Eberfeld’s mind turned over the claims Kuhlmann was making, wondering how good the Averlanders’ spies in his realm were. If they had reported the true extent of the fight against Zahaak’s legion, they would understand that there was no need for subterfuge. Eberfeld had nothing to spare to stop them should they move across the river, certainly nothing that could delay an army the size of the one Kuhlmann boasted. No, Achim had to be playing a more subtle game. Eberfeld was quiet as he pondered what it might be. Something stood out in the seneschal’s speech, something that he had perhaps let slip without fully understanding its import. Achim’s feud was not with Wissenland, but with the family that ruled her.
Again Eberfeld’s mind fled back through the years, to his earliest youth, when his father had still been alive. Walther Eberfeld had been a ruthless, ambitious man and hadn’t allowed his tenuous claim to the crown of Wissenland to prevent him from seizing the title from the weak, corrupt von Stirlitz family. Averland had tried to support the von Stirlitzs against what they considered a usurper. Despite the aid of Averland and assistance from their masters in Nuln, Walther had deposed Hermann von Stirlitz and pronounced himself Count of Wissenland. Perhaps at first Walther had been moved by something loftier than his own pursuit of power. Certainly, he had used breaking the corruption of the von Stirltitzs as the rallying cry to draw support for his cause, to end the exploitation of Wissenland by the city-state of Nuln through their puppets in the court of Wissenberg.
Walther revelled too much in his new position as count to forget or forgive those who had opposed him. Across Wissenland, nobles who had stood against him were stripped of their lands and titles, and very often their lives. Assassins were dispatched across the Empire to exterminate the von Stirlitz family, root and branch. The states that had stood against him and supported his enemy soon found themselves at war. The resources and thick walls of Nuln had thwarted Walther’s attempt at retribution, but Averland was not so fortunate. Much of its western counties were plundered and put to the torch, and the capital of Averheim besieged for months before threats from Reikland and Stirland forced Walther to relent and retreat back within his own borders.
Eberfeld hadn’t even been born when his father had laid siege to Averheim, yet that event cast a long shadow over his rule. Count Achim’s sons had been killed defending the capital and their deaths prevented any hope of reconciliation between the two rulers. Indeed, Achim had taken to wearing the names of his sons, Ludo and Exeter, a morbid affectation to posthumously allow his heirs rule over the province. Some wounds were too deep to heal. With Nuln, reparations had normalised relations between the city-state and Wissenland, but Eberfeld had learned after many fruitless efforts that Achim would never accept the hand of an Eberfeld.
Still, did Achim truly dare to move so boldly against Wissenland? To do so would possibly set a very complicated nest of alliances and treaties into action. Any move to invade Wissenland might see Averland invaded in turn. There was no love lost between Averland and her northern neighbours Stirland and Sylvania. Indeed, action against Averland was probably the only cause that could bring the two querulous backwaters together. Achim was too old a politician not to appreciate the dilemma.
However, perhaps he had a different strategy. The claims of offering aid to the people of Wissenland while spurning the legitimacy of its ruler would be a clarion call to every dissident in Wissenland. Far from an invader, Achim might be cast as some sort of liberator. Eberfeld’s father had left many enemies when he died, and many barons might welcome the coming of a more pliant, less resolute count than Eberfeld. With Achim’s army they’d have the strength to make it happen.
“I regret that I cannot accept Count Achim’s generous offer,” Eberfeld said.
The knight who had accompanied Kuhlmann into the tent spoke for the first time. His accent was deep and guttural, thick with the tones of the Reik valley. Instantly, Eberfeld recalled the Reikland banner he had seen flying in the camp. “I understand your hesitancy, Herr Count,” the knight said. “There is much bad blood between your lands, and it is not easily forgotten or set aside, but at times like this, men must put aside their differences to muster together and fight the common foe.”
“Lord Hugo von Rhineholt,” Kuhlmann said, introducing the knight, “captain of the Knights of the Griffon.”
“I have been sent here by Grand Theogonist Gottolf to mediate the dispute between your provinces,” Lord Hugo stated. Unlike Kuhlmann, there was no hostility in the knight’s voice, only a suggestion of frustration and weariness.
