The number of orcs visible at the tree line was growing. As Dieter watched
them, he became wary of the size of the enemy forces arrayed against them. The
greenskin army they had seen crossing the river had been huge; big enough to
outnumber General von Nieder’s army, even before the knights were sent away.

Then again, Dieter reminded himself of one of Helmut Schau’s tactical dictums
- an army fighting from a strong defensive position held the advantage over an
attacker, even when outnumbered. But how strong was the Hochlanders’ position,
really? Remembering the disorder he had seen in his own army’s encampment,
Dieter found it hard to believe they were ready to meet the enemy in battle.

The horde of boar riders visible at the tree line was growing ever larger.
From further along the camp perimeter, Dieter heard the sound of sporadic
artillery fire as the few cannons in position tried to put a dent in the enemy
numbers.

The orcs seemed to view it as a sign. Riding into sight before the massed
ranks of riders, an orc chieftain galloped to the head of his troops and held up
a long spear festooned with skulls. Opening his lips wide to reveal a mouth full
of tusk-like teeth, the chieftain threw back his head and screamed out a command
in his brutish inhuman tongue.

It was the signal the orcs had been waiting for. Acting as one, the boar
riders spurred their ill-tempered mounts into a gallop and charged toward the
human lines.

“Form a shield wall!” Abruptly, Sergeant Bohlen appeared among the men of the
Scarlets’ front rank and began issuing orders. “Second, third and fourth ranks,
be ready to push! Rear ranks, be ready to fill any gaps in the line and shore us
up at the sides if the other regiments fall back! Musicians, play me a tune!
Make it something lively, something to relieve the boredom while we’re waiting
for the greenskins to amble their way over.”

In response to the sergeant’s orders, Dieter heard the regimental fife-player
and drummer strike up a martial song as the Scarlets raised their swords and
interlocked their shields. Within moments, their efforts were all but drowned
out as the orcs galloped closer. Dieter could still hear the drum, just barely,
but the thin reedy sound of the fife was lost among the thunder of hooves coming
nearer.

The boar riders were bearing down on them, clouds of dust rising to envelop
them as the boars pounded their way toward them.

“Push!”

Dieter was barely able to hear Sergeant Bohlen’s voice above the din. The
command caught him by surprise. As the orcs closed to melee range, Dieter felt
hands on his shoulders, bracing him against the impact as the boars at the front
of the enemy charge hit the Scarlets’ shield wall head-on. Feeling the impact
judder through his body, unable to escape or turn away due to the hands of the
second rank pressing him forward, Dieter felt like the meat in a most unpleasant
sandwich. It amazed him that he was not instantly pulverised.

“Push!” He heard Bohlen’s voice above the sounds of battle. “Push! All hands
to the front! Give it some shoulder.”

Even as he struggled to breathe, caught between the giant boars bearing down
on the shield wall at the front and the pressure of his own comrades pushing him
forward from behind, Dieter realised the Scarlets’ tactic was working. The
support of the second, third and fourth ranks pushing forward from the rear had
stopped the orcs from using the superior weight and strength of their mounts to
punch through the shield wall.

Instead, the orcs were caught in a trap of their own inadvertent making.
Their advance was stalled, the riders and mounts at the front caught between the
shield wall and the other boar riders galloping into the back of them.

Seeing a boar directly in front of him struggling to extricate itself from
the morass of bodies as its orc rider whipped its back in frustration, Dieter
joined the men on either side of him in stabbing the creature repeatedly with
his sword. Giving an enraged howl the boar collapsed, animal and rider
disappearing beneath a flurry of lethal hooves as another boar was pushed
forward to take the place of the one that had fallen.