You could’ve been my brother.
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‘Fill those gaps!’ bellowed the Reikland Captain, removing his feathered hat and wiping his furrowed brow with his sweetheart’s hanky.
The Tilean Crossbowmen had at last found their range.
The spearmen of the second rank stepped forwards taking up the position of their fallen comrades. Those wounded who could still move crawled back trough the legs of their friends, others lay whimpering, crying out for help, for a loved one, for their mother.
Petr saw the man before him fall, a heavy bolt striking him through the throat, his last words gurgled in blood. The dark-haired farmer’s son, loosened his shoulders with a brief shake as a hand tapped him on the back.
‘Move up Petr’
The spearmen prepared himself mentally before moving, his knuckles turned white on the shaft of his half-pike, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A steady step took him into the first rank and he locked his shield with those around him. His actions were deliberate, like second nature. The drill sergeants of the Helmgart mustering fields had done their work well.
Hours upon hours of drill had replaced Petr Ostburger’s natural instinct to run, with one that had made him step forward. He knew full well that Morr’s hand was ready to reach out again and take him.
Looking down the soldier realised his white uniform had been spattered with his comrades’ blood. His attention was brought back to the ensuing battle as a heavy bolt thumped into his shield, stinging his arm. The man to his right, gasped in pain, but did not falter.
‘you ok?’
‘No!’ he snapped gruffly, tilting his head left ‘struck my bloody foot didn’t it!’
‘Shoot straight you idol elf lovers!’ he added with a hiss.
More spearmen fell from the second volley and again replacements stepped forward to plug the gaps.
The heavy thundering of cannons could be heard to the left of the Halfpike unit. Petr’s gaze followed the arch of a cannon ball as it curved through the air. For a moment, part of the morning sun was eclipsed as the deadly hunk of metal passed before it. The whole thing was quite surreal, that a brutal instrument of war could seem so beautiful in one moment and so deadly the next.
The former farmhand knew the ball would find its mark as soon as it began its descent.
A cloud of red mist exploded into the sky as the mighty projectile ploughed into the ranks of the advancing Averlanders. Their fine yellow and black garments disappeared in a cloud of blood and body parts. They were his enemy, but Petr still grimaced as a cry of anguish reached his ears. He was amazed, when the Averland spearmen closed rank and continued their advance, their dead and wounded littering the ground behind them.
Another crossbow bolt slammed against his shield, numbing his arm again with lances of pain. Still he could not avert his gaze from the carnage in the valley below him. Handgunners from Nuln fired a ragged volley from further down the line and more of the enemy spearmen were torn apart. Petr was thankful when the morning breeze blew the thick sulphur smoke before his unit, obscuring his view.
‘I almost feel sorry for them’ Petr found himself saying.
They were once men of the Empire too, brothers in arms. The devout Sigmar had united the tribes together in friendship and blood, now his Heirs tore his mighty empire apart with the same force of will. Unbeknown to the Reiklander a tear ran down the side his face, leaving a clean line down his smoke blackened cheek.
‘Charge Spears!’ bellowed Captain Von Hassel hoarsely. There was a thump, thump, thump! as the first two ranks of the Reikland 22nd Halfpikes hammered the butts of their spears against the ground before lowering the points forwards. Once competed, the whole regiment raised their voices to the gods with a powerful ‘Huh!’
They must be getting close’ coughed the man to Petr’s left, the sulphur of in the gun smoke had dried mouth. He couldn’t see the man due to the position of his left shoulder, but nodded anyway to show his agrrement.
Between the crack of handgun and thunder of cannon fire, Petr could hear the footfalls of his enemy as the trudged up the slope towards him. Weapons and shields clanged on their armour as the approached.
They were close. However nothing but smoke and shadows could be seen.
Another crack of gun fire.
Petr blinked away the stinging smoke, when he opened his eyes, he wished he hadn’t. The Averlanders had emerged from the smoke at the run, their own formation broken by the continuous musket fire.
‘Brace!’
