03 - Call to Arms by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

walked with a natural
swagger as befitted their status, but their uniforms were hard-worn, even
threadbare in places. Their breastplates and the blades of their swords were
blackened, daubed with mud he supposed so they would not reflect the sun in
situations when stealth was needed.
    Dieter understood the realities of campaigning. He knew war was a harsh,
dirty business that bore little resemblance to the fine tales of the
storytellers and the balladeers. Still, he had idolised the idea of the Scarlets
since childhood. The realisation they were simply soldiers, no different from
fighting men anywhere else in the Empire, seemed almost disappointing.
    “Hoist says you are the son of Helmut Schau?” Gerhardt said to him.
    “Not his son. But he raised me. My mother died when I was an infant. Helmut
and his wife Marta took me in. They brought me up alongside their own children.”
    “A good man,” Hoist said. “Did you know I saved his life?”
    “Don’t listen to him,” Rieger interrupted. “Hoist didn’t serve with your
foster father, any more than the rest of us did. Helmut Schau was retired by the
time we joined the regiment. We only know of him because his name lingered on in
the tales of some of the old-timers.”
    “You are mistaken, Rieger,” Hoist shot back. “I remember the event clearly.
It was at the Battle of Tannesfeld—”
    “Again, another lie,” Rieger shook his head. “I have heard Hoist tell the
same story of the Battle of Tannesfeld more than two dozen times. Depending on
who’s listening, he claims to have saved the life of Helmut Schau, Captain
Harkner, Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the poet Felix Jaeger, or even the Emperor Karl
Franz himself. The story is usually followed immediately by an attempt to borrow
money from the victim.”
    “You know, you talk too much, Rieger,” Hoist frowned petulantly. “How’s a man
to keep himself in the style he’s accustomed to when you keep scaring people
off? ‘Oh, don’t lend money to Hoist,’ you say. ‘He’ll only go and spend it.’
    “It’s got so there’s no one left I can turn to when I’m a bit short.”
    “Have you considered I might be trying to save you from yourself?” Rieger
replied sardonically. “You borrow money easily enough, but it’s the repayment of
the loans that always gets you in trouble. What about that last tavern brawl in
Hergig? The one that left you invalided out of the regiment for a month? Wasn’t
that about money?”
    “Only peripherally,” Hoist sniffed. “Those bastard halberdiers had the
effrontery to suggest I’d been cheating at cards. Of course, after that, I had
to fight them. The honour of the regiment was at stake. Anyway, who appointed
you as my conscience? If I wanted a priest to be my confessor, I’d go find one.”
    “You needn’t worry,” Rieger smiled. “I’m not trying to save your soul, Hoist.
Nor dissuade you from further sin. That is a task beyond even our Lord Sigmar
himself.”
    The lead elements of the caravan had reached the perimeter of the camp. While
Gerhardt went forward to consult with the sentries guarding the camp’s
approaches, Dieter cast his eyes over the camp itself.
    The magnitude of the camp was the first thing that struck him. He had heard
the Count of Hochland had called up twenty thousand men, a sizeable complement.
Only now, confronted by the scale of their encampment, did he believe it.
    The camp was on a low rise, allowing him to take in much of its breadth in
one vision. At its outskirts the camp was protected by a ring of pickets,
sharpened wooden stakes set close enough together to deter the attack of enemy
cavalry, guarded by a mixed sentry force of handgunners, halberdiers and
spearmen.
    Reinforcing their efforts, Dieter saw that several cannons had been situated
at regular intervals in protected positions behind the pickets. All around the
perimeter, a wide corridor of the forest had been cleared, creating open
territory designed