03 - Call to Arms (7 page)

“Miller. He bought the watermill in a village named Bromstadt. It’s a good
ways south of here, in the country east of Hergig.”

“A miller?” Harkner raised an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d hear Helmut Schau
had chosen a life grinding flour. Still, I suppose it’s a living.”

The captain shrugged.

“So, you said you had a letter for me? Let’s see it.”

His hand going into his shirt, Dieter pulled out a cowskin wallet. Opening
it, he carefully removed a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Harkner.
The captain took it without a word. Adjusting his position to stand underneath
an oil lantern hanging from one of the tent poles, he unfolded the letter and
began to read.

Time seemed to move with glacial slowness. Nervously, Dieter took in his
surroundings. Gerhardt stood beside him. Having led him to the command tent,
Gerhardt had reported the beastman attack on the caravan to Captain Harkner
before introducing Dieter to him. In front of them, spread out over a table with
folding legs, a roughly proportioned map of the area had been drawn in charcoal
on the smooth side of a large sheepskin.

A sergeant called Bohlen stood on the other side of the table, his hand
raised to his mouth to stifle a yawn as they waited for the captain to finish
reading. Dieter gathered Bohlen would normally have been commanding the patrol
that had saved the caravan from the beastmen’s ambush, but he had been called
away to a briefing with Harkner, leaving Gerhardt to lead the patrol in his
place.

Harkner continued to examine the letter at no great speed. Trying not to
stare, Dieter noticed the captain’s lips moving almost imperceptibly, his mouth
shaping the words as he read. Finally, the captain finished.

“Schau didn’t write this letter,” he stated flatly. “The man I knew couldn’t
read. Even if someone taught him his letters in the years since, he wouldn’t
write so elegantly. This was written by an educated man.”

“The village priest wrote it on his behalf. But it was Helmut who asked him
to do it. And he had Father Gottlieb read it back to him when he was finished,
so he’d know the priest had written the things he wanted.”

“Hmm, if this letter is to be believed, you have the makings of a fine
soldier,” the captain said, his eyes burning into Dieter’s face as though
looking for a reason to doubt it. “Of course, Schau and the priest know you.
They could be gilding the lily, making you sound better than you are.”

Folding the letter, he handed it back to Dieter.

“What about before you got here? You can’t have come straight from your
village to this encampment. You must have gone to the barracks in Hergig first.
Did you meet our recruiter, Sergeant Rippner?”

“I did.”

“He wouldn’t have let you go without testing your swordsmanship. He made you
fight with wasters, yes—wooden broadswords? Usually, he makes the young bloods
fight two or three bouts with him, making sure he gives them a good few bruises.
Well? What did he say to you afterwards?”

“I…” Dieter paused momentarily in discomfort. “He said I was a waste of spit
and whichever father sired me had no doubt long ago learned to regret it. He
said, at best, my swordmanship was passable.”

“Passable, eh? Coming from ‘the Ripper’ that’s high praise. Most would-be
recruits are lucky if he gives them anything more than a kick in the jewels for
their trouble. You must know one end of a sword from another, then?”

“Hoist said he gave a good account of himself when the beastmen attacked,”
Gerhardt offered. “A bit cocky and flash, perhaps. But nothing that can’t be
drilled out of him.”

“I see,” the captain nodded. He glanced over his shoulder. “What about you,
Bohlen? What do you say?”

“We are short-handed anyway,” the sergeant shrugged. “If he turns out
to be no good, we can always put him at the head of the line, let the orcs solve
the problem for us.”

“A vote of confidence all round, then?”

Turning away, Harkner walked over to a large travelling chest and opened it.
Fishing inside, he brought out a parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink and took
them over to the table.

“All right, do you know how to write or should I make your letters for you?”
he said, setting the items down.

“I know how to make my name,” Dieter told him. “Father Gottlieb taught me.”

“Good.” The captain spread out the parchment, dipping the quill in the ink.
“Sign your name here. The rest of it is already made out.”

Dieter recognised the crest of the Count of Hochland at the head of the
paper, but the rest of the parchment was a mystery to him. He scratched his name
at the place where the captain’s finger pointed, the quill quivering in his hand
as he performed the unfamiliar task.

