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 lound-roofed hovels, like killer hornets buzzing around the entrances of a defeated beehive. More moans and '.creams 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,
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 well: we have a reputation to build."
"The peasants, sir?"
"I don't care, as long as there arc 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.
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."
"Aye, sir."
