Short Stories From Marienburg
By Wissenlander Rudi stood at attention as the large corporal barked out commands. The rotund drill instructor paced to and fro vigorously reminding the men of their duties and the stakes of the action to come."Liven up, wet nose," the corporal yelled as his eyes locked with Rudi's. The corporal was tough on the youngest lads. It was his way of making sure they would do their job: fear in him over fear of the enemy. "Only sixteen summers, huh, pup," the corporal belted as he stamped and thrust a large pudgy finger into the young man's chest. "Pay attention, or this'll be the last summer you ever see. Watch each other's backs," he yelled to his command. "And watch where you jam these pig stickers damn it," he said while shaking the spear young Rudi held. "Make sure the pointy end goes into the guys not wearing your own colors."
"Hell, everyone's wearing different colors," whispered a grey haired man to the left of Rudi as the corporal marched off. "Even us."
-----
"Line up ladies," yelled Sergeant Wilhelm Neufeld. "Hurry it up. Those Sigmar forsaken press gang spearmen have already formed up. And here, the pride of Reikland stumbles. No Stirland militia will make a fool of us!"
The men within earshot let out a boistorous cheer and they redoubled their efforts to form a line of battle. The only reason Neufeld's well drilled regulars deployed slower is that the militia was sent ahead to take casualties if they were to come so soon. Neufeld knew this, but he also knew his men would not take kindly to being outmatched by militia.
The sergean'ts belly gurgled violently as a hunger pang stuck him like a dagger. He grabbed his stomach involuntarily and wondered how long it would be to his next meal.
"Three days already," he whispered as he looked to the left at the large block of spearmen. "Young and old. Farmers and convicts. Stirlanders," he chuckled to himself. "And not a scrap of armor to be found. At least we have that."
The sad truth was, to the nobles that equipped the militia, weapons and armor was expensive. Lives were cheap. And if the population was culled somewhat through glorious war, then all the better.
Neufeld spat as he thought.
"No man deserves that treatment. Not even Stirlanders."
-----
"Things are as planned, sire."
"Of course they are, Schweigert," responded Margrave Heidegar von Rittlesdorf. "If it had gone differently, I would have predicted such," he said with an ambivolent arrogance. "The hamlet has no protection, and we will take it within the hour. Just as I promised."
"Yes, sire," responded the adjutant.
"That is why I have such a pathetic force you know," the Margrave began without allowing Schweigert a chance to respond. "This little shit of a hovel is insignificant. If anything but a dusting of militia were needed to tak it, they would have sent someone else," he ranted indignantly, turning away from his aide.
"What about the 6th Reikland, my lord," Schweigert asked with some pride.
"Adequate at best," von Rittlesdorf mocked, not realizing or caring that the 6th had been Schweigert's regiment. "Nothing like my house's troops back in Nuln. Now those are soldiers," he beemed.
'And where were these soldiers,' wondered Schweigert. 'I doubt they even exist.'
"Oh well," started von Rittlesdorf flippantly, snatching Schweigert from his thoughts. "The mercenaries shall be up soon. I paid them well enough and I am sure they will be the best unit under my command," he smiled impishly at the thought of an elite shock force of his own. "Order the battalions forward. Militia first."
-----
Armand de Tortozolli leaned upon a large tree, arms crossed. He stood at the break in the tree line, a gaudy maroon and yellow beacon sitting juxtaposed against the dark green of the forest in which his men rested. He watched intently as the Stirland militia began its disorderly discent from the ridgeline toward the hamlet ahead. De Tortozolli's concentration was remarked as uncanny, and it was apparent as he was unaware of the man that walked up behind him.
"Excuse me, Captain," began a small man with an accent that marked him as Estalian.
"What is it, Alessandro," asked the Captain, in Tilean. Never once taking his eyes off of the militia.
"Sir," the man continued. "The arrangements are in place."
"Very good, Lieutenant," smiled de Tortozolli. "When the militia is engaged we shall fall upon the rear of the Reiklanders."
------
Uri Foldoska sat inside a small hut on the outskirts of the hamlet known as Krast. He looked through a small hole he had made with his dagger and watched as the motley Stirlanders ambled ignorantly toward him.
"What do you see, Uri," asked his younger brother Krysztof.
"The militia mostly," replied Uri. "I cannot see the Reikland halberds or de Tortozolli's men."
"The Tileans are forming in the woods to the rear of the Reiklanders," answered the younger of the brothers. "Both are behind the ridge out of view. Lieutenant Fanzino has informed me that as soon as we attack the spears they will strike the Reiklanders."
"Excellent," exclaimed the Kislev boyar with a smile. "Spread the word to the men. We will engage the militia at one hundred paces."
------
"By Sigmar you all are an unsavory lot of brigands," shouted the fat corporal. "In all my days in the old army, I have never seen such a-." His words were cut short as a dark shafted arrow struck him in the throat, causing him to gurgle blood from his mouth. He dropped to his knees and fell forward clasping his wound with his hands. As he rolled over, his eyes again locked with Rudi's, this time for the last as he choked on his own blood.
The regiment stalled as the first arrow struck the corporal. Only a week's worth of training was not enough to prepare the raw recruits for such a site. No amount of time could prepare them for that.
"Move forward, dammit," cursed the regiment's captain, a one armed man. But his words were silenced as he was struck down from his horse.
