Added to the Library:
http://www.warhammer-empire.com/library/tales/iron1.phpHello all,
This piece of work started life as a brief history of my empire army. Needless to say the thing has gotten steadily out of hand. As is the case with most of my projects.
I will post the background in small manageable parts so that you don't get prematurely bored with it (He says with fingers crossed)
Army link in Brush and pallet
http://warhammer-empire.com/theforum/index.php?topic=39846.0Part I
The Pieces move
Heinrich Voltz sat huddled under his grey winter blanket, his back resting against the wall of an old barn. Both his arms and legs still ached from the forced march of the last two days. He yarned and slowly stretched himself out of his slumber.
As he opened his eyes the sunlight of the new dawn shone from the glittering puddles of water that covered the cobblestone courtyard of the Manor house. The brightness of the sun light made him flinch. It had been a restless night for the men of his regiment and Heinrich wished he was back warm and dry in his own bed.
The storm had only abated a few hours earlier and everything was still waterlogged. Heinrich’s wet jacket stuck to his body like a second skin. His leather waistcoat and blanket had completely failed to keep out the rain. Heinrich shivered intensely and could feel the first signs of a fever. The young swordsman coughed before lifting the blanket back over his head. His vain attempt to escape reality and return to a state of slumber failed miserably.
His uniform was still only a couple of weeks old; yet it barely resembled the smart green and yellow tabard and troos he had been awarded upon completing his training. The knees and elbows of the uniform had already started to scuff and wear away. One of his knees even sported a patch that he had cut from his grey blanket. The proud green and yellow slashes of his uniform had faded to a degree where they simply appeared as different shades of brown.
During his swift induction to campaign life Heinrich had acquired a studded leather waistcoat at his own expense. The State of Stirland suffered from a severe lack of wealth, which meant that very few men were lucky enough to obtain a breastplate or any form of armour from the Quartermaster General. Many soldiers had to make do with what they scavenged for themselves as spoils of war.
Heinrich had, like countless others who enlisted into the Stirland State Army, been required to attain much of his equipment personally. Along with his studded leather jacket he had bought his huge, now waterlogged, blanket, a sturdy leather backpack, lantern, flint, polish, sowing kit, whetstone, skull cap and spare socks.
The soldier lamented upon spending a whole gold crown on the ravens skull he now wore on a brittle silver chain around his neck. The priest of Morr had promised that it would provide protection for evil spirits. Heinrich just hoped it would prove adequate protection against Sylvanias invading armies.
Huddled under the heavy blanket Heinrich thumbed his, now almost empty, money pouch. He had spent almost all of the six gold crowns he had received upon completing training. Most he had paid straight back to the hand of the Quartermaster General as payment for the equipment he needed. Had he been duped to sign up by the promise of six gold crowns? The simple answer to that was yes.
He had three copper coins left to last him until the next pay packet arrived from Wurtbad. With the State now in open war with the Undead, Heinrich would soon find out how far away that eagerly awaited day actually was.
The recruit frowned as he remembered the smile on the face of the Quartermaster General. He had handed back four of his six gold crowns as soon as he had received them. It was a common ploy by the Stirland Army. In this way it recouped much of its expended funds. The gold coins could then be offered to the next lucky recruit.
It was not like an enlisted man could refuse to buy this ‘vital’ equipment from the army stores. Attending the Regiments’ morning assembly with an incomplete kit was the fastest way to be flogged and thrown into the stockade.
After spending many water soaked nights feeling quite aggrieved by the situation, Heinrich had decided to accept his lot in life. The young recruit had come to realise that he was actually far luckier than many of men who served in Stirland’s Army.
As a cadet he had excelled during his training and as a result had been hand picked into the 14th Regiment of foot. The 14th was unit of swordsmen known across the Old World as the Iron Skulls.
The ‘Iron Skulls’ were unlike many other regiments in service. With the Scarlet Guard Halberdiers and Count’s Greatswords aside, very few others were so well maintained. Low morale was almost unknown even during times of dire peril.
All of this was down to the Units Commander, Baron Mikel Von Schroeder. The Baron personally supplied his swordsmen with their uniforms, shields and side arms.
