Tales of the Old World by Marc Gascoigne, Christian Dunn (ed) - (ebook by Undead) Page A

right. Bah! A
pox on all of them!
    By Sigmar, what was he doing lying here like a bandit, the rocks digging
through his padded brigandine as the distant hoofbeats came closer? A mere
brigandine! Where was his own armour? And his scalp itched enough to drive him
insane. Only the gods knew what manner of lice were in the lining of the
battered arming cap he’d been given. A steel arming cap! So much for the fine
armet which his squire, Henryk, had polished until it shone. So much for the
wonderful plumes, all the way from Araby, which his sister had carefully dyed in
the family colours. How proud of them he had been, even wearing them in his hat
as he travelled up to join his father. Where was the glorious war he was
promised?
    Despite the faint sounds of the approaching enemy, Otto risked a slight
movement, in quest of comfort alone of course, but a dislodged pebble clicked
against another. He sensed the hidden eyes of Lutyens boring into him. By the
Hammer, this wasn’t what he had prepared for!
    His mind drifted back to that journey of just two days ago. How different his
mood had been then! He remembered the final stretch especially. They had
travelled up and across open moor country, so very different from the fields and
forests of his home. It had been like chancing upon a new land, bathed in
sunshine, ringing with unfamiliar, haunting bird calls and the continual chatter
of water over countless rocky stream beds. Water, to his mind, far sweeter and
cooler than anything he had ever drunk at home. His heart had been as high and
as bubbling as the larks that rose to sing as their horses had passed. He
remembered that he had sung too, the old war ballads of the Empire. They had
made Otto swell with pride, as he had thought he would soon be joining those
illustrious ranks of legend. He had imagined himself charging head-to-head with
the knightly orders.
    So much for that! Here he was, baking on hot stones like a flat cake.
Lurking, lurking with a tattered handful of mercenary pistoliers, fully half of
them from outside the Empire. Even that fellow, Molders, the captain, had an
accent which sounded more than half Bretonnian. How could his father trust such
men? Trust them to reliably scout out which route the invading Bretonnian
scoundrels would take?
    Otto reflected that the Graf must be under terrible stress. His father had
been made ill, perhaps, by the strain of having to defend their glorious
homeland with only men such as these. Not a single knight! By Sigmar, what an
insult! He resolved to himself to strive all the harder to not let his father
down, to at least be a reliable pair of eyes and ears on this confounded
mission. He was certainly confident he was more trustworthy than that scurvy
Captain Molders. What manner of upstart was he to consider ambushing a
Bretonnian noble like this? Lurking to trap a man whose code of honour would not
permit him to flee even if outnumbered and who, if bested in fair combat, would
certainly graciously submit to honourable capture and ransom.
    Otto’s anger began to rise. No, by Sigmar the Blessed, he would not permit
this! It was his first combat and he was not going to enter it like a bandit. He
would behave honourably, even if these low sell-swords would not. He could hear
the hoof beats of the approaching Bretonnian party coming nearer. Abruptly he
rose to his feet and crashed through the shrubs to stand on the path.
    He stood straight and proud, sweeping the path with his eyes. The Bretonnian
knight was just down the track, the scarlet of his horse’s caparison dazzling in
the sunlight. Riding beside him on a shaggy pony was a rough, leather-clad man
with an eye patch, clutching a light crossbow, undoubtedly a local enlisted as a
guide.
    Otto raised his hand. “Ho, sir knight,” he began. The Bretonnian reined in,
his hatchet face looking startled. But it was the blur of movement to one side
which caught Otto’s eye. Just in time