Tales of the Old World (14 page)

The captain was addressing Meyer. “Make sure they see you. Act just as if you
had contacted their real force. Don’t get too close, so that they stay confident
we haven’t spotted their ruse. You’ll not have trouble with their skirmishers if
you keep back, they’re only there to try to make sure we don’t get close enough
to spot their damned deception. The rest of us must get back to the main camp at
once. Sigmar knows, this will be too close!”

The ride out had set a hard pace; the ride back was punishing. They slowed to
a walk only where the going was so rough as to demand it, otherwise it was a
constant gallop. Otto, who had been disdainful of the pistoliers’ wiry mounts,
was forced to concede that even if the small horses looked rough, their
endurance was exceptional. His mind was filled with the face of the youth that
had been masquerading as the Duke—and under the Duke’s own banner! What
perfidy! He felt almost physically sick when he thought of the base nature of
the trick. Even now the Bretonnian force must be advancing unhindered, probably
by the southern route, as Molders had predicted, damn him! Otto shivered when he
thought of the implications for the honour of the Empire and for his father. How
wrong he had been! He looked ahead, to where Molders was riding, resolute but
seemingly unperturbed. A blush of shame coloured the young noble’s face as he
remembered his judgement of the pistolier captain. By the Hammer, what were they
to do?

The long summer dusk was just deepening into night proper when Molders barked
a curt command and most of the pistoliers wheeled off towards the south. There
were only six of them now, still pressing on towards his father. Some of Otto’s
old anxieties resurfaced. Where were the others going? Was he now riding with
traitors who would turn on him to ensure the news of the Bretonnians’ vile trick
never reached his father? Once more his hand toyed with his sword hilt and he
began to try and scrutinise his companions as best he could in the closeness of
the night. Each seemed entirely oblivious of him, silent automatons ploughing
through the gathering darkness. He was exhausted and his mind was whirling.
Would they be in time? Again he felt nauseous. How could a man fight with honour
in times like these? The jolting as the horse pushed steadily over the rough
ground seemed to shake him to the bone. Each shock from the saddle emphasised
the jarring of his thoughts: perfidy, treachery, failure, dishonour! By Sigmar,
they had to be on time! Instinctively he tried to spur his mount faster but the
horse tossed its head and whinnied in protest.

“Patience!” came Lutyens’ slow voice out of the darkness from Otto’s left.
“The horse won’t rush the broken ground in the dark.”

“Sigmar!” Otto hissed bitterly, “What kind of world is this, where even a
horse can act more aptly than I can?”

The nightmare hours dragged on, the ground studded with rocks, the miles with
self-recriminations and doubt as Otto desperately tried to picture where the
Bretonnians might have reached and their possible plans. If they successfully
pushed through the southern passes onto the flat lands along the Grunwasser all
would be lost! The Graf’s ill-assorted force of light troops, even stiffened by
his own household halberdiers, couldn’t face Bretonnian chivalry on the plains.
Chivalry! The word had bitter ring to it now. Would they be in time? Otto’s
thoughts whirled on. The pistoliers were supposed to be able to doze in the
saddle. He couldn’t have slept now for worry even if he could keep his seat.
Where was the camp? How much further?

The challenge from their own picket lines came suddenly and Otto almost cried
aloud with relief. They hastened to report to his father. “Fresh horses and
prepare yourselves to be away again at once,” Molders ordered before he
dismounted and strode into the Graf’s headquarters. Confused by a sense of
mingled anxiety and shame, Otto thought of returning to his own tent, but
instead he trotted after Molders.

The captain was sitting on a stool in the foyer talking hurriedly with Otto’s
father. The Graf paced in front of him while old Gunther served the pistolier a
hasty meal of bread and cheese. Otto studied his father nervously. His shoulders
were still squared and he stood straight but his face was drawn and his fists
were clenched. Once Otto would have bristled with indignation that a mere
mercenary captain should sit while his father stood, but now the young man just
waited awkwardly, the sick feeling in his stomach stronger than ever.

His father heard him enter and turned. “Sit, Otto,” he gestured to a stool by
Molders, “and eat quickly. Gunther, send word to Otto’s manservant to prepare
for his master to depart again quickly.” He resumed talking to Molders. “So, an
elaborate ruse! You were right to suspect them. We may just be able to stop them
if we despatch a fast force at once. I have the troops ready. It all hinges on
how far the Bretonnians have proceeded on the southern route.”

