Margrave Olger Hawk looked at me with a peculiar gaze, the kind of gaze that seasoned and world-wise men reserve for promising youth who nonetheless propose some questionable nonsense.
— So, a detachment, is it? — he clarified thoughtfully.
The office in which Olger Hawk received us hardly matched his high status. It was a small, poorly lit room deep within one of the watchtowers. It smelled damp here. A portrait of Karl Franz hung above an antique-looking writing desk. This was probably the work of some not-very-talented artist from the backwoods. The expression on the Emperor's face was extremely difficult to interpret: either it was a look of angry displeasure, or some vital part of his body was pinched by his armor.
The Margrave sat half-turned at the desk, looking skeptically at me, then at Markus Schlossberg, then at Adora. In his right hand, encased in a leather glove, the aristocrat held the contract of employment that we had brought him. Adora had mostly drafted this document. She also procured the parchment for it from the Sisters of Shallya and found someone with good handwriting to transcribe the text.
— Jurgen, surname not specified, listed as Captain. Markus Schlossberg of Wissenberg as standard-bearer. Adora Hauk listed as treasurer.
I nodded.
From the outside, we certainly didn't look very imposing. A young man, a girl who looked almost younger, and a one-eyed old man. Hardly the image one has when mentioning the Dogs of War, the mercenary companies of this world.
Margrave Hawk sighed, then covered his mouth with his glove, concealing a hiccup or a burp. The man looked well past fifty. He seemed worn by life, tired, yet in his eyes, one could spot glimpses of a sharp mind and an unbreakable will.
— Here's what we'll do… — Olger said, seemingly about to refuse us, but at that moment, a persistent knock sounded.
— Pardon me, Your Lordship, urgent news! — came from behind the door.
— Enter, — Hawk replied with a defeated, utterly weary intonation.
This was already the third visit from his adjutants with urgent news in the last ten minutes. It seemed the Margrave had accumulated a lot of business during his absence.
A young man with excellent military bearing entered the room.
— Your Lordship, the reply from Barak Varr has arrived!
— Then hurry up and bring it here.
Olger put our contract aside and held out his gloved hand. The adjutant handed him a metal cylinder covered in Dwarfen symbols made of bronze. The Dwarfs spared no expense on the presentation of their messages. Though, I imagine the casing should be returned with the reply letter.
Olger Hawk studied the message for a couple of minutes, then announced:
— Right. I'll dictate the answer now, just…
The Margrave remembered our existence. He looked at me and said:
— Jurgen, Priestess Adenauer and Templar Feuerbach spoke to me about you. Those are good recommendations. They say you bravely fight in taverns and also slew some Chaos scum. Excellent. We need people like that. But a detachment? Does any of you have experience in drill service? Marches? Maneuvers? The Imperial Army is not just a mob. Every detachment must work cohesively with the other parts of the host. You have an Ogre, an Elf—good. I will find you a company now whose captain can make use of your talents.
In principle, I completely agreed with the Margrave. Perhaps I would be assigned as an assistant to the Witch Hunter, and that was far from the worst option. Especially if I wanted to learn how to fight all sorts of filth effectively, use firearms, various…
— Your Lordship! — Markus Schlossberg interrupted my thoughts, addressing Olger. — I and my brothers in faith languished in the terrible dungeons of the vile enemy, but he… — Markus pointed at me. — …freed us against all odds. I see in this the will of the Hammer of Sigmar and divine providence. I beg you, Your Lordship! — the old man dropped to his knees with such force that I worried for the integrity of his bones. — Do not separate our detachment, which Fate itself…
— Enough! — Olger interrupted him. — Faith is necessary for the Empire, but so is order. Do you understand this, Markus Schlossberg of Wissenberg? I currently have four thousand five hundred and sixty-one combatants in my army. At least, that was the count this morning. And another six hundred…
— Excuse me, Your Lordship, extremely urgent news! — came from behind the door along with a loud knock.
"Extremely inefficient management," Loom-Pia noted. "The lower castes argue with the higher castes. The entire flow of information immediately goes to the leader of the army, preventing him from focusing on truly important matters."
— Enter! — Hawk commanded irritably this time.
A new adjutant practically burst into the room. Panic was written all over his face.
— Your Lordship, there…
— Speak now.
— N-northerners have invaded the province.
— What?! — Hawk was clearly stunned by the news, and his recent fatigue vanished, giving way to anger and a desire for action. — How?!
— Th-the enemy bypassed us through the Winterfang Pass, — the pale messenger replied.
— And Fort Zoll?! — the Margrave questioned, leaping from his chair.
— The commandant decided to evacuate. Many villages…
— Curse it… — Hawk snarled, pacing the room like a trapped animal. — Immediately summon all commanders and priests! We must be under the walls of Friedrichsburg by evening. Tomorrow morning…
Hawk's wandering gaze stopped on us. The Margrave frowned.
— So you, the trashy Reiksguard. Where was your paperwork?