More arrows began to assail the Stirlanders as they crossed into effective bow range. Men shreiked as the arrows' light whistle thudded into flesh and bone. Men behind Rudi began to turn and run, but the old grey haired man to his left urged him onwards.
"It'll be alright lad," he said, barely before an arrow sprouted from his chest with a loud thwap.
Rudi let out a whimper as he wet himself and dropped his spear. In a full cry, he turned and ran as others around him did the same, arrows triking several before they could take flight.
"Get behind the regulars," one man shouted. "Let them handle this."
"Oh the gods," moaned another as a chorus of similar frustrations were heard as the Stirlanders moved over the rise.
Rudi soon realized the full extent of their horror as he crested the ridgeline to see the mercenary Tileans fall upon the Reiklanders, cutting them down like ripened wheat. With an exasperated wail, Rudi dropped to his knees in despair as an arrow struck him in his back.
-------
The Tileans rounded up the remnants of the Rekiland and Stirland regiments in short order. It did not take much to dishearten the starving men, and they quickly surrendered. Finding little value amongst the disheveled troops, the bored mercenaries began to put them all to the sword at the orders of Captain de Tortozolli.
"You son of a whore," began a bloody Margrave von Rittlesdorf. "Why did you do this!?"
"It is simple, senior," replied de Tortozolli with an evil grin as the sickening chorus of men dying in cold blood swarmed around him. "They pay more," he said mockingly. "And," he began in a sincere tone. "My people are aligned with the house Marienburg. It is unfortunate that you are too stupid to realize this." The Captain said something in Tilean and immediately two men grabbed the Margrave and another pulled a dagger from his belt and approached the nobleman.
"No, wait," von Rittlesdorf yelped as he tried to pull away from his captors. "I can pay a fine ransom."
"I am sorry," de Tortozolli responded indignantly. "You pay little before. I have little confidence in any ransom you could scrounge," he said turning away as von Rittlesdorf screamed. "The dirty business of war."
"The area is secure, Captain," reported Lieutenant Alessandro Fanzino. "Emperor Philip will be pleased."
"Yes, he will," responded de Tortozolli. "Now find the Kislevites. Make sure none leave here alive."
-----
Wulfric stood upon a hill overlooking the small hamlet of Volsheim. The rocky outcropping of boulders gave his men a good area to hide behind, but he stood tall and defiant. With his one eye, he could see blurry black dots down in the village, going about their daily routines. To him, the people looked nothing more than insects, and to him they mattered even less.
The old priest of Ulric spat and probed the fleshy socket that used to contain his left eye. The feeling, though morbid, never ceased to infatuate him.
“If you keep that up, old man,” started Baron Rolf Neferlaun, with a smirk. “I will relieve you of your other eye. I’m sure your right hand would enjoy the rest,” he commented with a rude jerking motion of his hand.
Wulfric grunted and paid little heed to the lewd joke. A freshly converted Hochlander such as the Baron did not know that such comments were better suited for the men in whom he commanded, and not to a leader of the god of winter, war and wolves. ‘He will learn very, quickly,’ thought Wulfric, but turned his attention to the village ahead.
The old man blinked and brought a field telescope up to his 'good' eye and scanned the settlement below. Passing over it quickly he snapped back to focus on the largest structure in the community.
“There’s the mill…and two barns,” he said shortly in a low gravely voice. “Do what you want to the village, but don’t touch those,” he said smacking the telescope closed.
“Wouldn’t dare it,” the Baron replied. “Even my belly gurgles. I can only imagine the pangs the men have.”
Wulfric grunted again as he digested the Barons comments. Any man who looked out for himself before his men was a dimwitted soul, in his opinion. It had been several days since he had eaten himself, refusing food, and his stomach gurgled violently. All of it was a way to lift the Hochlanders spirits, and they trusted him more than the Baron because of such acts.
“I imagine the dogs are hungry as well,” Wulfric said stolidly, ignoring the pangs.
“Well, yes,” stated Neferlaun confused. “They haven’t eaten in almost a week. I’m surprised the men haven’t set themselves upon the mongrels actually. Or the other way around. Too skinny perhaps.”
The Baron’s distain for the lower class of his men was not lost on Wulfric, who again, grunted. He wondered which party was too skinny in the Baron's mind, but cared little to find out. Though the man owned many hounds himself, he never had to handle them, and it showed. Wulfric was not surprised that the Baron did not realize the bond that formed between a man and his dog.
A thought ran through his mind quickly and then he spoke. “Release the dogs.”
“They are starving Wulfric. They’ll either turn on the men or devour those people,” he said pointing to the peasants below.
“I would not think you cared if either happened,” Wulfric countered sharply. “Just do it. It is the fitting end for Sigmarites,” he muttered as his lone eye wandered towards the shrine in the middle of the village.
The Baron whistled over his shoulder and waved his hand towards the village. Almost instantaneously a pack of starving hounds bounded down the craggy slope towards the peasants. Shrieks of terror filled the sky as the people heard the baying of the animals that mimicked the frenzy of a famished beast herd.
“Keep the men back, Wulfric ordered as he saw several dogs pounce on a small child who was only moments before at play. “They will get their fill. Then we move in,” he said pointing to the mill. “And then we get ours.”
The Baron turned away as the blood curdling screams of pain and terror rose increasingly.
Wulfric stood stoically watching the carnage below. The only movement he made to show that he was not apart of the stone he stood uon was his left hand. The eye socket fascinated him.