Such actions did much to endear Von Schroeder to his men. Many of the Barons’ peers knew that he had inherited much debt along with his title. Despite years of campaigning and plunder he was not a rich man, even by the lowly standards of Stirland.
Baron Von Schroeder’s regiment were considered quite a rarity among the units that made up the core of Stirland’s armed forces for other reasons, beyond that of the quality of their equipment.
Many of the existing state regiments were armed with either half-pike spears or halberds. These units were much cheaper to equip and maintain than a unit of swordsmen, thus proving less of a demand upon the States already overstretched economy. Further more it was much easier to train the under-educated masses of rural Stirland in the ordered drill used by such units.
Swordsmen needed to be skilled fencers and were often romantic figures that hailed from the urban centres of a province. A recruiting ground that was very uncommon in the agricultural heartlands of the empire.
The regiment was further distinguished by the dark red kite shaped shields that they carried into battle. Each of the shields sported a skull motif that had been carved out of bone by craftsmen in Wurtbad. Despite all of his bellyaching, Heinrich was proud to be a member of such a renowned regiment.
Heinrich eventually forced himself to stand up and look for food. He shook the water from his blanket as best he could. It was then folded tightly and tucked through his belts so that it came to rest on his left hip. He ran his hand backwards through his short blond hair, flicking the water from it as he looked around.
Other swordsmen flittered around the courtyard of the walled manor house. The smell of breakfast was already in the air and the young recruit’s empty stomach ached in anticipation of his first proper meal in days.
Opening his backpack, Heinrich reached inside and fumbled enthusiastically for his tin dish and fork. Feeling his way through the many items that he had managed to stuff into his bag Heinrich was unaware of Corporal Steinman’s approach.
‘Not so fast soldier!’ barked the ill tempered Corporal. ‘Breakfast is for heroes Herr Voltz’
Heinrich’s head sagged and he let out a long sigh rather louder then he had intended. He looked up promptly to assess whether the Corporal had heard his protest. Unfortunately for the recruit he had, and a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and lifted him to his feet.
‘Seems to me that we have a slacker in our ranks’ announced the red faced corporal to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone in the courtyard to hear.
To Heinrich’s relief no one seemed to acknowledge Steinman’s outburst and simply continued with their morning tasks.
‘My apologies corporal, I only…’ stammered Heinrich, only to be cut off in mid sentence.
‘Get you equipment in order!’ barked Steinman, ignoring the soldier’s futile defence. ‘I need volunteers for reconnaissance duty.’
‘Yes Sir!’ conceded Heinrich with a salute.
His tone came across dejected even through he had tried to cover the disappointment in his voice. It was best not to give the Corporal too many reasons to reprimand him. Over the Steinman’s shoulder he could see that the men of his company had raided the nearby Chicken coup and slaughtered a pot bellied pig.
Heinrich realised that he would miss out on a relative feast. The young swordsman was somewhat crestfallen as Corporal Steinman passed him half a ration of dried meat. Dejected Heinrich shoved the dubious looking supplies into his backpack. He was surprised that soldiers could be expected to survive on such poor quality food.
‘Beef jerky... again’ he conceded silently.
Heinrich followed the plump corporal across the courtyard with his head down. His concentration was fixed on cramming his personal effects back into his backpack while getting his other equipment in order.
His sword, shield, belts, hat, skull cap and back pack all had to be checked and straightened. Every few steps Heinrich looked up to find the corporal had out distanced him. The recruit had to brake into a jog to keep up with Steinman’s brisk pace every time he fell behind.
Corporal Steinman came to a sudden stop a few yards from the door of the farmhouse, where two other men were standing. The look on their faces told its own story. It was clear that they too had missed out on the luxury of a cooked breakfast. Heinrich still had his head down and had failed to notice that the corporal had stopped until the last possible moment. Looking up he saw the back of Steinman only inches from his face. Heinrich threw himself off balance in and attempt to avoid crashing into the ill tempered Corporal and instead fell into the mud at his feet.
‘Up! Clumsy Oaf’ Shouted Steinman with a sly kick to the young mans chest.
Heinrich stumbled to his feet as quickly as possible to avoid any further punishment. He took up position beside the other two men and stood to attention.
