by Warhammer
‘Buy it!’ cried the knight. ‘Buy a holy relic? You might as well ask to purchase the honour of our order. Are you some base merchant? A sword such as this is not to be bought and sold. It is to be passed from templar to templar so that it may be used in the never-ending battle against the forces of darkness.’
Felix flushed, embarrassed, and scrambled for some better argument. ‘I’m sorry, sir knight. I… I mis-spoke. What I meant to say was, ah, could I perform some service for you? Some, uh, deed of honour or quest, that would convince you I was worthy to carry the sword?’
The knight stared down at him for a moment, then snatched the sword from his upraised hands. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not believe you mis-spoke. I believe you revealed your true nature in your first statement. The sword will return to the order, and to honour, at last.’
He turned away with a sweep of his heavy cloak and walked, stiff and proud, towards the door.
The squire hesitated, looking at Felix and Gotrek with an appraising eye, then snatched up his book and turned and hurried after the knight, calling to him in a loud whisper, ‘Master Teobalt. Wait. Master.’
But the knight did not slow, and the curtain swished closed behind them as they pushed out into the street. Felix stared after them though they were already out of sight.
‘Get off your knees, manling,’ said Gotrek gruffly. ‘They’ve gone.’
Felix had forgotten he was kneeling. He looked around. People were staring. He scrambled up, embarrassed, then sat back on the bench and patted his empty waist. Karaghul was gone. His sword. He felt naked without it. He didn’t know what to do. He would have to get another sword, of course, but how could he replace it? Certainly he had hated Karaghul at times, when its dragon-loathing nature had invaded his mind and urged him into suicidal situations, but it had protected him as well, and defeated many a great and powerful enemy. He had had it so long, and it was so much a part of him, that he wasn’t sure he would be himself without it.
‘It… it seems I need a sword,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Gotrek.
‘And a drink,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Gotrek. He pounded the table. ‘Barkeep! Two more! No, four more!’
The rest of the night passed in a sodden blur of beer and bewilderment. Felix sat benumbed as Gotrek handed him mug after mug and ordered him to drink them down. He did so mechanically, staring into the middle distance as his mind spun in slow circles, like a wobbly cartwheel after the cart has tipped into a ditch.
He tried to focus on how he was going to reap his revenge on the skaven, but visions of bursting in on the grey seer in its lair and cutting its scabrous head off kept bringing him back to Karaghul, and he would mourn its loss all over again.
This grief took on different shades as he moved through the various stages of drunkenness. Sometimes he wanted to weep. Sometimes he laughed at the bitter humour of it. Other times he flushed with anger, and grew determined to stride to the templar’s chapter house and demand the sword back. Still other times, he considered throwing himself at the templar’s feet and begging.
In the end, he did none of those things, only took the next mug and methodically drank it dry, and the mug after that, on into the night.
The next morning he nearly did weep, for when he awoke at last, still dressed except for one boot, and with his head hammering like a cave full of dwarf smiths, he reached blindly for his sword belt, as he had done every day of his adult life, and found nothing.
He turned and stared at the bedpost, where he always hung his sword when he stayed in inns, and his heart dropped into his guts. It was gone! Someone had stolen Karaghul! He leapt up, about to call to Gotrek in the next room, and rouse him to go after the thief. But just as he filled his lungs to shout, he remembered, and his heart sank even further. The sword wasn’t stolen. He had given it away. He would never see it again.
He sank back down on the bed and lowered his throbbing head into his hands. What had he done? What had honour made him do? How could he have been so foolish?
He sat there just breathing for quite a while, his mind drifting in a fugue of pain and regret, but then a sharp rap on the door jarred him awake again.
‘Who is it?’
‘Wake up, manling,’ came Gotrek’s voice. ‘We must find you a sword today.’
Felix groaned and stood. ‘Don’t remind me.’
He straightened his clothes and crossed to the door, and even though he knew Karaghul was gone, even though he knew he was going out to look for a new sword, it still made his heart jump when his arms brushed his sides and he didn’t feel the familiar shape of the old blade’s pommel knocking against his wrist as it always did.
