Short Stories From Marienburg Vol. II
By Wissenlander“Fire by file at two hundred paces,” barked out an Averlander sergeant. “Present! FIRE,” he yelled bellicosely over the din of battle.
From right to left, the company of Averland handgunners, formed in two lines, fired a prolonged cascade allowing for a continual rate of fire. As soon as the first men fired, they reloaded while the men down the line went in order. By the time the line was finished the first was ready to fire again, repeating the process in short order.
“Keep it up,” bellowed the sergeant, his words barely audible over the booming racket of the handguns. “Keep those Hochlanders off our boys.”
“Damn it,” yelled a fresh faced young man as his file fired. “I’ll be deaf by the time this campaign is over. If I survive,” he said with veteran insight far past his youthful appearance.
“What did you say, Hans,” questioned a white bearded man to Hans’ left who had seen many a fight. Hans never could remember his name.
“Proved my point, old man,” the boy muttered as he continued to reload. Finishing up, he pulled the hammer of his weapon back into the cocked position and brought his weapon to his shoulder and pulled the bulky trigger. The match sprung forward and hit the flash pan and with a mini explosion, the gun kicked back into his frame, belching a large flame from the muzzle.
“How in Sigmar’s name are we supposed to see what we’re hitting,” he wondered to himself as he sat shrouded in a white puff of smoke.
“What,” shouted the white beard to Hans’ left?
“Nothing,” countered Hans, frustrated.
“Cease firing,” shouted the sergeant, pacing behind the firing line. A bugler pursed out the tune of the cease fire command so the company could hear. A drummer would have been useless, the taps sounding little more than racketry itself amongst the confusion.
“I wonder what the hell is going on out there,” asked Hans in nervous anticipation.
“Hopefully we routed them,” answered the old man.
Hans could hear the ramrods of his company working quickly as they readied for what was yet to come. As Hans’ ears adjusted from the ringing, he could hear the clash of steel and the unending roar of men shouting, screaming, dying. The whiny of terrified horses pierced the constant hum like no other sound until a cannon fired, and then another. ‘They made the muskets sound small in comparison,’ he thought to himself.
It was all very eerie to the young man, who had never seen a large fight before. His company stood mired in the fog of war, apart of the battle, yet detached. Visions of nightmares as a child danced through his head.
“Chaos,” he whispered.
A low rhythmic thumping rattled out past the smoke screen the company of Averlanders had provided just moments before; bringing Hans back from his vision. At fifty paces, shadows that mimicked ghosts marched in unison towards the company.
“Charge…spears,” shouted a haunting voice through the smoke. A large chorus followed with a “HUT!” And in an instant the mirage of spears falling into combat positions cleared as a gust of wind swirled the smoke into a spiral, revealing a block of red and green clad men.
“Sigmar’s balls,” stammered Hans, as other men shouted more blasphemous and profane messages to the sight of the approaching Hochlanders.
“Steady men,” responded the sergeant. “Volley fire at thirty paces, present,” he shouted, his voice showing no alarm. “FIRE!”
Hans shut his eyes and braced for the impact as all of the handgunners fired a deafening volley. Cries of agony burst into the air, as some of the shots had hit their mark. The ringing of Hans’ ears could not muffle those horrid sounds.
He quickly thought to himself that the battle never slowed down for him like all the veterans had said it would. The sergeant’s pause to wait until the Hochlanders reached the thirty paces went by far to fast for his liking. He had hoped perhaps they would be swallowed up by the ground instead of him having to look a man in the eye as he shot him down.
“Independent fire,” ordered the sergeant, who pulled out a pistol and fired himself. “Fire at will!”
Hans finally opened his eyes, to see the Hochlander advance wavering, as the banner toppled and the first rank rendered to a bloody mess. He nervously fiddled with the ramrod trying to pull it from its home, and then realized that he had not placed a bullet. He dropped his ramrod quickly and fumbled through his cartridge pouch.
“Calm down, boy,” the old man commanded. “Remember your training.”
Hans nodded as his heart felt as though it would leap out of his chest. He found the bullet he was looking for, a round smooth lump of lead and placed it within the barrel. He knelt and grabbed the ramrod quickly, snatching several long strands of grass along with it, and rammed the bullet home. He then lowered his gun and pulled the powder horn from his side and poured enough to fill the flash pan. As he did, he heard the order of “CHARGE” from the Hochland ranks. With drilled precision he pulled the hammer back on the handgun, brought it to his shoulder and pulled the trigger from a kneeling position.
With a weird ping, the bullet jettisoned a fiery belch, evicting the ramrod that still resided within the barrel. Hans could vaguely see through the smoke, but at ten paces he witnessed a man fall, clutching his face, the ramrod protruding like an arrow.
“Oh…damn,” Hans marveled, as the man behind him fired off a shot that hit the regiment’s captain. “What the hell do I do now,” he shrieked, realizing his gun was now useless as the Hochlanders swarmed the Averland position.
“Use that damn thing as a club, boy,” berated the old man still standing as he fired off his shot into a man that launched himself at the prone Hans. The Hochlander did not even make a sound as the wind rushed out of his lungs.
“CHARGE,” bellowed the sergeant, in a show of pointless gallantry, as the Hochlanders had already consumed the Averlanders.
Hans shook his head and processed what the old man and the sergeant had said, and as he began to come to his feet a sharp pain ripped through his left shoulder. He cried out in pain as his hands clutched at a spear shaft that dug deep into his flesh. Unable to move from the pain, Hans froze and instead of finishing him off the Hochlander drew his sword and moved on to the old man who swung his club like a Norseman’s axe.
Hans’ mind faltered again, as a surreal haze engulfed him and he fell to his side. Had he really been stabbed?
The regiment of Hochlanders pushed back the small company of handgunners who dropped their weapons and either surrendered or fled. Hans witnessed the event through the legs of the combatants, as if an army of trees were moving about him, but this time it was all in slow motion.
“There’s the slow motion,” he smiled to himself as he looked upon dead men from both sides as they now lay together. A since of peace and silence came over him as he looked about, increasingly confused, for the cries of the wounded and dying could not penetrate the fog that wrapped around his mind. Still clutching the shaft of the spear, Hans turned on his back, looking up at the grey sky. He tried to pull at the spear, but cried out in pain instead and blacked out.