CHAPTER 6 ~ A BANDIT'S WELCOME
Strike fast and suddenly. Attack without warning. Secure victory before the enemy is aware of his danger.
— Saint Solar Macharius, Maxims of Macharius, M41
Jens Sturm emerged from a low tunnel of steeply descending stairs and surveyed the schola's undercroft. The windowless space was poorly lit. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw rows of sleeping mats running down either side of a long and narrow cellar with a high, arched ceiling. The floor was covered with what looked like straw. He sniffed. The undercroft was damp and stank like it had been used for housing livestock. Jens didn't mind. He had slept in far worse places.
The space was occupied by about fifty Grollan PDF troopers, though the number of mats suggested their total number was closer to two hundred. Here and there, small circles of men and women spoke in low voices, others lay on their mats, trying to snatch a few moments of rest.
One or two of the Grollans turned to look at the new arrival and nudged their fellows. Muttered conversations died out as one by one, they all fixed him with mute, sullen stares.
A friendly bunch, then.
"Alright mateys," He grinned at no one in particular. "No need to stand up, I'm only a corporal. Can any of you good people tell me where I can stow my kit?" He dropped his roll bag onto the floor.
There was no response, only the inscrutable regard of fifty pairs of eyes.
"They no speak to you." The speaker's voice was thick, the accent almost guttural.
Jens turned to his right to see an unshaven man in an unkempt PDF uniform rising from his cot. He was shorter than Jens and slighter, as all these Grollans were, but he looked lean. His movements were small and economical, his arms kept close to his body. This man could probably handle himself.
The speaker approached him. Jens was conscious of the eyes of the others on both of them as they came face to face. This felt almost like a bit of theatre. And, of course, that was exactly what it was: the universal, not-exactly friendly, not-exactly hostile ritual prelude to a fight.
"They no speak. No Gothic. Not for you." The man said. "You go back. Up stair — with other Impeer-yal"
"You in charge, big bollocks?" Jens said pleasantly.
The man scowled. Jens headbutted him.
His forehead met the bridge of the man's nose and he felt something crack. The man staggered away clutching the flattened , blood-spurting mess of his nose in one hand. His other hand went behind his back and produced a small, wicked-looking blade.
Jens could have guessed these clannish, hairy little people would be habitual knife fighters. He'd served alongside a few regiments like this one before. Penal legions, hive gangers and savages from feudal worlds, they were conscripts from worlds where violence was a way of life. They brought their internal blood feuds and honour duels with them when they joined the Imperial war machine. Officers and often even commissars turned a blind eye to the occasional barrack-room stabbing, as long as discipline on the battlefield was maintained.
As an outsider in such company, you either proved straight away that you were harder and meaner than any man or woman of them — or you'd be found dead one morning in your cot while a hundred soldiers sharing your dorm would all swear they'd seen nothing.
The man was in a crouch now, moving sideways in a crab-like stance. Knife fighters always expected to circle for a bit, to get the feel of their opponent. Jens wouldn't allow that. He closed the gap between them in purposeful strides. The man hesitated, confused that the usual conventions were not being observed. Jens stepped inside the blade. He grabbed the man's knife arm by the wrist and punched him twice in the face.
The first blow hit mushy remains of nose and the man whimpered. The second punch was lower and knocked out some teeth.
Jens twisted the arm and his opponent dropped the knife. He punched him again for good measure. The man dropped to the floor.
A hoarse shout came from one of the watching Grollans. Jens looked up. One or two of them were on their feet. He pointed at the nearest of them. "Stay where you are," he snarled, "or you're next."
He kicked the prone man in the arm and heard a bone break. The man let out a high pitched cry. Jens kicked him again. The man had rolled into a foetal position and this time, it caught him in the back. Something cracked.
He kicked a third time. His boot connected with the jaw and the lower half of the man's face collapsed into a shapeless mess.
Jens looked around the half-light of the undercroft. There was silence. No one moved.
"You lot are scared of the enemy?" he growled. "Well, now you've got me to be scared of too." He pointed at the bloody shape on the floor. "Get this man to a medicae. And clean this mess up."
There was instant movement. Two Grollans lifted the man up and dragged him away, another appeared with a mop.
Jens put his hands on his knees. Breathing in heavily, he grinned. "Look at that, you all understand Gothic now. Throne be praised, it's a miracle."