“Good enough,” Harkner said, inspecting Dieter’s handiwork. Putting the
parchment carefully to one side to avoid smudging the wet ink, he pulled a
drawstring purse from inside his tunic and took out a shilling.

“Do you accept the discipline of the Count and his subordinates, including
myself and my sergeants?” the captain said, the words evidently learned by rote
and oft-repeated. “Do you give yourself to the defence of his lands and his
vassals, such defence to be made at any cost, up to and including the loss of
your life? Do you accept the strictures of military service, said service to
last a period of not less than twenty-five years? To agree, you only have to say
yes.”

“Yes.” Dieter had thought forward to this day often. Now it was here, he felt
the hairs rise at the back of his neck.

Harkner held up the coin. It was old and worn, but even in the dim light of
the tent Dieter could see the Count of Hochland’s profile embossed on its
surface.

“There is a protocol to these things, boy. Even now, even though you signed
the paper, you can still back out. But from the second you accept this coin,
that’s it. You’ll be in the Count’s army. Understand me, you seem a good lad,
but there’s no room for kindly feeling in the army. If you fail the regiment,
I’ll come down on you hard. If you desert, or show cowardice, you’ll be
executed. Other infractions can see you fined, beaten, flogged, or even branded
with a hot iron. It’s a hard life. Oh, there’s glory in it for some. But,
usually, only after they’re dead.”

“I understand,” Dieter said. “But I know what’s expected. I won’t fail.”

“Brave words.” Captain Harkner stretched out his hand and offered him the
coin. “All right, we’ll finish it. Do you accept this shilling, knowing that you
are now a soldier? Do you swear, in the name of Sigmar and all the gods of the
Empire, to do your duty?”

“I accept it,” Dieter said, taking the coin. “I swear I will do my duty.”

“And what of you?” Harkner turned to Gerhardt and Bohlen. “Do you see this
act? Is it witnessed?”

“We see it,” they said in unison. “It is witnessed.”

“Very well. It’s done.”

Smiling, the captain turned back and held out his hand for Dieter to shake
it.

“Welcome to the 3rd, lad. Welcome to the Scarlets.”

Afterwards, as they made their way back to the others, Gerhardt tried to
explain something of the words the Captain had spoken.

“It’s an old thing, the wording of it,” he said, as they walked through the
camp. “They say it dates back to the founding of the regiment, when the 3rd were
granted their regimental charter by Count Mikael Ludenhof. Supposedly they were
the words Count Mikael used when he recruited a group of survivors from the
Siege of Hergig to form the Scarlets. But Helmut Schau must have told you all
this?”

“He did,” Dieter agreed.

By then, he was wearing a new helmet and breastplate, and carrying a shield
emblazoned in the regimental colours. Gerhardt had taken him to visit the
regiment’s quartermaster in the wake of signing his papers in the captain’s
tent.

The quartermaster, an acerbic old soldier named Stens, had also offered
Dieter a new sword, but he would not have given up the sword he was already
carrying for the world. It was a gift from his foster father, Helmut. A piece of
good, long Empire steel, forged by a swordsmith from Reikland called Huber,
allegedly a disciple of the master swordsmith Magnin. It was perfectly balanced,
razor-edged, and Dieter was well used to it. It was the weapon Helmut had
presented him with on his fifteenth birthday, when he judged him fully grown and
sword-trained enough to put the half-weight weapons and wooden wasters of his
childhood behind.

Helmut had started training Dieter in swordsmanship almost as soon as he
could walk. In those early days Dieter had harboured no ambition to be a
soldier, but Helmut Schau took the opinion it was part of a father’s task to
teach his children to defend themselves. For the better part of sixteen years,
he had taught Dieter everything he knew. They had started fencing with willow
switches when Dieter was just a toddler, progressing on to thicker lengths of
stick over time. From there, they moved on to wooden wasters, then blunt
half-weight training swords, and finally the real thing.

As the years passed, Helmut had taught Dieter the use of sword and shield,
the sword alone, sword and dagger, dagger only, and grappling. He had even
taught him the basics of long-hafted weapons, to guard against the day he might
find himself in a position where he was forced to pick up a fallen spear or
halberd to defend himself.

