As the cart reached the edge of the ridge, the troll could be seen climbing
eagerly up the slope at the head of a sizeable force of goblins. Further along
the slope, the Scarlets were still engaged in close combat with the rest of the
goblin horde, but to Gerhardt’s eye the men of the regiment were far enough away
that there was little danger of them being caught in the blast.
“All right,” he said, once they had lined the cart up as much as possible.
“Let ’er go!”
Once the cart’s brake was released it began to roll down the slope, picking
up speed. Gerhardt waved a signal to Dieter.
“Now! Set fire to the oil!”
Touching the torch to the oil trail, Dieter watched for a second as the oil
took light. The flame sped on, following the cart over the brow of the slope.
Dieter ran after it, hoping to see the cart hit. By the time he reached the
place where the others were standing, it was clear their efforts had been more
on target than anyone could have hoped. The hurtling cart was headed straight
for the troll, the flaming oil trail racing to catch up behind it. Dieter saw
the troll lift its head to look at the cart in dumb confusion. Then, he heard
Gerhardt’s voice.
“Get down!”
Even as Dieter dived for cover, he kept one eye on the unfolding drama
further down the slope. Inspired perhaps by some misplaced predatory instinct,
the troll actually moved
closer
to the rolling cart, spreading its
monstrous arms wide to catch the cart and stop it. The flaming oil trail reached
its destination a second later, resulting in an explosion that made the ground
shake. The troll was blown to pieces, burning fragments of troll flesh falling
in a broad radius like some form of grotesque rain.
The explosion caused similar havoc among the goblins. Beyond the casualties
it created, it spread panic in its wake. Having received a fatal blow to their
morale when the troll was killed, the remaining goblins on the slope fled.
“We’ll have to put every piece of troll to the torch,” Gerhardt said, gazing
at the bloody pieces of meat strewn about the slope. “I hear trolls can heal
almost any wound, even if they get chopped to pieces. But fire is supposed to
work at killing them.”
Dieter was about to compliment Gerhardt on the success of his plan when his
attention was distracted by something else. As he scanned the landscape around
them, it became clear the entire greenskin army had been put to flight.
Initially, Dieter wondered whether the defeat of the troll had caused a general
panic that had spread throughout the enemy army, but a closer look at the battle
unfolding in front of him soon disabused him of any such pigheaded notion.
General von Grahl had unleashed his cavalry, he could see that now. Gazing
into the open fields below the slope, he saw the entire force of the
Hochlanders’ cavalry—knights, pistoliers and outriders—had been unleashed at
the orc centre of the enemy line in one cataclysmic death-or-glory charge.
Apparently, von Grahl had waited until the optimum moment to strike. It was
equally apparent the tactic had worked.
Everywhere Dieter looked the greenskin army was in full retreat. The
Hochlander pistoliers and outriders were giving chase to the enemy, but even
without them Dieter doubted whether the greenskins would have rallied. The enemy
appeared to be broken. And, with that thought came the dizzying realisation that
they had won the battle.
Peering down to the foot of the slope, Dieter saw a thin powerful figure in
full plate, riding a charger. As the knight pulled back his visor revealing a
hawk-nosed profile, Dieter realised it was Count Aldebrand. The Elector Count
was holding his runefang high in the air, calling out to the knights around him
as they cheered and exulted, celebrating their victory over the orcs. Hochland
had been saved.
It was entirely in keeping with his experience of war, Dieter decided, that
he and his comrades had been so busy with their own small battles that they had
completely missed the climax of the larger battle around them. In the end he
supposed that was the nature of the foot soldier’s lot. The knights claimed the
glory, while the infantryman did the marching.
Listen to me, Dieter thought. Only a soldier for a few months, and already
I’m turning into a bitter curmudgeon. I wonder what I’ll be like after twenty
years with the Scarlets.
He smiled to himself at the thought of it. Then, he went to join his comrades
as they celebrated the victory. All along the hills and ridges, he heard the
sound of cheering. It was good to be alive, he decided.
