Chapter 8
It took the Klarwasser Mercenary Company a full week to march from Holenstadt through Bickenstadt, then to Leibenstadt, despite their harsh pace. Though it greatly pained the men, they could not even afford to stop by Bickenstadt City, only able to fit a visit to Versorgungsdepot Bickenstadt a dozen miles away to resupply.
They marched from day well into the night, moving as swiftly as they could along the vast, winding cobblestone roads and rough hewn paths cut through any thicket of tall, native Holenstadter pine which seemed to be less dense than their surroundings. They marched as hard as they could, as the Empress, the leader of all Imperials, needed their services. This was not just a job, this was a chance to serve the Empire! As they trudged through the rough terrain the rumble of hundreds of bootfalls echoed throughout the forest, and the massive cloud of dirt they kicked up assured that they could be spotted from miles away, assuming one could see over the Dunkwald treeline.
The entire time they marched through the wilds of Holenstadt, the Baron sat ramrod straight atop his horse, hand on his pistol, warily scanning his surroundings. For some reason, he felt uneasy, his heart beat frantically, even though he could sense that nothing was wrong. Gazing out into the dark forest surrounding them, barely able to see even a dozen feet through the ferns, bushes, and vines to either side, let alone through the dense canopy above them, greatly unnerved him. Even though they were moving through friendly territory, territory cleared of all rebels by cold, Imperial steel, he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.
However, by the third day of marching, greatly slow by the highly vertical and serpentine roads, as well as the large, unwieldy baggage train which carried their essentials, the claustrophobic pine thickets gave way to more moderate, less densely packed mix of pines and oaks, as well as ferns, moss, and other flora littering the forest floor. The terrain was also beginning to level out, as was the road. The boundary between Holenstadt and Bickenstadt, the Baron's home province, was demarcated with large, wooden sign. Carved onto the face opposite Holenstadt was a landscape, great flat plains leading to a harbor. When they passed, he turned to check the other side, finding a saber over a mountain carved into the wood.
Late into the afternoon, the Klarwasser Mercenary Company arrived at a ferry station, built along a wide, serpentine river which seemingly continued on forever down the horizon, small boats and rafts bobbing up and down the length of it. It seemed to be quite busy, dozens of people ran back and forth across the docks and a long, thick line of people had formed in front of the ferries.
However in the Empire the military takes priority, and so they immediately began on transfering the Klarwasser Mercenary Company across. The fact that the Baron is the Baron of Bickenstadt province probably helped guide his decision making as well.
The process of ferrying nearly four hundred soldiers, close to double that many camp followers and support staff, as well as the carts filled with provisions, gear, weapons, armor, replacement parts, and black powder, took multiple hours. By the time the last man had stepped foot on Bickenstadt soil, it was already dark. Luckily for them, the small settlement which popped up around the ferry station had enough lodging for all of his men, so not a single one, save for Fergus, slept on the ground or in a sleeping bag, a feat which was expensive, but worth it in the longrun. Happy soldiers fight harder.
The following morning, the company packed everything up and began their march across the flat plains of Bickenstadt. On either side of the smooth cobblestone roads was a sea of green grass, with small patches of yellow and purple flowers dotting the landscape, providing an occasional hint of color to the otherwise uniform flora of the Bickenstadt plains. Progress was swift here, as the roads were straight and the elevation mostly consistent.
They stopped by Versorgungsdepot Bickenstadt, a large square fortress where military supplies were stockpiled. They grabbed everything they needed, loaded it up, and headed to Leibenstadt having barely even said a word to the men stationed there.
After another day of marching, they came across the wooden sign demarcating the border between the two provinces. Heading into Leibenstadt, the Baron was greeted with another carved landscape, grassy hills bleeding into a mountain range. The green plains of Bickenstadt slowly began to melt away, turning into the famous sandhills of Leibenstadt, black dirt giving way to fine sand, shin high blades of green transitioning to large clusters of waist high, beige grass, with the occasional patch of short, green grass.