“If they have taken that route,” Molders said through a mouthful of bread,
crumbs falling from his beard. A twinge of Otto’s old resentment returned. Such
familiarity from a mere captain! The Graf showed no resentment, however, and
spoke, even respectfully, to the pistolier.

“No, they will have. You are right about that too, I am sure. Besides, the
Magister of Dreiburg is well placed to intervene in the unlikely event they have
swung north.” The Graf clenched his fists. “It is a matter of timing. I’ll send
ahead yourself and your men, two hundred of the Stirlander archers, all of the
hackbut men who have mounts, von Grunwald with his light guns and fifty local
horse. The Stirlanders will have to manage on foot or double up on horses;
they’ve done it before. You will attempt an ambush in the foothills. I have
alerted Dreiburg and I will follow you with the remaining hackbut men and the
halberdiers. We will take up a defensive position at Ravensridge, should you
need to fall back. If you are caught on the plain, it could go very ill for
you!”

“We must hope against that, my lord, but by my reckoning we have a good
chance of getting there.” Molders looked at Otto sarcastically. “The lads set a
good pace when their lives and booty depend on it.” The captain took a swig of
ale and, standing up, abrupt as ever, continued, “Right, swilling ale doesn’t
prime pistols. We’ll be off.” He stared pointedly at Otto again. “Besides I
can’t afford to fail you, I haven’t had my full pay yet!” He gave a strangled
noise that might have been a laugh and went out.

“Sigmar go with you!” the Graf called after the pistolier. Otto felt himself
flush at the memory of his mistakes as his father turned to him. There were
traces of worry around the Graf’s eyes but there was no reproach in his face as
he said, “You had best hurry and join them, my son. You will acquit yourself
well, I am sure. My thoughts go with you.”

Otto stammered, “I am… sorry, father.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry for my misjudgement.”

“We all misjudge things, lad. You are here to learn. Now go.”

“Thank you.” Otto turned.

“Otto, one other thing. Sir Guillame has disappeared, and so has your best
palfrey. I fear the two disappearances may be connected. Don’t blame Henryk. It
is I who should have ensured a stricter guard.”

This news stung Otto more than anything he had yet heard. “But… but he was a
knight, a man of honour!”

His father shrugged. “You can’t keep ward over the honour of others. Just
keep your own intact, son—and your hide! Now go and serve your Emperor and
your father.”

“Yes, sir.”

But Otto was perplexed as he left the tent. The man whom he had trusted,
looked to as an example of chivalry, had coldly manipulated him. Duped him! As
he made his way to join the pistoliers, he felt sick in his heart.

It was another tough ride and, in truth, Otto was weary to his very core as
they trotted through the darkness. This time they had a road to follow, albeit a
rough one, and Molders was driving his men hard. Otto rode at the front of the
column in the same group as the captain. To his discomfiture, even through his
tiredness, he noticed Lutyens was still his shadow. Now, though, the discomfort
wasn’t fear of treachery but bitterness that he could have been so wrong.
Lutyens was his chaperone—not to cloak some dark plot, but instead to look
after him, and he had needed him! The memory of Lutyens saving him in that first
action returned with the sharpness of a spear thrust and he squirmed in his
saddle. The whirling succession of tortured thoughts returned again: perfidy,
treachery, failure, dishonour! Above all was the incessant question:
would
they be in time?

His head slumped to his chest, Otto ground his teeth and left control to his
mount; the hill pony he thought, with another wave of bitterness, that could act
more appropriately than he, Otto von Eisenkopf, noble of the Empire!

The night wore on, measured out by the drumming of hooves, and the pounding
thoughts: perfidy, treachery, failure, dishonour! Would they be in time? Otto
looked to his side and there, sure enough, was Lutyens. The giant’s head lolled.
By Sigmar! He was asleep in the saddle! Otto had an urge to hurl his dagger at
him. How could he sleep? Otto’s fingers clenched the reins until they hurt.
Couldn’t they make better speed? The old notion of a traitorous Molders
deliberately delaying progress came back into his head. Angrily Otto forced it
aside, knowing it to be wrong, but a shred of the notion persisted. The young
noble cursed himself. By the Hammer, was he himself so shallow? Was he so base
as to hope for the imagined treachery to be true just so as to have the
gratification of salving his own pride? His world seemed to have crumbled; was
he now crumbling too? The hooves, and his thoughts, drummed on.