Hawk set aside the Dwarfs' letter, took our contract, quickly signed it, and slapped the seal with the provincial coat of arms on it. Well, well… I could congratulate myself on the unexpected acquisition of a command position. I'm sure Olger simply doesn't have time for us right now. It's easier and faster to sign the contract than to deal with our issue in detail. The enemy is no longer just at the gate of the province, but has kicked it in.
— I will send you a man to tighten up your drill, — Hawk added, handing me the contract paper. — May Sigmar grant you can hold the enemy on the walls or a redoubt. Go prepare your detachment for the march, Captain Jurgen, surname not specified.
— It will be done, Your Lordship, — I replied as seriously as possible.
The path of a Witch Hunter apprentice had its advantages, but it was nice to remain in the company I was already accustomed to. Adora had written the contract so that a significant payment was allocated to Magg, who was listed as part of our unit. Liandra, who, however, stated that she only served the Phoenix King and did not consider herself bound by any other obligations, was also to receive increased monetary compensation. However, when asked, "is she willing to take Imperial money?" the Elf replied positively.
Soon, we were back in the military camp, where a feverish bustle was spreading like wildfire. Soldiers, knights, and servants were preparing for a rapid march.
— The terms are very favorable, — Adora boasted. — The best we could negotiate. We will receive equipment and tents for lodging. In case of loss, their cost will, of course, be deducted from the fee, but it will be much cheaper than buying them ourselves now. Merchants are gouging prices like it's the end of the world.
— Enough about things and money, woman! — Markus demanded. — The main thing is that we will fight for the Empire of Sigmar! We will stand shoulder to shoulder with the priests of the Hammer of Sigmar to crush the unholy host.
— We have a cook, but it would be desirable to find a surgeon, — Adora continued to talk about worldly matters. — Our company is small for now. This doctor doesn't necessarily have to be exclusively ours. They could work for several detachments. I only learned basic first aid from the Sisters. Complex wounds are best left to an experienced surgeon.
— Faith and only faith will protect us!
These two were like the right and left hemispheres of a brain. However, both of their talents will be useful to us. The main thing is that they don't quarrel. And isn't it time for Captain Jurgen, surname-not-specified, to issue his first orders?
— Adora, try to secure our equipment today, — I said. — Markus, the people must be ready for the march as soon as possible. We need to gather all our belongings.
No one argued with me. Pleasant. I also headed to our tents. There was a gaping emptiness in my stomach. I needed to quickly inform Erik that he was now the official cook of a mercenary company and could demand supplies from the camp kitchen.
— The people of the Empire are the kindest people in the whole world, — Erik soon told me, stirring the brew in the cauldron. — I tasted meat from the soldiers' mess today and I'm sure not a single animal suffered during its preparation. They all died of old age or severe illness.
While Erik and I were discussing kitchen matters by the cauldron, an extremely tall, thin Imperial soldier in the provincial colors approached us. A cuirass, clearly having seen many battles, dully gleamed on his chest. Even my not-very-experienced eye could spot traces of repair. A smith had straightened the dents and patched up small breaches. A bronze hammer was affixed to the center of the cuirass against a backdrop of an engraving of a two-tailed comet.
However, the owner of the rare cuirass was quite young. Barely a couple of years older than me. But he seemed strong, experienced, and hardened. Thick dark-chestnut sideburns adorned his elongated face. A black beret with a bright red feather and several badges sat jauntily on his head.
The Imperial looked at me with undisguised surprise from his height. Frowning, he asked:
— Captain Jurgen?
I nodded, and Erik supplemented me with a good-natured smirk:
— His name is indeed Jurgen, and he is our Captain. Don't look at his young age. He has already achieved more than one glorious feat.
The Imperial looked at me more closely, as if he really wanted to see some secret signs of special valor in me, but did not notice them yet.
— Sergeant Max Kress of Hauser, — the Imperial introduced himself. — His Lordship Olger Hawk sent me to assist Captain Jurgen with drill and disciplinary matters.
Max. Almost a namesake, if I recall my past name. It's interesting that he announced his surname and the name of his settlement as if it were very important.
— Jurgen, — I introduced myself, extending my hand.
The Sergeant squeezed it so hard that my bones almost cracked. However, I didn't hold back either.
— Let's take a look at your detachment, Captain, — he offered, or perhaps commanded.
— Alright. I'll call the standard-bearer now and we'll conduct a parade inspection.
Half an hour later, our "mighty" host was almost fully assembled. 52 men, 17 women, 69 former slaves, an Ogre, a Halfling, and one very sad donkey.
The armament was quite… motley. All trophies. Short spears, crossbows, a few swords, Skaven shields and glaives, two arquebuses. Dressed in clothes taken from Chaos civilians mixed with rags. But we actually had a banner! A three-by-five-foot piece of cloth, attached to a makeshift flagstaff. In the center of the white canvas, the not-very-skilled hands of several female slaves crudely embroidered Sigmar's hammer breaking chains, as well as two dead rats. A sort of symbolism of the miraculous rescue from Skaven captivity, executed in the style of a drawing by a developmentally delayed child.