As it always had, he corrected himself. As it never would again. He took a deep breath and opened the door. It was going to be a long day.
Felix squinted against the light that streamed through the leaded windows as he and Gotrek shuffled down the stairs to the taproom. The smell of sausage and fritters and stale beer made his gorge rise, and he swallowed with difficulty. He needed fresh air and a walk, and perhaps a nice quiet puke in an alley somewhere.
A pair of fiery blue eyes caught him as he followed Gotrek towards the exit, and he stumbled as if he’d been hit. It was the old templar! The knight sat ramrod straight at the table nearest the door, glaring at Gotrek and Felix from under shaggy white brows. His squire stood behind him, gazing at them with a more anxious expression.
Felix’s heart leapt as he saw that Karaghul was resting across the templar’s knees. He had come to give it back! He had changed his mind! The sword would be Felix’s again! But if that was the case, why was he looking at them so coldly?
‘You rise late,’ the old knight said as they stopped before him. ‘I have waited here since dawn.’
‘You just missed us, then,’ said Gotrek. ‘That’s when we went to bed.’
The knight sniffed, disgusted, then turned to cast a baleful glance at his squire, as if it was somehow all his fault. The squire shrank before his displeasure.
Felix stepped forwards and inclined his head respectfully. ‘You wanted to see us about something, sir knight?’ he asked, trying to keep the pathetic hope out of his voice.
The knight did not look at him. Instead he turned and stared at Gotrek, who stood, arms crossed over his beard before him. ‘Swear by the honour of your ancestors and your gods that you will answer me truthfully,’ he said at last.
‘I so swear,’ said Gotrek, without hesitation.
The knight picked up the copy of My Adventures with Gotrek – Vol II which lay on the table beside him. ‘Are the events in this book, and in the other volumes of your travels, true? Did you and your companion truly perform the deeds written of therein?’
Gotrek nodded. ‘We did.’
‘And there is no exaggeration, or embroidery in the telling?’
‘None that I know of,’ said Gotrek.
The knight continued to look hard at the Slayer for a long moment, then at last turned to Felix. The expression on his face said that he would rather be drinking urine. ‘I will not give you the sword,’ he said. ‘But you may earn the right to carry it.’
Felix blinked, shocked but elated. ‘H-how?’
‘You spoke of doing some service for me,’ said the knight. ‘My squire assures me that you are a man of honour and valorous deeds, and your companion confirms it. Well, we shall see. If you wish to once again wield the sword, I would have you travel north with me into the Drakwald, to discover what has become of the rest of our order – brave templars who went north to fight Archaon’s hordes and did not return. Be they alive, we must save them. Be they dead, we must recover the order’s holy banner and regalia. If you prove yourself worthy on this quest, I will grant you the stewardship of Karaghul. If you are unworthy, I will take the sword from you, whether you would return it or not. Do you accept this venture?’
Felix paused, though every fibre of him wanted to scream, ‘Yes!’
�
�What do you mean by “stewardship”?’ he asked.
‘The sword belongs to the order,’ said the knight, raising his bearded chin. ‘And always will. But if you show me that you are the hero this book claims, I will grant you the right to carry it until you die or dishonour it, or until the order requires it again, at which time it will be returned to us.’
Felix frowned. As much as he wanted the sword back, that sounded fishy. He had no objection to holding Karaghul as steward. He had no son to pass the sword to, and it was doubtful he ever would. But ‘until the order requires it again,’ could mean the day after he helped the templar find his fellow knights. It could be a trick.
And there was another consideration. Only last night he had made a vow to hunt down the evil old skaven who had slain his father, and kill it in its lair. Could he let a wild goose chase into the deep woods get in the way of that vow? It didn’t seem right, even to win back Karaghul. On the other hand, as Gotrek had said, the skaven were likely to come to him. Perhaps it was better to stay in the wilderness until they did. Fewer innocent people would be endangered that way.
‘Archaon’s hordes still haunt the Drakwald?’ asked Gotrek.