On days like these, it was good to be a soldier.
“They look so young,” Dieter said.
It was later in the day, and he was sitting on a rock by the side of the
trail, resting with his comrades as they recovered from the exertions of the
battle and its aftermath. While the army’s pistoliers, outriders and knights
gave chase to the fleeing greenskins, the infantry had been assigned to a
variety of less glamorous tasks, including mercy duty, acting as stretcher
bearers and serving in burial parties to give a final resting place to the
Hochlander dead. It had been hard, thankless work, but Dieter supposed these
tasks were as much part of being a soldier as the cut and thrust of battle.
Ironically, with the battle over and the orcs defeated, fresh reinforcements
arrived in the shape of several thousand of the newly-trained soldiers called up
by the Count’s muster. Dieter and his fellow Scarlets had decided to watch the
new men as they arrived. The reinforcements marched in double file along the
trail, weapons and equipment slung over their shoulders.
“Young, you say?” Hoist smiled at Dieter’s remark. “You should look at
yourself in the mirror, young blood. You’re the same age as most of these
babes-in-arms.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Dieter said. Looking back at the new recruits,
however, he found it hard to credit that he was the same age as the boyish faces
he saw before him. He had been a soldier barely a few months, but already he
felt years older.
“You have to say they timed it perfectly,” Hoist said, turning back to watch
the steady files of recruits as they marched past. “You ask me, there’s no
better time to join a war than when it’s just about over.”
“Over?” Rieger raised an eyebrow. “I never had you for an optimist.”
“Eh? What do you mean?” Hoist looked at him warily. “You’re not about to
launch into another sermon, are you? Something about how the war’s never really
over, Sigmar’s enemies are all around us, and so on, and so on. Please, Rieger,
we’ve just won a victory. Give the sermons a rest.”
“No sermon,” Rieger shook his head. “Just an observation. We’ve won a battle,
Hoist. Nothing more. The greenskins may be fleeing now, but they’ll be back.
Remember, we may have beaten them here, but large parts of northern Hochland are
still in their power. I suspect this might well turn out to be the beginning of
a long campaign. The war will go on.”
“Rieger is right,” Gerhardt nodded. He looked wistfully at the fresh-faced
ranks of new soldiers passing by them, as though the presence of the new
recruits reminded him of something lost and long ago. “I was just speaking to a
sergeant from the Fourth Hergig Spears. He told me Count Aldebrand has appointed
General von Grahl as commander of all his forces—not just his armies in the
field, but all his armies including every garrison, every newly mustered
regiment and even the new troops that haven’t yet answered the muster. Von Grahl
is a wartime general, he always was. If the Count has made him his foremost
commander, it means they expect the war to last some time.”
There was a brief period of silence between the comrades as they digested the
news. It was Rieger that broke the silence.
“I understand that isn’t the only promotion in the army. Is it,
Sergeant
Gerhardt?”
“You heard then?” Gerhardt grimaced. “I hadn’t expected the news to spread so
quickly, but I suppose that’s the army for you—the only thing soldiers can’t
do is keep a secret. Yes, it’s true. Sergeant Bohlen was wounded during the
battle. They say he’ll survive, but he’ll be out of action for a while. Captain
Harkner has appointed me as file sergeant in his absence.”
Overjoyed, the others huddled around him to shake his hand and offer
congratulations. For the first time since Dieter had known him, Gerhardt seemed
embarrassed.
It was strange when Dieter thought about it later, but in the aftermath of
battle everything seemed different somehow. Certainly he felt different. After
tasting defeat in his first battle as a Scarlet, it felt good that his second
major battle had been such a resounding victory.
Dieter had been part of that victory, as had thousands of other men. Some had
paid the ultimate price, sacrificing their lives for the sake of their province
and its people. Others had survived, hopefully to grow wiser and become better
soldiers.
Krug and Febel had been among those who were killed. Dieter had never liked
either man, but in the wake of their deaths he realised the bonds between
himself and the other men around him went beyond such questions. Whatever their
faults—and of those there were many—Krug and Febel had been Scarlets. They
had been soldiers, and they had died as soldiers, bravely facing the enemy.