Max silently looked at all this splendor for a few seconds, probably not knowing how to react. Then he furrowed his thick eyebrows and said:
— Now I understand why the Margrave referred to you as the "trashy Reiksguard."
— Well, maybe trashy, but still Reiksguard, — Stefan rejoiced.
— Quiet talk! — the Sergeant roared. — Either I speak now, or your Captain…
— And I can too! — Magg added.
— Hey! — Stefan was offended. — Why can he…
— I'm an Ogre, I can, — the big man interrupted him with a pleased look and waved us on, as if to say, continue.
— Yes. And he can too, — Max reluctantly agreed. — But the rest of you, shut your damn mouths. Clear!? You should have an Elf on your roster. Where is she?
I shrugged and answered honestly:
— Somewhere in the mountains or the forest. Scouting.
This answer satisfied Max. He probably decided that I had sent Liandra out to scout, and not that she was simply wandering wherever she pleased.
— You will receive new weapons today before the start of the march. We'll transfer some spears to longer shafts. But you need shields, and you need to discard those rusty monstrosities! — he was referring to the Skaven glaives. — In what piss-soaked Beastman hole did you find them?
In a very deep and very piss-soaked one, Mein Herr.
— And then you'll turn into a mixed auxiliary company, — Max sighed. — Well, something like that. Archers, spearmen, swordsmen, an Ogre.
Having finished the general briefing, Max approached me and asked:
— Did any of the humans learn to fight?
I shrugged again:
— We had to fight, that's all the training we got.
Max shook his head with clear disapproval. He was probably experiencing Spanish, or in this world, I suppose, Estalian shame for the Imperial Army, which had to hire companies like this.
— Today after the march near Friedrichsburg, we'll try to train with you, — he announced. — I'll put the rest through their paces gradually too. I'll figure out what each of them is capable of.
A good idea, but I'm afraid Max won't like the results very much. Well, let him train our awesome detachment.
After what the humans considered a hearty dinner or Magg considered a light snack, we went to receive new equipment. They didn't issue us armor yet. Only spears taller than a man, plus they transferred ours to longer shafts. We also received eight battered-looking shields with forearm grips.
It really looked like a mixed detachment now. A frontline of shield-bearers, a few archers, and the main body of spearmen.
Then the valiant army began to march. This action took a lot of time. It seemed like Friedrichsburg was only a few hours away on foot, but the problem was the road's capacity. Companies left the camp in sequence. And besides the infantry, there were also supply wagons and cavalry.
While part of the army waited its turn, others had already begun to set up near Friedrichsburg. Finally, it was our turn. We certainly stood out significantly against the background of other Imperial units. They had uniforms, musicians, military bearing. And us?
A beardless Captain leading a crowd of recent refugees. Everyone trudges in an unruly manner; the borrowed clothes fit the people poorly. A good-natured Ogre walks nearby, looking very suspiciously at the supply horses. A noseless Halfling loudly discusses the quality of sausages from different Imperial provinces. Sometimes a tall figure in a dark cloak flashes in the forest. A strange and untrustworthy company. I can perfectly understand Sergeant Max's bewilderment.
Especially since it turned out that he wasn't just bragging about his surname and home village. Max hailed from Olger Hawk's lands. His family belonged to a lineage of hereditary soldiers. His father, two uncles, and many of their offspring were currently serving. And they weren't the only ones. Hauser regularly provided the province with many good recruits. A kind of military settlement where children are taught almost from the cradle how to properly smash the enemies of the Empire and mankind. Such training ensured Max's rapid career growth. A Sergeant at twenty-two.
And so, closer to evening, I once again saw the walls of the ill-fated Friedrichsburg. However, I shouldn't complain. In the end, the city suffered more from me than the other way around.
Our detachment stopped quite far from Friedrichsburg; the area around it was occupied by advance guard companies and cavalry. We huddled on one of the roads leading to the city. However, we were satisfied with the overall situation. A stream was located near our stopping place, and the surrounding forest provided firewood.
In one of the clearings that evening, I met Max one-on-one to test my skills.
The Sergeant brought with him a pair of blunt swords, covered with many small scratches and chips. It was clear that this training equipment had not been idle. We also took two typical Imperial infantry shields with forearm grips. I was, of course, used to using a round buckler, but I should switch my training.
— Ready? — Max asked, taking a shield and sword. — Put on your helmet.
The Sergeant was without his cuirass now, but he had acquired iron kneecaps, a helmet, and a codpiece. On the latter, some craftsman had engraved the inscription: "Don't hit here, love here."
— Well, let's see what the youngest Captain in our army can do, — Max smirked, twirling his sword. — No hitting the face or the groin. Up to two hits. Knocked down—victory. Start!