The knight nodded. ‘So I have been told,’ he said. ‘As well as beastmen, orcs, goblins and horrors too strange to be described. It will be a perilous journey.’
Felix glanced at the Slayer, and saw his one eye shining with bloodthirsty anticipation. He sighed. Whatever he might have decided in the end, it didn’t matter now. The decision had been made.
Felix turned back to the old knight and nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will take this quest. And I will do my best to prove myself worthy of possessing, er, carrying Karaghul – for however long you are pleased to grant it to me.’
The old knight looked at him, almost disappointed, then after a reluctant pause, picked up the sword and thrust it out. ‘Take it, then, and sit. I will tell you my tale.’
Felix bowed, then took the sword and began strapping it around his waist. He was embarrassed at how comforted he was to have it again.
When he was finished, he and Gotrek sat down across the table from the knight, while his squire remained standing at attendance behind him.
‘My name,’ said the knight, as Gotrek signalled the serving girl, ‘is Sir Teobalt von Dreschler, templar and librarian of the Order of the Fiery Heart, and, I fear, its last living representative.’
Young Ortwin coughed at this and Teobalt sighed and corrected himself. ‘With the exception, of course, of my squire, Ortwin Wielhaber, who is the last novitiate of the order.’
The serving girl brought steins for Gotrek and Felix. Felix’s stomach churned at the smell and he pushed his across to Sir Teobalt.
The old knight nodded his thanks, took a sip, then continued. ‘When Archaon’s invasion began,’ he said, ‘it was decided that, because of my advanced age, I should stay behind and maintain the chapter house while the others went north with the Emperor to do battle. Ortwin remained to assist me. Since then we have waited for our brothers’ return, but they have not come home, and I have begun to fear that they will not.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Felix politely.
Sir Teobalt waved that away. ‘If they died in battle, fighting bravely for their Emperor and their homeland, then they will have achieved all that a knight may wish. I do not grieve them. I envy them.’
Gotrek grunted approvingly at this.
‘Still,’ said Teobalt, ‘it is my duty to learn what became of them and to recover, if possible, the regalia of the order. We have had word from others who returned that, while many of my brothers fell at the siege of Middenheim, the order as a whole survived to begin the march back to Altdorf in the train of Karl Franz. The last anyone heard of them came to us more than a month ago. They had answered the plea of some peasants from a town near the abandoned fort of Stangenschloss to help defend their village against a herd of beastmen.’
Teobalt took another sip and continued. ‘I know not the name of the town, or whether my brothers succeeded in its defence, but we must find it and learn their fate. We shall make our way to Stangenschloss and enquire of them along the way.’
‘What is the regalia of the order?’ asked Felix.
Teobalt looked about to answer, then smiled slyly and looked at Ortwin. ‘Squire, prove that you have been diligent in your studies. What is the regalia of the Order of the Fiery Heart?’
Ortwin snapped to attention and coughed nervously. ‘The regalia of the Order of the Fiery Heart consists of two pieces,’ he began in a high, clear voice, ‘the Banner of Baldemar, made from the cloak of the mighty warrior who founded the order, and bearing the device of a heart surrounded by a halo of flames, and the Sword of Righteous Flame, wielded first by Baron Konrad von Zechlin at the gates of Kislev during the Great War against Chaos. It is said that the blade of the sword bursts into flames in the presence of the unrighteous.’
Teobalt nodded. ‘Very good, boy. Very good. You have learned well.’ He turned to Gotrek and Felix. ‘If my brothers yet live, then time is of the essence. I would therefore start on the morrow at dawn, if that is not too early for you,’ he said, giving them a sharp look.
Gotrek grunted. ‘We’ll be ready.’
Felix would have liked another full night’s sleep to recover from last night’s excesses, but he knew it would never happen. No matter how much he drank, Gotrek would be up and ready to march before the cock crowed if there was any prospect of danger and doom in the offing.
‘Aye,’ he sighed. ‘We’ll be ready.’
THREE
It took three days’ travel on the riverboat Magnus the Pious before Ortwin, the young squire, got up the courage to speak to Felix.
