Tales of the Old World (15 page)

“We can hold back armoured knights?” Otto panted.

“Here,” the giant replied, “here we won’t hold them, we’ll destroy them!” He
gave Otto a pat on the back which almost knocked him down the slope.

“But if they scout ahead?” Otto feared that the worry he felt might sound in
his voice but Lutyens just grinned more broadly.

“When have Bretonnians ever scouted properly? They ride into battle as brazen
as Marienburg harlots. Besides, they will feel they have no reason to. They
think they have duped us. It takes more than some gilded duke to fool old
Molders though!”

Otto was amazed at the affection in the big man’s voice as he spoke of his
captain. But he had little time for reflection as he scrambled up the steep
slope, his hose tearing on the brambles, branches scoring his face. He was
almost trembling with exhaustion before, quite some distance higher, they came
on Molders directing his forces down the steep, wooded slope to their final
hiding place. The captain was jammed, seemingly at ease, in against a tree
trunk, beard thrust out, his arms a jerky windmill of action as he signed his
men into position. Where did these men get their endurance?

“Get comfortable,” Lutyens advised him as they reached their allotted
position. “And watch out for the ants!” The memory conjured up by the jibe stung
even more than the ants had. Otto found a likely spot, settled down and began
the wait.

Hours dragged past. As Otto brushed a fly away from his face yet again, he
was glad he had taken Lutyens’ advice and found a comfortable spot. Nestled
behind the roots of a fallen tree, he was well hidden and could shift his
position easily and without danger but it was still sweltering and it seemed as
if he had been stuck here for days, not just hours.

The waiting cast a gloom over him. The nausea he had felt back at his
father’s tent was back. He lay listless, staring up at the shifting patterns of
sunlight streaming down through at the waving screen of leaves. It bewildered
him and made the sick feeling worse. The whole world bewildered him now. He was
dog-tired but as he carefully rolled over, turning his eyes from the light, he
knew he couldn’t sleep. What if this was a mistake too? Had the Bretonnians
really taken this route? He thought of their trickery and it depressed him. He
thought of Sir Guillame stealing his best horse and fleeing like a common
soldier, and his gloom was mixed with shame and anger.

More hours seemed to pass. He stared at a beetle crawling along a tree root.
It was all right for the beetle, it just crawled around and did, well, whatever
beetles did. It could live its life as it ought. But what about him? How should
he live his life? What had happened to the rules and codes he had learned and
loved? How could he live with honour? Eventually, as the time crawled past,
these feelings turned into self-pity, as Otto remembered his joyful anticipation
of battle as he rode up to join his father. Five days ago, or five years? A vast
gulf at any rate. Where were the fine plumed armet and shining plate he had
imagined? No lance by his hand either, but a clumsy wheel lock pistol. Sigmar
save him! It had come to this, lurking again. His second ambush! Two actions,
both sprung from skulking. He almost let out a bitter laugh but choked it back
just in time.

Otto saw Lutyens’ head turn. The blonde giant was wedged in what seemed like
a tortuous position, yet he hadn’t moved once. Otto expected a reproachful glare
over his choked laugh but Lutyens didn’t even look at him. He was concentrating
on something else. Otto listened, straining to hear above the noise of the
river, and eventually caught, faint but unmistakable, the sound of horses’
hooves and the jingle of harness. His tiredness vanished instantly; he started
to peer around the roots of the tree but Lutyens shook his head. The young noble
felt the tension in the pit of his stomach. His pulse raced. They waited.

Were the Bretonnians just an advance guard? Had they sent squires to scout
the steep slope? The faint noises continued. The minutes passed. They waited.

Lutyens looked as if he was dozing, confound the man! The noise of the hoof
beats got louder. Was this the main party? Still no noise of alarm. They waited.

Otto’s hand strayed to his pistol and closed on the grip. The sound of the
unseen Bretonnians’ progress continued. Still they waited.

Suddenly it came: the notes of a Stirland hunting horn drowned almost
immediately by crashing blasts. Von Grunwald’s falconets, Otto assumed. Lutyens
was on his feet and skidding down the slope. Otto rose but almost tripped over
his own stiff legs. Cursing, he plunged after the pistolier. The gorge now
echoed with shouting men and neighing horses. On the right there was a
continuous cracking as the hackbut men rained fire down on the unfortunate
Bretonnians.