“With due respect, you do not look like a warlock, Lord Hugo,” Eberfeld replied, “and it would tax even a warlock’s infernal tricks to blot out the history between Achim and my family.”
“Your lands are beset by inhuman abominations, despoiled by horrors from the grave,” Lord Hugo persisted. “If Wissenland is to survive, then you must rise above your personal feelings. You must remember the example of Lord Sigmar, who showed us that the common blood of men is more important than the petty ambitions of tribes and chieftains. Men must stand together against the powers of Old Night.”
“Perhaps the Prince of Reikland will renounce his claim as Emperor then?” Eberfeld countered. He could see the knight’s expression darken. “No, Lord Hugo, I cannot afford to accept Averland’s offer of aid, even if I trusted it. Perhaps Count Achim truly means to help my province, but there are those who would see it as weakness on my part to allow him to do so. Ambitious men would use this tragedy for their own purposes and the presence of so many foreign troops on Wissenland soil might embolden them. Perhaps, too, there are men in Averland who might rethink the purpose of their mission once their soldiers are across the river.”
Eberfeld looked from Lord Hugo to Kuhlmann, and then at the runefang standing between them. “I cannot afford to accept the potentialities of Count Achim’s assistance, nor the favours that might be expected of me from Reikland in facilitating such aid. Send the food if you will, I can’t refuse my people such succour no matter the consequences, but keep your soldiers on this side of the river. I came here not to ask for help, but to assure Count Achim that the distress besetting Wissenland is real, that any fears he has that I am preparing to move against Averland are unfounded. If he is not convinced by his own spies, I invite him to come and see for himself the deathless legion that is laying waste to my land. If he comes, however, his delegation must be small. I will construe any move by this army to cross the river as an act of war.”
Eberfeld nodded to the two men, and then looked one last time at the Runefang of Averland. “I promise you, any victory Achim draws from such a war will be a hollow one.” Without waiting for either knight or seneschal to speak, Eberfeld stalked from the tent, Captain Markus close behind him.
What could be done, had been done. The Averlanders would march or they would stay. Eberfeld could not spare the worry for them. The relentless march of Zahaak’s legion was enough trouble for his mind. He wondered how far Baron von Rabwald’s expedition had travelled and whether they had reached the Black Mountains yet. He wondered whether they had found the dwarf war-crypt, and whether they had found the runefang of Solland.
Was Wissenland’s nightmare almost over, or had it only begun?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fritzstadt was a miserable, timber-walled settlement on the banks of the River Sol, plaster facades covering walls of mud brick and raw stone. It was large enough to call itself a town and important enough to local tradesman to maintain a small dock, but it was still a far cry from the immense battlement-enclosed cities further north along the river. Yet to the tired, battle-weary men who emerged from the wilderness, it looked as safe and sturdy as the towers of Altdorf.
Kessler led the sorry remains of his company through the log gates of Fritzstadt, noting the thickness of the walls with some relief. Goblin or brigand, a foe would find getting past such a barrier a difficult prospect. He was less comfortable with the sullen, hostile regard of the two men positio
ned in the tower above the gate. There was something naggingly familiar about them, something Kessler could not quite place. He did not waste undue time pondering the problem, however. He’d lost count of how many times a face in the crowd had reminded him of some foe he’d faced in personal combat. Still, there was no denying that the two militiamen had seemed to recognise him.
The swordsman shook his head. He had more pressing concerns right now. There were wounded to be tended, stores to be requisitioned, horses to be commandeered. He patted the pocket that held the letter of marque from the count. The little slip of parchment gave him the authority to take whatever he needed from Fritzstadt. He just hoped that the place had what he needed.
Eugen appeared at his shoulder, almost as though the knight had read Kessler’s thoughts. He directed Kessler’s gaze to the cheap plaster walls, the dirt streets and thatch roofs. Whatever else Fritzstadt might be, prosperous was not among its claims. “I don’t think these people will be able to help us much,” the knight told him.