There was almost nothing to see other than the tall grass and rolling hills. They marched along the cobblestone roads for the next two days, and finally, after a week of marching, the front of the column crested the hills and caught sight of their destination. In front of them lay a giant, sprawling camp outside of a massive castle town. As far as the eye could see, the capital city of Leibensburg was surrounded by a dizzying number of tents lined up in neat, orderly rows. Cannons lay behind breastworks or on top of particularly tall hills, silently facing the city, and the labyrinthine network of trenches which threatened to reach the walls themselves.
As the Klarwasser Mercenary Company got closer, they were joined by various other people traveling on the very same roads. Soldiers ferrying cartloads of supplies around the province, reserves called up to replace losses marching in rough coulmns, helmets shimmering in the sunlight. From wily merchants coming to ply their trade, to civilians and camp followers carrying out menial tasks, to prostitutes and Bierverk?ufer wringing out every last Reiksgeld contained within soldier's purses, there was always a flurry of activity in and around a camp so large. With so many people together, camps like this develop their own transient camp-economies. Soldiers had much they needed, and civilians had much to trade, whether that be food, clothing, supplies, baubles, or even their own bodies.
At the entrance of the camp, the Baron was greeted by a small retinue of important looking people, but the one at the very front immedietly caught the Baron’s eye.
He was thin and tall, possibly taller than the Baron, though it was hard to tell while he was on a horse. He had tired eyes and sunken cheeks, which combined with his pale skin gave him an almost ghoulish appearance, despite his overall stark, strong, attractive features. He sported a beard of stubble on his face, and his salt-and-pepper hair was short and slicked back. However, what caught the Baron's attention the most was his strange attire, unlike anything he had seen in this world.
He was wearing what looked like an officer’s cap and greatcoat from the Soviet Union. His overcoat was a olive khaki, a completely alien uniform color in this world, and on his shoulders were two red stripes displaying shiny gilded stars and medals. On his legs were olive khaki trousers tucked into black leather boots which extended halfway up his shin. There were 10 large black buttons going down his chest that looked like nothing you would find Imperial craftsmen making, the bare faces far too simple for someone important enough to meet with the Baron. His officer’s peaked cap had a red star on it surrounded with golden leaf pattern on either side. At his side was an Imperial style holster with a pistol in it, though it contained a flintlock instead of a repeating pistol, as well as a simple looking kilij in its sheath attached beneath that, the handle sticking out slightly from his torso.
The rest of the men around him were impressive looking, but they looked like Empiresmen. Their armor was beautifully crafted and covered in elaborate decorations, not to mention the magic eminating from the metal itself, marking them as either Imperial nobles or high ranking Imperial generals, most likely both. However, the man in the middle looked like straight out of the Soviet Union, and his features were far more Slavic than Germanic. The Baron sat there with his mouth agape, and after a few seconds Ludwin leaned over before whispering in his ear.
“It seems we are being greeted by the Empress’s Spymaster himself. I had heard he dressed differently from us, but I didn’t quite expect this. People from other worlds definitely have an odd sense of fashion.”
“Wha-...did you say...do you mean…”
“Yes. I know. It is rather strange that the Empress would allow an Otherworlder into her inner circle, let alone allow him to wear the traditional garb of his homeland while working for her. Let alone that she allows him to wear the insignia of his former homeland. The Empress has very strict rules about what auxiliaries can wear, but I suppose being nobility means you get to make acceptions when it suits you.”
Ludwin sounded mildly irked, however, the Baron’s mind was spinning. He was having a lot of trouble processing what Ludwin just told him.
Did he say...that he was from another world? Does that mean...that there are other people like me?
“Oh uh...yeah how...strange…”
The Baron was desparately trying to play off his surprise, willing his facial expression back to normal. It was obviously not working. Fergus rode up besides him, a queer look on his face.
“Baron, ah, ya donnae seem leik tha type ta beh flustered ova sum strange clothes. Didyanae travel tha world fer over ten years after yer wife passed? Shouldnya be used tae different dress by now? Aye ken yer a Empiresman an’ all but tha resta tha lad havnae problem.”
