Re: Steel and Gunpowder

"A change? What kind of change? I thought the Pattern-3 rifles were the greatest weapons in the world."

"They are, for distance," Brandt explained, gesturing for Captain Richter to bring forward a long crate. "But the rifles are long and cumbersome. If the Spanish mercenaries manage to close the distance and ambush us in the narrow mountain trenches, we need a way to break their helmets in tight quarters."

Richter popped the iron latches on the crate and threw the lid open. Voss and Hans stepped forward to peer inside.

Lying inside the crate on a bed of dry straw were dozens of brutal weapons.

They were maces.

Traditionally, an archaic mace is just a heavy lump of iron spiked onto a wooden handle.

It is good for crushing armor, but the wooden handle often snaps if a soldier strikes a heavy steel shield too hard.

These new Swabian maces were forged entirely from crucible steel. The handle was a hollow metal tube wrapped in leather, which made the weapon light to carry but unbreakable.

The head of the mace was an iron sphere with six sharp steel flanges welded to the sides.

A soldier didn’t need to know elegant sword techniques to use it... If a Spanish pikeman got too close, the Jaeger simply pulled the mace from his belt and swung it wildly.

The steel flanges concentrated all the force into a tiny point, easily crushing a human skull, shattering a shield, or breaking solid alpine ice with zero effort.

Voss reached into the crate and pulled one of the maces out. He gave it a few test swings in the cold air.

"...this is beautiful!" Voss whispered.

"Baron Klaus ordered two thousand of them forged over the last three days," Brandt nodded, looking proudly at the weapon.

"Load the men!" Voss shouted, raising the steel mace high into the air.

The four thousand Jaegers cheered. They began to turn in order, marching in neat lines toward the passenger wagons and the waiting traction engines.

Voss turned to Brandt, still holding the mace in his hand.

"You know, Brandt," Voss said, watching the artillery crews prime the mortars. "King Konrad mentioned that fifty scouts were sent to the Brenner Pass a month ago and never sent a single courier pigeon back. Have you heard anything about that?"

Brandt stopped watching the loading process. He looked around to make sure the other soldiers couldn’t hear him, then stepped closer to the General.

"Yes, sir. I read the final dispatch the scouts sent before they vanished," Brandt whispered.

Voss frowned. "Well? What did the message say? Did the Spanish ambush them?"

Brandt leaned in closer. "The last message said the ground was torn open, and that the shadows in the snow were moving entirely on their own..."

Shadows moving in the snow?

"Are you telling me..." Voss started, his grip tightening on the mace. "Are you telling me we are marching into a freezing mountain pass to fight ghosts?"

Brandt stared at Voss. His brown beard twitched. His lips pressed tightly together.

And then, Brandt burst out laughing.

"I am sorry! I am so sorry, General Voss!" Brandt wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "You should have seen your face! You looked like you were going to drop that new mace and run all the way back to the royal palace!"

Voss felt a hot flush of embarrassment and anger rush to his cheeks. He raised his hand and shoved Brandt hard in the shoulder.

"You bastards!" Voss barked. "You do not joke with me about ghosts in the mountains! That is bad luck!"

"I could not resist, General," Brandt chuckled, finally catching his breath. "I had to see how tough the great commander of the royal guard actually was."

"I will show you tough when I throw you off a cliff halfway to the summit," Voss grumbled, hooking the steel mace onto his leather belt. "So, what is the actual truth? What did the last message say?"

"Nothing..." Brandt admitted quietly. "The fifty scouts sent a pigeon two weeks ago saying they had arrived safely and found the optimal choke point. After that... silence. They were supposed to send a pigeon every three days. We do not know if it was an avalanche, a sudden winter storm, or if the exiled Austrian nobles ambushed them."

Though Voss was relieved there were no shadow monsters, the reality of fifty missing men was still a heavy burden to carry into the unknown.

"Fine," Voss sighed. "If they are dead, we will bury them. If they are captured, we will crush the skulls of the men who took them. Get the men loaded. I have two more things to do before we leave the capital."

Voss turned his back on the busy staging yard and walked toward a small brick building near the edge of the logistics hub.

Voss pushed the wooden door open and stepped inside. Hundreds of Swabian messenger pigeons were locked inside small wooden and wire cages, cooing softly.

A young boy wearing a thick leather apron hurried over. "General Voss! We are just finishing loading the travel cages for your supply train. We have forty pigeons prepared."

A pigeon born and raised in Augsburg will always try to fly back to its nest. So, the Swabian army took cages of Augsburg pigeons with them on their campaigns.

When they needed to send a message, they wrote it on a tiny piece of thin paper, tied it to the bird’s leg, and released it. The bird flew straight back to the capital in a matter of days.

"Make sure the cages are covered with thick wool blankets," Voss ordered the boy. "The alpine wind will freeze them to death if they are exposed, and I do not want to be stuck on a mountain without a way to call for artillery support."

Voss left the rookery and walked toward a heavily guarded brick warehouse. Two guards quickly lowered their rifles and saluted.

Sitting behind a desk near the entrance was the quartermaster, an old, bald man missing his left eye.

"King Konrad said he left a tool for me here," Voss said.

The quartermaster reached into a locked drawer and pulled out a small, polished wooden box. He slid it across the desk. "Be careful with that."

Voss opened the brass latch. Inside was a round piece of glass covering a small, floating metal needle resting on a tiny pin. The needle was pointing steadily in one direction.

"How does it work?" Voss asked, tilting the box side to side.

"The painted tip always points North," the quartermaster grunted. "Use it to keep your supply train moving in a straight line through the snow, and you will hit the pass in four days instead of seven."

Voss smiled widely, closing the box and tucking it securely into his fur coat. He left the warehouse and walked briskly back to the staging yard. All the wagons were fully loaded, and the traction engines were building maximum steam.

"Sound the whistles! Forward march!" Voss ordered.

The wheels lurched forward, and the convoy began to roll toward the mountains.

...

October 9, 1526 AD

The Brenner Pass, Bavarian Alps

A full four days had passed since the convoy rolled out of the noisy staging yards of Augsburg.

"I cannot even feel my fingers," Hans groaned, blowing hot air into his leather gloves.

He stomped his boots against the icy floorboards of the passenger wagon. "You promised me this was a simple garrison duty, General."

"Stop whining," Voss laughed, though his own breath came out as a white cloud.

Voss pulled his fur coat tighter around his shoulders. "Just think about the hot stew and the warm barracks waiting for us when we secure this crossing."

Though Voss put on a brave and cocky face for his men, he was cursing the freezing weather himself.

The alpine winds were so cold that a man who wandered away from the convoy would be dead in a few hours.

Small chunks of white ice were already forming on the wheels of the traction engines, bumping against the chassis.

Voss reached into his coat and pulled out the small box. He flipped the brass latch open and looked at the compass. The painted needle was still pointing perfectly straight.

"This needle is the only thing keeping us from getting lost in this white fog," Voss muttered, tapping the glass.

Suddenly, a loud screeching sound echoed from high above the mountain ridge. Voss and Hans looked up, squinting against the bright, overcast sky.

Circling above the jagged peaks, fighting against the freezing wind, were three mountain hawks.

"Look!" Hans pointed, a grin breaking across his frozen face. "Hawks! They are flying in from the north and circling the summit drafts."

The mood on the wagons instantly changed. A cheer erupted from the nearby soldiers who were huddled together for warmth.

In the harsh world of the high mountains, seeing wild birds circling a specific point meant only one thing.

"We are close," Voss smiled, carefully tucking the compass back into his coat. "The summit clearing is just over the ridge. Tell the men to get ready."

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