Increasingly, as their lessons progressed, Dieter had realised he wanted
nothing more than to become a soldier, to emulate the man who had raised him
with such care. Inevitably, when he considered a military career, there was only
one regiment that attracted him—the same regiment the man he considered his
father had once served in.

Today, Dieter had achieved his ambition. If he was left with one regret from
his meeting with the quartermaster, it was that he still did not have a uniform.
With scowling ill grace, Stens had explained they did not take a supply of
uniforms on campaign with them. There was already too much for the Scarlets’
baggage train to carry, what with provisions, camping equipment, cooking
utensils, replacement weapons, armour, and so on. Nor did they have any suitable
cloth to give to the seamstresses to make a new uniform for him from scratch.
For the time being Dieter would have to do with a feather to wear on his helmet,
dyed red and green in the colours of Hochland, and a grey and scarlet ribbon to
tie around his bicep, indicating his regiment.

“Anyway, there’s every chance it’d be a waste of time givin’ you a uniform,”
Stens had commented archly. “Seamstresses charge an arm and a leg for ’em. And,
for all we know you’ll get killed in your first engagement.”

Grudgingly, Stens had agreed to see if he could procure enough coloured cloth
to have a uniform made for Dieter. In the meantime, the new recruit would have
to do without.

It was a small matter, but to Dieter it was important. He would not truly
feel like a member of the 3rd until he had a grey-and-scarlet uniform like the
others.

“No doubt you are eager for action?” Gerhardt asked, intruding on his
thoughts. Evidently, he had misread the reason for Dieter’s silence. “I wouldn’t
worry. It could be we’ll see some tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Have more beastmen been spotted near the camp? Or orcs?”

“Not as such.” Gerhardt shook his head.

Around them, night was falling. They made their way through the sea of tents,
guided by the torches set at regular intervals throughout the camp. It was
Dieter’s first time with an army out on campaign, and he was struck by the
plethora of sights, sounds and smells all around him.

He heard the hubbub of conversation, the harsh screech of whetstone on metal
as blades were sharpened and armoured plates were scraped free of rust. He smelt
the mouth-watering aromas of meat roasting on a spit over an open fire. He saw
men of dozens of different types and regiments rubbing shoulders.

He saw spearmen, halberdiers, artillerists, handgunners, and archers. He saw
learned engineers, haughty knights, cocksure pistoliers, grizzled outriders,
swaggering free company adventurers and mercenary crossbowmen. He saw the entire
panoply of a provincial army and its militia auxiliary, ready to go to war. He
saw it all, and he felt a spark of pride to be part of it.

It was said the orcs worshipped gods in their own bestial image. Let their
gods help them, for the men of the Empire would not.

“General von Nieder has ordered the entire army is to break camp tomorrow
morning,” Gerhardt said. “We are to head further northwards. It seems like no
one knows for sure, but the rumour is the orcs are about twenty leagues north of
here.”

“So we are going north to find them, then?” Dieter’s voice was expectant. “We
are going to bring them to battle?”

“That’s the plan,” Gerhardt nodded. “But first we have to break camp. It’s a
thing that most people don’t realise, but an army is never more vulnerable than
when they are about to leave a fortified position. Take this camp here, for
example. It may only be a temporary encampment, but it has its own defences. If
an enemy attacked now, they’d have to negotiate the outer pickets, not to
mention facing an artillery barrage as they crossed the open ground to get to
us. For the moment, we’re as snug as a tick nesting on a cow. But, come
tomorrow, it’ll all be different. You see what I’m driving at?”

“You mean when we break camp we have to dismantle our defences?” Dieter said.
He was not sure whether Gerhardt was trying to test him or teach him something.

“Exactly. And that makes us vulnerable. Imagine an enemy army is sitting
somewhere nearby, watching this camp. The second they see us packing up the
camp’s defences, they’d know that was the time to strike. With the whole army
squeezed together in one place like this, we’d be an easy mark if it wasn’t for
the pickets and artillery. So, that being the case, what would you do about it?
It’s important you should learn this, because what’s true for an army also holds
true for smaller groups of men. Well, young blood? What say you?”