Kessler watched some of the coarsely dressed, dishevelled inhabitants of the town hurry along the street. Their eyes narrowed with suspicion as they passed, the faintest snatches of subdued whispers reaching Kessler’s ears. Some went so far as to make the sign of Taal as they scurried past the group of strangers, before vanishing behind locked doors.
“It’s certainly not Nuln,” Kessler agreed, “but we’ll manage. We have to.”
Eugen caught at his arm, arresting Kessler in his steps. “Look at this place,” he said. “You think there’s more than two or three capable swordsmen in the entire town? We need fighters, not fishermen playing part-time soldier.”
Kessler pried the knight’s hand from his arm. He matched Eugen’s demanding stare. “You want to turn back?”
“We could,” Eugen stated, “just take a boat back up river, tell Count Eberfeld what happened, and get him to give us more men.” He saw the way Kessler’s face darkened at the suggestion. “It’s more important that the runefang is recovered. Dying in the attempt won’t do anyone any good.”
It was the umpteenth time Kessler had heard the knight make the statement. Each time he hated to hear it. The words made too much sense, but at the same time evoked a terrible guilt within him. To turn back was to admit failure, and that felt too much like betrayal for Kessler to accept. He had never failed Baron von Rabwald in life, and he would not fail him now.
“Every hour we delay, those ghouls slaughter a little bit more of Wissenland.” Ottmar edged his way between the knight and Kessler. The sergeant glared at Eugen as though looking at a leprous pig. “Maybe you might think about that before you start imagining new glories for yourself.”
The accusation had Eugen’s hand around the hilt of his sword. Ottmar took a step back, and then smiled, almost daring the knight to draw steel. Slowly, Eugen composed himself. “The baron left you in command, Kessler,” he said. “The decision is yours to make.”
Kessler sighed. He wasn’t sure if the knight was aware of how uneasily the weight of command rested on his shoulders, but he had an ugly habit of reminding him of the fact. The swordsman turned away, looking down the street, towards the town square. The faint aroma of cooking fish drifted back to him.
“Then, as leader, I say we see about getting something to eat before we continue this talk.” At that moment, Kessler could have said nothing better as far as his soldiers were concerned. Theodo’s eyes lit up at the mention of food, the halfling darting ahead to “scout the way”.
The men followed after the halfling, emerging into the open plaza that formed the centre of Fritzstadt. A granite statue of some whiskered general stood large at the centre of the plaza, a representation of the founder of the settlement. For an instant, Kessler could not help but be reminded of the grisly totem they had discovered in Murzklein. Glancing around the square, he almost expected to see the vicious faces of goblins snickering at him from shadowy doorways. Instead, he saw a few street vendors and grubby fisherwomen hurriedly gathering their wares. Some scrambled for the massive doors of the town hall, a huge structure built of thick stone blocks and sporting the only iron fixtures Kessler had yet seen in the settlement. Others sought refuge in the plaster-walled temple of Taal that stood opposite the hall. A few, perhaps bolder than the rest, squirmed their way between the strangers, and then hastened down the street.
“Aren’t we the popular ones?” Skanir scowled, lighting his pipe while keeping an arm crooked around the heft of his hammer.
“They certainly seem afraid of something,” Kessler agreed. They were the only living souls still in the square.
“They’re afraid of your ogre.”
Kessler spun at the sound of the voice, his hand flying to the sword lashed across his back. The men with him were no less startled, some even drawing their weapons. Kessler had reason to be thankful that the strange attitude of the townsfolk had made them more alert. As he looked at the man who had spoken, he had every reason to consider Fritzstadt no less hostile to them than goblin-infested Murzklein.
The speaker was descending a wooden staircase, which led into a large, rambling inn that fronted the square. Three men were with him, among them one of the familiar guards from the gate. Kessler knew why the man was familiar now, and where he had seen him before. He had last seen him in Koeblitz, along with the bearded Nordlander who had called out.
Kessler dragged his zweihander from its sheath, staring hard into the belligerent faces of the mercenaries. Some of the sell-swords responded in kind, but the Nordlander simply smiled.