The Reiklanders didn’t need the command. Petr had already dug his feet in and bent his knees, He could feel the weight of the ranks behind him pushing into his back. As the Averland spearmen closed the distance, the Farmhand picked his target, A stout fellow sporting a rather elegant moustache.
Pulling his spear back slightly, he waited. The Averlander slipped and staggered on the slope, but regained his footing and continued on. Many others surrounded the man Petr had picked, but they no longer existed to him. The Reiklanders vision narrowed and he breathed out slowly.
Judging his time had come, Petr lunged forward with his spear. He had aimed for the fellow’s chest but as his spear lurched towards his enemy, the moustached man slipped again. The spear point caught him higher, above the eyes. The Averlander’s motion was taking him forwards and down, but the spear impacted the man’s forehead forcing his head back sharply. A loud snapping sound signalled that his neck had broken.
Petr withdrew his weapon, his stomach churning, fear building within him as more of the enemy closed. His second lunge clattered from a shield, his third went into a mass of bodies. The Reiklander had no idea whether he has scored another kill, but he was forced to duck as a spear passed over his shield rim. The sharp blade glanced off his helmet and away.
Black spots!
Sickness,
where was he?
Petr felt himself falling, but the pushing from the men behind him and a heavy clatter against the front of his shield managed to keep him upright as his limbs went limp.
The Farm lad’s head lolled around as he fought to stay awake, something warm trickled down his face. He could taste blood, but couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Cries of pain and terror filled his ears. He could smell blood, urine and worse, the disgusting smells of warfare mingled suffocating his senses.
Petr shook his head groggily in an attempt to bring his senses back, the effort sent pain lancing through his head. His stomach responded to the dizzying motion by emptying and the embattled Spearmen covered the foe before him with his breakfast.
He started to fall again.
Someone grabbed Petr by the leather straps of his breastplate, and fought to keep him up right.
‘Petr! You still alive lad?’ Klaus Ferdinand’s voice came through like a whisper. In actual fact his friend had shouted the question directly into his ear.
‘Petr for Sigmar’s sake answer me!’ his friend was getting desperate. If Petr was dead, he would have to let him fall and then trample over him to fill the gap in the shield wall.
The wounded Reiklander tilted his head back, blood was pouring from his head.
‘Aye!’ answered Petr forcing himself to focus enough to speak ‘Death can’t hurt this much!’
‘Ha! Give them hell mate!’ Klaus tapped him on his back, urging him to fight on.
Petr returned his attentions to the battle before him, he blinked away the blood and could now see that he was shield to shield with a cursing, spiting Averlander. His senses returned and he snarled, bellowing a score of profanities back. Both men were shouting themselves hoarse despite being as close as lovers. All along the line, enemies were pinned together in such a fashion, the press of bodies preventing them from wielding a weapon.
The Reiklanders soon gained the upper hand, their formation had remained intact, the Averlanders had charged in piece meal and so could not focus the strength of the whole unit in the push forward.
‘Forwards lads, Press the attack!’ Von Kassel’s voice rose again.
He was answered by another load ‘Huh!’ as the Reiklanders moved forwards. They began to raise their knees high and stamp down firmly as they advanced. The Reikland formation held and the Averlanders began to fall against the advancing wall of shield and spear.
Those in the rear ranks began to break and run, making it easier for the 22nd half pike to push the remaining Averlanders further back down the slope. Petr felt the pressure against his shield ease. He thrust forward instantly, using his shield as a weapon. A voice cried out and Petr saw the foul mouthed Averlander fall, he drove down with his spear, but found that it’s point had broken off. The shaft slammed against the fallen man’s breastplate, driving wind from the prone man’s lungs, but doing no further harm.
The unit continued to advance and Petr was pushed on towards his adversary. The man was on his back and he kicked out his legs attempting to heave himself away from the advancing wall of men. Petr dropped his useless pole arm and drew his sword.
The Averlander had drawn his own blade only moments before Petr made a low trust with his sword. The Reiklander’s blow was deflected clear causing him to overbalance. For a split second the Farm lad’s shield dropped to the left. A bolt whistled through the gap and caught Petr in the right thigh. He cried out and stumbled back. Falling as the rest of his unit was caught by the same volley of crossbow bolts. A score of men were hit, their white uniforms stained red by their blood.