For some reason, Felix had pictured Sir Teobalt making the entire journey from Altdorf to Fort Stangenschloss dressed in full armour and astride his mighty warhorse. It suited his image of Teobalt as a mad old knight, clanking off on adventures far past his prime, but the reality was much more mundane. The old knight travelled by cart, with his armour, lances and instruments of war piled on the back under canvas, and his warhorse hitched to the tailgate along with Ortwin’s pony. In the interests of speed, they didn’t even take to the road until they were halfway to their destination. Using funds from the coffers of the Order of the Fiery Heart, Sir Teobalt paid for passage on the Magnus the Pious up the Talabec from Altdorf to the town of Ahlenhof. Fort Stangenschloss was apparently due north from there, deep within the woods near the head of the Zufuhr river, a tributary of the Talabec that passed by the town.
For the first three days of the voyage, Felix noticed young Ortwin peering at him whenever he thought he wasn’t looking. He was always peeking out from behind the mast when Felix was walking the deck, or goggling at him from the door when he was sitting in the common area. It was unnerving. When Ortwin was with Sir Teobalt he kept his eyes to himself, but as soon as they were apart, Ortwin was stalking Felix again. The boy’s stare was like an owl’s, wide and intense, but whenever Felix turned towards him to ask him what he wanted, he flew off like a frightened sparrow.
Felix didn’t understand what the boy wanted. Did he hate Felix for holding Karaghul for so long? Did he suspect he was going to betray his master and run off with it without completing his end of the bargain? Had Sir Teobalt told him to keep an eye on him? If so, he was being less than subtle about it.
Finally, on the third day, as Felix was updating his journal in the common room with a hot brandy to keep out the chill of the day, he noticed the squire hovering nearby, his skullcap in his hands. Felix sighed and looked up, ready for another scurrying retreat, but wonder of wonders, Ortwin didn’t dart for the long grass this time, but only swallowed and stood on one foot.
‘Yes, Ortwin?’ Felix said. ‘You want to speak to me?’
‘If… if it’s not too much trouble, m’lord,’ Ortwin stammered.
‘Not at all,’ said Felix dryly. ‘I was only writing. And it isn’t, m’lord, I’m
a merchant’s son.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Ortwin, swallowing again. ‘I… I just wanted to say that… that you are my hero, Herr Jaeger! I have read every book you have published. Sir Teobalt frowns on books that aren’t about Sigmar or the knightly virtues, but I think they’re wonderful!’
Felix stared, surprised. It wasn’t what he had expected to hear. ‘Er, thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I’m glad you liked them.’ He felt a bit uncomfortable with the praise, but it felt good too. His chest swelled. Someone liked his work! He hadn’t had a favourable review since his poetry days.
‘Uh, can you tell me, sir,’ the boy continued, nervously. ‘Can you tell me how you chose to become an adventurer?’
Felix frowned. ‘You did read the books, yes?’
‘Oh, yes!’ said the squire. ‘Many times!’
‘Then you know that it wasn’t precisely a choice. I swore to follow the Slayer, but… I didn’t really know what I was letting myself in for.’
Ortwin laughed as if Felix had told a joke. ‘You see,’ he said, stuttering a little, ‘I intend to become an adventurer too. When I have become a full knight of the order, I am going to go to the ends of the earth, seeking out ancient evils and destroying them, just like you.’
Felix’s face fell. Was the boy a complete idiot? He sighed, then closed his journal and looked him right in the eye. ‘Listen to me, Ortwin. I think you’ve got the wrong idea from the books. I have had a lot of exciting adventures, it’s true.’ Terrifying, near-death experiences, he thought to himself. ‘But there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret making that vow. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish that I had chosen the path of warm beds and regular meals, of a wife and children and a proper job. The books…’ He waved a hand, wishing he had read more of them. He still had no idea what was in most of them. ‘It’s not that I don’t enjoy it sometimes. I do. But quite a lot of the time, I don’t. I… I don’t put everything in the books. I leave out the bits about starving for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, and the bits about getting soaking wet and catching horrible colds.’