By dawn they were climbing into the foothills but the light brought no relief
to Otto. The sunrise hurt his tired eyes and as he looked back over his shoulder
he took little comfort in what he saw. The dust-shrouded column wound after
them, now slowed by the narrowed and steep road. The slower pace was bad enough
but Otto wondered, with a twinge of what felt disturbingly like fear, what was
going to happen when they did contact the Bretonnians? How could this rag-tag
force defeat battle-hardened knights? Boncenne may have behaved like some base,
fairground mountebank but he was an experienced general who had stood in the
lists against the most martial of Bretonnian nobility.

Who could they set against this formidable warrior? Molders, compensating for
his short stature with an aggressive swagger and that ridiculous beard? Von
Grunwald, head of an ancient noble family but a crank obsessed with the pack
horse-toted light guns he had designed? Himself, a young fool who had once hoped
for a commission in the Reiksguard and was now riding only with mercenary
pistoliers?

Daylight or not, the hooves, and the thoughts, drummed on: perfidy,
treachery, failure, dishonour!

Suddenly there was a stir. One of the advance scouts came cantering back
towards them. Otto tensed wondering if they had contacted the Bretonnians. Was
all lost, their opponents already descending into the plains? The man rode up to
Molders. He was breathless, his jerkin plastered with dust that had also
stiffened his sweat-soaked hair into absurd tufts. Otto edged his mount closer
to Molders to hear the scout’s report. The man was gathering breath. Was his
gap-toothed mouth a grimace of worry or a triumphant grin?

“Report man, for Sigmar’s sake,” Otto muttered under his breath.

“The valley is clear, captain,” the man grinned. “It’s the perfect spot for
an ambush. The track is quite broad, steep slope one side, more gentle hills the
other, but it’s only an illusion of openness. The river is swift and deep, a
formidable barrier to fleeing troops. Armoured men would never get across it.”

“Very good, trooper,” Molders replied. He turned and began quickly issuing
orders, marshalling his troops.

The road became steeper, winding up the rocky, wooded hillside. The sun was
shining strongly and the woods rang with birdsong but there was a tension in the
air and Otto noted nervous movements all around him as even the seasoned
pistoliers checked and rechecked their wargear.

At the top of the hill Molders gave more orders. “Von Grunwald, his guns and
the archers will block off here where the path climbs steeply to the hilltop.
The hackbut men will hold the steepest craggy slopes, yonder in the valley
centre. The pistoliers and the light horse will close off the rear and block the
Bretonnians’ retreat. They must keep especially well up slope bar some few, well
hidden, to signal when the last of the enemy pass. It is our best plan; we must
hope they don’t scout properly in their haste.”

Von Grunwald and his guns began deploying to cover the road up out of the
valley. Watching the old man working with his men unloading the guns Otto’s
anxieties returned. “This is an Empire noble?” he mused, bewildered, as he
stared at the short, wiry old man wearing only tattered hose, his face grimy and
his head crowned with an amazing shock of white hair.

Bewildered he might have been but Otto was still impressed by the speed with
which the troops deployed, and at such quiet determination and discipline. Even
if they were rough and ready, unpolished and mercenary by calling, they
certainly seemed apt to their work. Indeed it seemed to him that he was the one
out of place as he handed his mount to one of the local horsemen assigned to
keep their horses safely out of sight down slope, away from the line of
Bretonnian advance. All of his training had been to fight from the saddle and in
the open and here he was facing his second action, once more on foot, and once
more in hiding. Woodenly, Otto followed the other pistoliers down from the
boulder-strewn crest.

They descended into the woods that overlooked the valley but stayed well up
the slope, picking their way with some difficulty through the tangle. At one
point Otto looked down through a narrow break in the trees; even with his
inexperienced eye, he could see what a splendid site for an ambush it was.
Lutyens, scrambling alongside him, was grinning from ear to ear and Otto was
amazed to hear the normally taciturn pistolier whisper to him, “They are
finished! This will be butchery.”