Otto was dimly conscious of other men charging downhill but through the
tangle of trees and boulders he could see little. He tripped again, rolled and
scrambled up. The noise all seemed to be ahead of him now. He skidded on towards
the shouting and clash of fighting but was brought up on the edge of a crag far
too high to jump. Down through the greenery he could catch glimpses of combat.
Cursing again, he tried to make his way around the top of the crag.

There was a great crashing sound and a blood-stained figure appeared,
struggling up through the trees. Otto stared into the wide eyes of a young
Bretonnian squire. The squire fumbled with his bow. Otto raised his wheel lock
and pulled the trigger. Nothing! Blast it! He hadn’t cocked the weapon. The
squire had an arrow nocked as Otto, yelling with frustration, hurled the pistol
at him. The heavy weapon hit the youth full in the face and with a cry he
staggered back. Otto, sword drawn now, lunged after him but the squire had
tripped on a rock. The man clutched vainly at the branches, and screaming, fell
over the crag. Otto bent to retrieve his pistol. His hands shook slightly as he
wound back the lock.

Sigmar!
What kind of war was this?

When Otto finally burst out of the thick undergrowth at the edge of the road
he could scarcely believe his eyes. A heaving mass of mounted men had been
hemmed in against the river by the Empire forces. Molders’ men were scrambling
over a mounting wall of dead horses and men to get at the Bretonnians, who
seemed scarcely to be putting up a fight at all. Some of the pistoliers were
lifting spears from their dead enemies, that they might better goad the seething
whirl of panic-stricken men and horses towards the torrent gushing behind them.
Otto, horror struck, just stood and stared, his head ringing with the shrieks of
the dying men and horses, the reports of pistols and the strident cries of the
pistoliers and their local allies. This butchery could not be battle! How could
a man of honour fight like this?

Further up the path, the situation was different. The hackbut men were well
protected by the crags that lined the road at that point and could fire down on
their opponents almost with impunity. This very protection, however, meant that
they could not press the Bretonnians so closely, and amongst the milling crowd a
more purposeful wedge of cavalry was being formed. A leader of authority was
gathering his most experienced knights and rallying them to attempt a break out
back along the road. In the confined space and press of men there was scant room
to use their lances, never mind charge, but with determination born of hardened
experience and desperation they fought their way along the road. Otto could see
the line of Empire troops buckle. Shaken into action, he rushed to aid them.

“Sigmar and the Empire!” he yelled, entering the fray.

Almost at once he was in trouble. Knocked backwards by a blow from a lance
shaft swung like a club, he narrowly escaped the flailing hooves of a knight’s
horse. The pistolier next to him was not so lucky and a hoof glanced off his
burgonet bringing him to his knees. Seemingly frozen, Otto realised the felled
pistolier was Captain Molders. With what seemed like unearthly slowness, Otto
watched the knight raise the brass-bound lance haft. He recognised the arms on
the surcoat as those of the Duke of Boncenne, himself. A wheel lock flashed;
with amazement, Otto realised that it was he himself who had fired. The shot
missed the Duke but felled his mount. The world sped up once more as Otto,
consumed with rage, charged his foe.

The Duke’s horsemanship was superb and he was out of his stirrups and saddle
and leaping to his feet even before his dead mount had crashed to earth. He
flung the broken lance at the still reeling Molders, knocking him flat. Then he
swept out his sword and leapt at Otto.

“Base cur!” the young Empire noble cried as he aimed a vicious thrust at the
man’s head. “Are you warrior or charlatan to resort to such trickery?”

The Duke was a skilled and powerful warrior, and he blocked Otto’s thrust
with ease, riposted and knocked the young noble back. Otto just kept his footing
and the Duke, following up his own thrust, slipped in turn. He regained his
balance but had to step back and for a moment the two opponents stared at one
another. The Duke’s face was as blank as the plates of his armour, his hard,
dark features hardened yet further by the steel frame of his helm. The thin
moustache and thinner lips seemed graven on his visage and, along with the stiff
guard the Bretonnian had adopted, gave Otto the momentary but disconcerting
impression that he was facing some form of animated, metallic statue.