Tonight, when the Sigmarite priests gathered together the faithful to offer
thanks that the enemy had been defeated, Dieter would make sure he would say a
prayer for Krug and Febel.
There were others who would feature in his prayers: dead Scarlets like
Breitmeyer and Rosen, his comrades like Gerhardt, Hoist and Rieger, his leaders
like Sergeant Bohlen and Captain Harkner. He would offer prayers for General von
Grahl and Count Aldebrand. He would offer prayers toward the success of their
efforts. He would pray they could keep Hochland safe, and that the greenskins
could be driven back into the mountains never to return.
Dieter had survived a great battle. He had hoped he had learned something by
it. Either way, come tomorrow, the war would go on.
From
The Testimony of General Ludwig von Grahl
(unexpurgated text):
And so, in the end, despite months of careful planning and the efforts of
thousands, the battle was won in a single moment.
Perhaps that may seem an exaggeration, but let me explain.
As any commander knows, a battle is a confusing, disorderly business. A
thousand small details may play their part in its outcome, often unexpectedly.
This is why it is always better to keep your battle plans as simple as possible.
In this case, it seemed as though my plans were working. From my position on
the left flank, at the head of the army’s contingent of knights, I could see the
enemy was beginning to falter. Weakened by the relentless fire of our archers
and artillery, the greenskin attack on the centre of our battle line had ground
to a halt. With the enemy starting to fade, it was only a matter of time before
the infantry pressed home their advantage and forced a rout among the
greenskins.
I thought victory was in my grasp. Then, my opponent showed his cunning.
It seemed Morgoth Ironfang had not committed all his resources to the battle.
Displaying a degree of forethought almost unheard of from an orc commander, he
had held back a sizeable contingent of boar riders. Apparently intending to use
them as a mobile reserve—in itself a novel concept among orc commanders—he
had positioned them some distance behind the rest of his troops so they were
kept out of sight of our scouts.
Signalling the boar riders forward once the battle began, Ironfang had held
back committing them to action until the battle reached its tipping point.
Realising that the orc forces in the centre of his battle line were about to
crumble, Ironfang ordered a massed charge by his boar riders directly at the
human infantry holding the Hochland centre.
Ironfang led the charge himself, seeking to rally as much of his army as
possible and push through our lines.
Meanwhile, from my position on the left flank, it was clear the battle had
reached a climax. Seeing Ironfang’s charge, I committed my own cavalry to an
immediate countercharge.
Realising its importance to the battle as a whole, I decided to lead the
countercharge myself. Count Aldebrand rode beside me, alongside his bodyguard,
at the head of a motley collection of knights, pistoliers, mercenary cavalry and
outriders. I had gathered together every mounted warrior at my disposal, but
still our cavalry strength was far outnumbered by Ironfang’s boar riders—never
mind the larger greenskin army.
Such is the way with all battles. We hope to achieve supremacy over the enemy
by subtle stratagems and incisive manoeuvres, but all too often it comes down to
a test of will. In the end, the battle would be decided by the elite of my army
versus Ironfang’s elite—brawn against brawn, steel against steel, with no
quarter given.
Let me tell you, I have now ridden to battle beside our Count, Aldebrand
Ludenhof, on three separate occasions—enough to hail him as one of the great
warriors of our age. Whatever my private concerns at the Count’s haughtiness,
his aloofness regarding his province and its people, I recognise in him a
kindred soul when it comes to the call of arms.
Together, at the head of our cavalry, we smashed into the enemy. The full
story of that conflict is a tale that will no doubt be told elsewhere in the
annals of our noble province, but it was as hard and brutal a fight as any I
have ever faced.
Sometimes, a cavalry charge will be met by a sudden dispersal of the enemy—
terrified at the prospect of facing cavalry an enemy’s morale will often falter,
leading to a rout. In Ironfang and his boar riders, however, we faced a more
formidable foe.