The 22nd closed ranks. Another volley forced it to a standstill; a third forced it back up the slope. Petr heard the reply of gunfire as he squirmed in agony on the bloody ground. He was surrounded by dead and dying men, Averlanders, Reiklanders, enemies and brothers.
A great cheer came up from the Sigmarite lines above him. They had repulsed the Marienburg Alliance’s first assault against Merxheim.
Petr peered up the slope. He squinted through the sunlight as it reflected from discarded weaponry and caught him in the eyes. He could vaguely see hats being tossed above the heads of the Reiklanders and Nuln Handgunners about a hundred yards away on the brow of the ridge. The thumping of spear shafts against shield accompanied the cheering voices.
Petr smiled, despite the pain in his leg.
Victory!
A shadow appeared above the wounded spearmen
I’ll wipe that god damn smile from your face!’
Petr looked around and saw the silhouette of a man pacing towards him from out of the sun light. He noticed the individual’s yellow and black uniform a moment before a heel came down onto his wounded thigh. Petr cried out in pain his back arching in agony bringing him up into a sitting position.
The Averlander caught him by the neck. ‘Filthy whoreson Reiklander!’ he spat!
Petr’s eyes locked with his aggressor’s, his stare defiant.
‘Go to hell, you elf loving turncoat!’ He replied swinging his right arm and catching his foe square in the nose. Blood gushed from the wound and the surprised Averlander stumbled back into a standing position. The bloodied man took a few steps back holding his face, Petr looked around desperately for a weapon. He realised that his sword had fallen from his grasp when he was hit by the crossbow bolt.
A wave of dizziness hit him, fatigue and loss of blood taking a serious toll on his body. Pain lanced again from his thigh and looking down Petr realised the Averlander’s kick had dislodged the bolt, more blood was spilling for the wound. Petr reached towards it with his right hand.
A heavy blow caught him in the chest winding him and sending rolling through the bloodied ground. His enraged foe had taken a run up and kicked him hard. Petr was face down, spluttering and trying to take a breath as another kick caught him in the gut.
Pressure behind his eyes, felt like his brain was going to explode. His face turned red and blood trickled from his nose and ears. He opened his eyes and found his was facing skywards. The Averland stood over him and smiled, he bent down and punched the prone Reiklander in the face.
More black spots!
He could feel the man’s breath against his face. ‘My name is Philip Merhtelder and I’m the man who killed you’
Petr was delirious, he felt the man’s hands around his neck. The Reiklanders own arms were heavy. He hit the man with his left, but the Averlander simply laughed.
Petr was slipping away. With his last ounces of strength he made to clobber this Philip Merhtelder with his right arm.
He swung.
The Averlander bellowed in pain and the pressure around his neck relented instantly.
Blackness consumed him.
Petr’s eyes opened slowly, the sun was much higher than he remembered. His vision was burred and it hurt to look into the brightness of the sky. He turned his head slowly to his left. The air stung his lungs as he breathed, throbbing pain in his leg reminded him of the terrible wound he had received.
His focus came back in waves and he found he was looking into the eyes of another man. His face not unlike the one he saw when peering into the waters of the Reik. The stubble on his face familiar, his hair dark, his eyes grey.
‘Philip Merhtelder’ whispered the Reiklander.
It all came back to him, the battle, the press of shields, the crossbow bolt and his desperate fight with the man opposite him.
Petr remembered being choked, his hand came up to his neck slowly and he flinched as he touched the raw flesh around his throat.
All that hate from a man who look much like he did, who spoke the same language and worshiped the same gods.
A brother.
Petr’s energy was waning, his hand moved slowly towards his enemy’s eyes and he closed them gently. As his hand moved down towards the Averlanders neck, Petr finally noticed the crossbow bolt lodged fast behind the man’s windpipe.
Realising what had happened he spoke his last words in a whisper.
‘Philip Merhtelder, my name is Petr Ostburger, and I’m the man who killed you.’