“Base cur!” Otto repeated. The Duke made no reply but suddenly lunged forward
in a lightning attack. Otto did well to turn or dodge the flurry of blows but
was unable under this relentless storm to press his own attack. The young noble
burnt with righteous indignation but, even through his fury, he realised the
danger of this awesome warrior and the need for calm and concentration. The
noise and confusion of the rest of the battle had faded, leaving Otto facing his
enemy in a private miniature world as wide only as the stretch of their blades.
Otto regained his rhythm but against the power and longer reach of the taller
Bretonnian was able only to keep up a stout defence.

As he parried blow after blow, the young noble, lighter armoured though he
was, began to be conscious of his waning strength as the strain of the past days
caught up with him. The Duke seemed to sense it, too, and pressed his attack
even more relentlessly. Thrust followed thrust and Otto was driven back, away
from the main action. Using every shred of his skill, Otto turned the attacks
and desperately strove to find an opening for his own blade. He was breathing
heavily and realised he could not long maintain his defence. Pushed back, step
by step, he strove to maintain his concentration on the Bretonnian’s lightning
blade. Focused on his opponent he failed to see the dip behind him and suddenly
pitched backwards, landing winded, his sword clattering away across the pebbles.
He stared helplessly up as the Duke, face still impassive, stepped over him,
changing his grip in readiness to drive his blade down.

There was a gasp of pain but it was the Duke who cried out as a giant,
gauntleted fist smashed into the side of his head from behind. The Bretonnian
crashed over and frantically scrabbled for his sword as he stared up at Lutyens,
who had pulled a wheel lock from his sash and levelled it at the knight. The
shot cracked but flew wide as Otto struggled up and knocked the pistoliers arm
aside.

“No, Lutyens, I will finish this… to my code,” the young man panted. Pointing
to the fallen Bretonnian with his recovered blade, he put what strength he had
into his voice and commanded, “Rise and defend yourself, de Boncenne!”

The Duke lifted his own sword and rose. He face was still blank but, as he
resumed his attack, his thrusts seemed to have lost some of their power. Whether
it was due to Lutyens’ blow or shock from his young opponent’s actions, he was
definitely less resolute in his offence.

Otto, despite panting with near exhaustion, realised he had a chance.
Desperately he gathered his strength and smashed a thrust aside far harder than
he had done before. Feinting quickly, he stepped back a pace and, wielding his
sword in two hands, swung it around in a great circle, and hewed the head from
his enemy with one blow. His face splashed with hot blood, he barely registered
his victory. He recovered his swing and raised his sword for another blow,
before swaying and collapsing, saved only from toppling over the lifeless body
of his enemy by the strong arms of Lutyens.

The huge pistolier dragged Otto to the shelter of some large boulders and
prepared to defend him. With the death of the Duke, however, what little fight
there had been in the Bretonnians was gone. Some few of the determined knot of
men which the Duke had rallied had broken through and spurred back down the
road. Some others, lightly equipped squires, had somehow swam across the river
and were fleeing away over the hill to the other side, but very few. It had
been, as Lutyens had predicted, butchery.

Otto gradually came to his senses. He was propped against a boulder and
looking out on a river where a raft of drowned men and horses had jammed against
jutting rocks. Struggling to recall what had happened he turned to the bank and
saw hackbut men laughing, already stripping the dead.

He looked himself up and down. He was drenched with blood and wondered
vaguely if was it his own. He felt a sudden rush of weakness and leant back
against the warm stone, staring down at his bloodied sword.

Gradually, Otto remembered his struggle with the Duke and looked to where the
crumpled body of his foe lay. So this was victory. So much for honour!

Dazed, he struggled to stand up, leaning heavily on his sword. He remembered
Molders and Lutyens and wondered what had happened to them.

He found them sitting by the river, Lutyens bathing his captain’s badly
bruised head with his soaking neckerchief. Molders looked pale and rather dazed
but otherwise fine; at any rate, his chin was still thrust firmly forward.
Lutyens looked up, grinning again; action obviously improved his spirits.
Addressing Otto, the big pistolier said, “You look more stunned than the captain
and your head is intact!”