His horse snorted, pawing the ground nervously at the smells and shouts from the house ahead. Neuhalle glanced at the two hand-men waiting behind him, their heavy horse-pistols resting across their saddles. “Follow,” he ordered, then nudged his mount forward.
Before the first and fourth platoons had arrived, this had been a large village, dominated by the dome of a temple and the steeply pitched roof of a landholder’s house—one of the Hjorth family, a poor rural hanger-on of the tinker clan. Upper Innmarch hadn’t been much by the standards of the aristocracy, but it was still a substantial two-story building, wings extending behind it to form a horseshoe around a cobbled yard, with stables and outbuildings. Now, half of the house lay in ruins and smoke and flames belched from the roof of the other half. Bodies lay in the dirt track that passed for a high street, soldiers moving among them. Shouts and screams from up the lane, and a rhythmic thudding noise: one of his lances was battering on the door of a suspiciously well-maintained cottage, while others moved in and out of the dark openings of round-roofed hovels, like killer hornets buzzing around the entrances of a defeated beehive. More moans and screams split the air.
“Sir! Beg permission to report!”
Neuhalle reined his horse in as he approached the sergeant—distinguished by the red scarf he wore—and leaned towards the man. “Go ahead,” he rasped.
“As ordered, I deployed around the house at dawn and waited for Morgan’s artillery. There was no sign of a guard on duty. The occupants noticed around the time the cannon arrived: we had hot grapeshot waiting, and Morgan put it through the windows yonder. The place caught readily—too readily, like they was waiting for us. Fired a few shots, then nothing. A group of six attempted to flee from the stables on horseback as we approached, but were brought down by Heidlor’s team. The villagers either ran for the forest or barricaded themselves in, Joachim is seeing to them now.” He looked almost disappointed; compared to the first tinker’s nest they’d fired, this one had been a pushover.
“I think you’re right: the important cuckoos had already fled the nest.” Neuhalle scratched at his scrubby beard. “What’s in the fields?”
“Rye and wheat, sir.”
“Right.” Neuhalle straightened his back: “Let the men have their way with the villagers.” These peasants had been given no cause to resent the witches: so let them fear the king instead. “Any prisoners from the house?”
“A couple of serving maids tried to run, sir. And an older woman, possibly a tinker though she didn’t have a witch sign on her.”
“Then give them the special treatment. No, wait. Maids? An older woman? Let the soldiers use them first, then the special treatment.”
His sergeant looked doubtful. “Haven’t found the smithy yet, sir. Might be a while before we have hot irons.”
Neuhalle waved dismissively. “Then hang them instead. Just make sure they’re dead before we move on, that will be sufficient. If you find any unburned bodies in the house, hang them up as welclass="underline" we have a reputation to build.”
“The peasants, sir?”
“I don’t care, as long as there are survivors to bear witness.”
“Very good, sir.”
“That will be all, Sergeant Shutz.”
Neuhalle nudged his horse forward, around the burning country house. He had a list of a dozen to visit, strung out through the countryside in a broad loop around Niejwein. The four companies under his command were operating semi-independently, his two captains each tackling different targets: it would probably take another week to complete the scourging of the near countryside, even though at the outset his majesty had barely three battalions ready for service. It won’t be a long war, he hoped. It mustn’t be. Just a series of terror raids on the Clan’s properties, to force them to focus on the royal army—and then what? Whatever Egon is planning, Neuhalle supposed. Nobody could accuse the young monarch of being indecisive—he was as sharp as his father, untempered by self-doubt, and deeply committed to this purge. Neuhalle’s hand-men rode past him, guns at the ready: It had better work, he hoped. If Egon loses, Niejwein will belong to the witches forever.
The courtyard at the back of the house stank of manure and blood, and burning timber. A carriage leaned drunkenly outside the empty stable doors, one wheel shattered.
“Sir, if it please you, we should—” The hand-man gestured.
“Go ahead.” Neuhalle smiled faintly, and unholstered the oddly small black pistol he carried on his belt: a present from one of the witch lords, in better times. He racked the slide, chambering a cartridge. “I don’t think they’ll be interested in fighting. Promise them quarter, then hang them as usual once you’ve disarmed them.” Just as his majesty desires. His eyes turned towards the wreckage. “Let’s look this over.”
“Aye, sir.”
They’d cut the horses free and abandoned the carriage, but there was still a strong-box lashed to the roof, and an open door gaping wide. Otto dismounted carefully, keeping his horse between himself and the upper floor windows dribbling smoke—no point not being careful—and walked over to the vehicle. There was nobody inside, of course. Then the roof. The box wasn’t large, but it looked heavy. Neuhalle’s grin widened. “You, fetch four troopers and have them take this down. Place a guard on it.”
“Aye sir!” His hand-man nodded enthusiastically: Neuhalle had promised his retainers a tithe of his spoils.
“There’ll be more just like it tomorrow.” There was a loud crack, and Neuhalle looked round just in time to see the roof line of the west wing collapse with a shower of sparks and a gout of flames. “And tomorrow…”
Oil Talk
Just as the guard handed Eric back his mobile phone, it rang.
“Hey, good timing!” The cop chuckled.
Eric flipped it open, ignoring the man. It had already been a long day: back home it was about six in the evening, and he still had to fly back. “Smith here.”
“Boss?” It was Deirdre, his secretary: “I’m aware this is an insecure line, but I thought you might want to know that Mike is back from his sales trip, and he says he’s got a buyer.”
“Jesus!” Eric stood bolt-upright. “Are you sure? That’s amazing!” The sense of gloom that had been hanging over him for days lifted. He checked his watch: “Listen, I’ll be back in town late tonight—can you get him into the office for an early morning debrief? Around six hundred hours?” I’ll have to tell Gillian something, he realized. Not just an apology. Take her somewhere nice?
“I, I don’t think that will be possible,” Deirdre said, sounding distracted.
“Why not?” It came out too sharply: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. What’s the problem?”
“He’s, um, he had a traffic accident. He’s taken a beating, but he’ll be all right once he’s out of hospital. Judith Herz is with him.”
“Whoa!” Eric blinked furiously. He glanced round the guardroom, noticing the cop sitting patiently behind the counter, the polite SS agent with the car keys. “—Listen, I’ll call you back from a secure terminal once I’m under way. Should be about an hour. I’ll be expecting the best report you can pull together. If possible get Judith on the line for me, if she’s spoken to him in person.”