Fergus’s voice cut through the Baron and he felt a pang of sadness at the mention of his wife. Though he had no idea why, or even that he had a wife, it was enough to knock him out of his stupor. He turned and saw his lieutenants looking either worried or confused by his strange silence.
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“Ah, sorry. Spymaster Brusilov just looks...different...than I imagined him looking. I'm sure it's something about my head injury. Come on then, let us ride up to meet with him.”
As they rode closer to the Spymaster they felt a great sense of unease emanating from him. It wasn’t enough to freeze them in place, but it was extremely uncomfortable. His eyes were cold, calculating, callous, indifferent, and when they passed over the Baron a shiver went down his spine, who could tell a similar thing happened to Ludwin riding next to him. The Spymaster spoke in a deep voice with a very heavy Russian accent.
“Здравствуйте, gentlemen, good to finally meet you, the famous Baron von Bickenstadt.”
“Привет Spymaster, well met.”
Both the Baron and the Spymaster’s eyes shot open in surprise, but Brusilov recovered so fast it was barely noticeable, while the Baron was dumbstruck for a couple of seconds. No one around them seemed to take notice, though they most likely just didn't react.
“Well, gentlemen, I would offer you food and beer after travel, but time is of essence. Follow General Bogenhaffen to your camp,”
Brusilov gestured toward the man with a giant red plume coming out of his helmet.
“Empress has already set up everything for you. After your men are settled and comfortable, come to war tent in middle of camp, you will know when you see it. There I will brief you on mission for all of you. With your arrival..."
He raised his right arm, palm facing the sky, and clasped his hand, holding up his clenched fist.
"...Leibensburg's fate is sealed.”
Everyone nodded in understanding and followed General Bogenhafen, while Brusilov gestured for the Baron to come to him. The Baron told Ludwin to take over while he was gone and rode over to the Spymaster, ignoring Ludwin's complaints and questions.
“Come, товарищ, to my personal tent, I have feeling we have much to discuss.”
The Baron followed him to a large but simple tent. They both dismounted and tied their horses to posts before lifting the tent's flap and entering. Inside was a desk which Brusilov went to sit at. He brought out two glasses and began pouring what looked like wine into two cups.
“Grape juice, not alcohol, unfortunately. We need to be at full capacity for attacking the city.”
He handed the cup to the Baron, and he took a sip.
Yup, he thought, that’s grapejuice. Feels childish for some reason.
“So, you are reincarnation?”
The Baron choked on his drink, coughing hard as the grape juice entered his windpipe.
“There is nowhere in this world you would be able to learn Russian, it would seem that my people just never got a foothold here. Only the poles, for some reason. And myself.”
His voice rose slightly in pitch, his accent lessened significantly, only detectable when he pronouced Rs and Ls.
“That deep Russian accent I have is something I do to throw people off. It works pretty well, yes?”
The Baron finally regained his bearings enough to answer.
“Yes, it really did throw me off. You sounded like you had just learned German and weren't comfortable with its grammatical structure yet.”
Though, I have no idea why I am able to understand and speak German, my first and only language was English.
“Yes, it makes interrogating and negotiation easier, it makes people think I am dumb, so they try to take advantage of me, and then I strike. It works every time. Oh, the language here is known as 'Reikers', the language of Empiresmen, also called Reikers, by the way. Anyways, you are a reincarnation, that much is clear. I thought something was up when I saw you gawking at me. I knew that the great Baron von Bickenstadt was quite a learned man, but no one man can learn of everything, so perhaps you were just seeing my coat for the first time and were interested in it. If that were the case, I'd let you take a look, no harm done there.”
Brusilov took a quick sip of his grapejuice.