“The baron’s lapdog,” he laughed. “I told you we’d meet again, only this time I’m on top.” The mercenary nodded his head towards either corner of the square. Kessler kept his eyes fixed on the menacing axeman, not daring to look away. Ottmar’s whispered curse told him what the Nordlander wanted him to see.
“More of them!” Ottmar spat. “All around us! At least twenty!”
The mercenary paced across the square, flanked by his comrades. He fingered the edge of his axe meaningfully. “You put quite a scare into the good folks of Fritzstadt bringing that beast in here,” he said, pointing a finger at Ghrum, some of the bravado flickering off his face as the ogre growled back at him. “They figure he’s going to eat their daughters and molest their swine. As the duly appointed, and paid, protectors of this community, it would be remiss of us to neglect our duty.”
The smile broadened on the Nordlander’s face as he tugged the axe free from his belt. He started towards Kessler with hate in his eyes. “Who says you can’t mix business and pleasure?”
“Raban!” The barked command brought the Nordlander up short as he started to close with Kessler. The other mercenaries took faltering steps away from the soldiers. Ghrum’s huge frame sagged as he sighed with disappointment.
Kessler saw someone emerging from the town hall, recognising him at once as Valdner, captain of the Schwerstetten Brotherhood. The officer paced warily around the Wissenlanders, moving to join the axeman Raban. The Nordlander found it difficult to meet the reproach in his eyes.
“What’s going on here? Explain yourself!”
Challenged, Raban remembered the emotion that had gripped him only moments before. He pointed his axe at Kessler, scowling at the swordsman. “It’s that scum from Koeblitz, the one that helped Baron von Rabwald cheat us of our pay!”
“And you thought to collect it from his hide?” Valdner asked. He shook his head in disgust as Raban’s grin reasserted itself. “Did you stop to wonder why this man is here? Did you stop to think that Count Eberfeld’s entire army might be right outside the gates?” The huge Nordlander seemed to shrink into himself as his lack of thinking was illuminated. Valdner left Raban to nurse his burst ego and turned to Kessler.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Where is your master, the baron?”
Kessler met Valdner’s stern look. He was silent for a moment, and then, deciding there was nothing to be gained holding back the truth, he
told Valdner what he wanted to hear. “We’ve come here to resupply. As for Baron von Rabwald,” Kessler paused, trying to force the words onto his tongue, finding them as bitter as the memory behind them, “he’s dead.”
The words provoked a strange reaction in the mercenary captain. His face became drawn, losing much of its colour. He staggered on his feet a moment, as though losing strength in his legs. With haste, Valdner gestured to his men. “Go back to your posts,” he called out. The command brought groans and sullen stares, but the mercenaries did not hesitate to obey. Even Raban, his head held lower than that of a whipped cur, did not challenge his captain. With a last, malevolent look at Kessler, the huge axeman withdrew back inside the inn.
“So long as your men do not abuse the hospitality of this settlement, you are free to do as you will,” Valdner said, turning his attention back to Kessler. “I advise the ogre to stay here in the plaza. It will rest easier with the town if they know where he is and where he isn’t.”
“Thank you, captain,” Kessler said. He stared hard at Valdner, trying to read the thoughts running through his mind. The man had the same reason to hate him that Raban did, the same grievance against Count Eberfeld that his men shared. So, why the pretence? What game was he playing? Did he intend to let them get comfortable, to let their guard down and then unleash his sell-swords? That made sense to Kessler. Valdner was an old warrior, and he knew that he would lose men in a fair fight, even more so with Ghrum involved.
Valdner’s next words made less sense to him.
“You are called Max Kessler?” When he received a nebulous nod of agreement, Valdner continued. “You were there when your master died?” The question seemed an ill fit for Valdner’s precise, clipped tones. “I would like to hear how he died.”
“We were ambushed by bandits on the road from a place called Murzklein,” Ottmar said.
Valdner seemed to digest the question for a time. There was a suspicious shine to his eye as he questioned the men again. “When we left the count’s service,” he began, doing an admirable job of keeping resentment from his voice, “the baron was attached to the count’s army. Why should he be wandering the wilds far from where the war is being fought?”
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