‘Muller… Schilbaden’ Boomed Steinman pointing at each man in turn.
‘Take this… Fool… with you and scout the road ahead as far as the Rohrwald Forest.
The Iron skulls will follow you as soon as we are reinforced by the rest of Von Schroeder’s column.’
Kurt Muller and Albrecht Schilbaden nodded as Steinman continued.
‘And keep your damn eyes open! Recent reports from local huntsmen have it that small groups of Undead have been raiding as far west as the river Steyr. If you see anything, report back here, to me, immediately. Stay focused and for Sigmar’s sake keep your wits about you… Ok!’
‘Yes Corporal’ the three soldiers answered in unison.
*****
ANTON VON HELMBURG adjusted himself in his saddle with a long winded yawn. His long exhale was more a show of his apathy than an indication of tiredness. He turned to face his second in command, Martin Keats, who had drawn his horse alongside his.
‘Sigmar damn the world, patrol… Again!’ snapped Anton in a tone of utter disgust.
‘Yes Anton, It would seem so’ answered Keats with a sarcastic smile etched as always across his face.
Anton raised his left eyebrow and sighed before continuing.
‘It’s no wonder that Stirland finds itself in such a sorry state!’ Anton paused and gestured to the landscape around him with his hand. ‘When her noble youth is wasted on such menial tasks as this… The sooner I win my bloody spurs as a knight the better for everyone involved… Eh Keats?’
‘Of course cousin, of course.’ agreed Keats, as disinterested with his relative’s constant rambling as ever.
Anton Von Helmburg was a rash young man even by the standards of an Imperial pistolier. He was well noted amongst his peers for his fiery temper and stubborn attitude.
As was the case with most pistoliers, Anton’s father had funded the young man’s armour, clothing, equipment and even his mount. What set him apart from the other young nobles was the sheer quality of the items he displayed about his person.
His family was one of the richest in all of Stirland and Anton made no effort to hide this fact. He wore a grand dark green fur lined coat with gold leaf detail. It had been imported all the way down the River Reik from the ports of Marenburg.
His armour had been crafted by the Dwarven smiths employed in Altdorf. The gold trim and design of the breastplate was a thing of wonder, especially for a man that hadn’t even gained his spurs as a knight.
Anton complemented his grand attire with a red felt riding cap. The hat sported huge swan feathers, which had been dyed many bright and extravagant colours.
The young Lord Von Helmburg looked every part the rich and powerful nobleman. Underneath he was nothing more than a spoilt brat.
He hated Stirland for what it was. A poor backwater province that struggled to hold onto any semblance of its former glories. He hated every man of Stirland. He hated the lazy peasantry and common folk whose ignorance had (in his eyes) perpetuated Stirland’s demise. Contempt for the masses was not a rarity among the aristocracy, however Anton also deeply despised the incompetent ruling class. Sigmar curse them all for failing to recognise his genius, his military prowess and his steadfast devotion to the Sigmarite faith.
In truth Anton did have considerable assets, despite his best efforts to undermine them with his attitude. He was as skilled a swordsman as could be found east of the River Stir. He had mastered the art of pistolier warfare, and had shaped his command of arrogant hot headed nobles into a formidable fighting force.
Unfortunately his over zealous devotion to himself and his own career had done much to hinder his advancement into a knightly order. Anton Von Helmburg could not see past his own greatness and for this he hated the world.
The fourteen pistoliers of Von Helmburg’s command remained stationary upon the Praager Strasse road for several minutes while their commander put the whole world to rights in an extensive and agitated tirade. Only when Keats interjected did Anton’s rambling come to a close to an end. Needless to say the commander’s deputy was submitted to a choice collection of Stirland’s more colourful insults for this interruption.
The unit of pistoliers eventually started down the road towards their destination at the canter. Anton Von Helmburg assumed the lead of the column with all the pomp and ceremony of Karl Franz himself.
The horsemen disappeared down the track towards the small hamlet of Gablitz that lay on the eastern fringe of the Rohrwald Forest. The rest of Baron Von Schroeder’s force was making its way down the same road from Tenneck. The bulk of his column was still miles away and by eleven o’clock that morning was still over half a days march from where Anton Von Helmburg’s Pistoliers had paused for breakfast.