“But, then you spoke to me in Russian, a language only a select few-including the Empress and my myself of course, even have knowledge of in this world. I knew there was only one explanation, that you were a reincarnation. Well, two explanations, but the other meant I would have to purge my men, and I don't particularly want to do that, dealt with plenty of purging during my stint in the KGB, I am not running things like that. Highly inefficient. So, you have yet to learn how to properly control your Gifts from the Gods, yes? Does anyone else know about your reincarnation? Do you think tha-"
The Baron shook his hands in front of him and sat forward.
“Woah woah woah! Slow down man! I'm having trouble following you. I'm supposed to be from this world, and as you said I'm supposed to be extremely well educated, so I couldn’t just ask questions about how things work here. I need you to explain some things to me.”
Brusilov pursed his lips in thought.
“Hm, you should have been given memories when you reincarnated...well, the gods are imperfect-I if anyone should know that. Ok then, let us go through my questions one by one, and later I will answer whatever questions you have to ask me. You are obviously a reincarnation, so where are you from back home? And what year are you from? As I am sure you can tell I am from the Soviet Union, Russian father and Romani mother if that means anything to you, born and raised in Vladivostok. I died in 1986, Afghanistan is going to be the death of the Union, mark my words.”
“I am from the U.S, Massachusetts specifically. I died the year of our lord 2019.”
Brusilov stroked his chin in thought.
“Wow, that is a significant time difference. Tell me, has the Soviet Union fallen?”
The Baron fiddled absentmindedly with his ring as he spoke.
“Yes, in fact it ended very soon after your death. There's a reason we call Afghanistan 'The Graveyard of Empires', it ruins everything that tries to invade it. The Soviet Union broke apart in 1991, the U.S won the Cold War.”
Brusilov slumped in his chair.
“So I died for nothing, only prolonging the inevitable. Well, nothing I can do about that now. There is a lot I wish to ask about the future, but we have more important fish to fry. Now, tell me, how much do you know about your gift from the gods?”
“I have no idea what that even is.”
“Боже мой, we may not even have time run through everything you need to know. Think of the Gifts from the Gods as them granting you super powers, like, uh, Superman I guess. I don't have the resources to learn about your gift yet, so you will have to wait for the Seekers to come. Oh, don't worry about what they are right now, no time to explain. One of the Gifts for all people like us, otherworld summons and reincarnations, is the Gift of Tongues, though it is in no way exclusive to us. Hasn't happened yet. Anyways, we can speak, read, and understand all languages, from here and our world. The problem is that if you don’t learn how to control it you will just speak whatever language you heard last, so you will need to work on that.”
“Wait, so...I have...super powers?”
Brusilov nodded.
“Basically. About 20% of the population are what we call ‘Gifted Ones’, they are far stronger, faster, and generally taller than the average person. Some say that they are smarter than the average person, but that's neither here nor there. In addition to that, many of them are gifted abilities by the gods. You definitely have a gift, one or more is given to all summons or reincarnations, you just need to learn what it is and how to use it.”
The Baron stroked his beard in contemplation, then again fiddled with his ring as he spoke.
“Hmmm. Sometimes, when I’m fighting, I can perfectly predict what my opponent is going to do, like how they will swing, how they will feint, and the trajectory of their weapon, and react to it before they are able to do it. It only happens sometimes, but it does happen often enough to be noticeable. I doubt it is just lucky guesses, the predictions are too detailed. Almost like a vision.”
“That is most likely a gift from the gods. You will be able to control it in due time. Well, there is not much I can do for you right now.”
He stood up from his desk and resumed his thick Russian accent.
“We have work to do. Let us get to it. I will send you wine later, maybe we discuss future after siege is finished.”
He smiled and ushered the Baron out of his tent and escorted him to his men’s camp.
“Tell your lieutenants they have two hours of rest, I will tell Empress you are exhausted from march. You made good time, by the way. All the way Holenstadt in just a week? Sheesh.”
“Thank you, Brusilov. See you in two hours.”
The Baron walked into his tent after telling the men to rest and laid down on his cot, contemplating all he had learned so far. As he was contemplating what has happened in the past week and change since he was summoned to this strange land, he slowly drifted off to sleep.
