by Death
Lorenzo smiled so wide that all three of his teeth glistened in the darkness.
‘I admire a professional, that’s all.’
Florin glanced towards their guide. They had hardly said a word to the man since he had been introduced as one of Lady Adora’s ‘dear friends’. He was a drawn, grey-haired man with deep, soulful eyes. He seemed to be constantly pining for something and, judging by the way he had looked at her ladyship, Florin had a shrewd idea for what.
Florin lifted his hand and tilted his palm backwards. Slowly he and Lorenzo fell back behind the man, who had in any case been lost in thought ever since Adora had kissed his cheek.
Florin leaned carefully over and whispered into Lorenzo’s ear.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Do you believe all that?’
Lorenzo pursed his lips. ‘No. No, it could be true, but I doubt it. You saw how she operates. Everything about her is a lie. Some men turn into complete idiots when a woman like that gets hold of them.’
‘I was just playing along,’ Florin retorted. ‘Anyway, look who’s talking.’
Their guide, perhaps roused from his reverie by some jealous instinct, glanced back towards them. Florin and Lorenzo were sitting straight in their saddles, looking in opposite directions. Satisfied, the guide turned back to the contemplation of another, happier world in which he and Adora were wed.
‘So if he’s not in league with the skaven, then why have him killed?’ Lorenzo continued.
‘Politics,’ Florin said. ‘You saw how unpopular her fiance is now. Imagine what will happen when the good people of Vistein find out that the grain stores are gone as well as the crop.’
‘You’re probably right.’ Lorenzo said. ‘Although there must be a lot of the ratmen about if they’re actually getting trapped.’
The two men lapsed into silence as, the hoots of the owls giving way to the cries of seagulls, their guide led them up the narrowing track towards one of the cliffs.
‘Let’s risk it,’ Florin decided. ‘We tell the Baron he’s to be assassinated, let him run, and then get back to Bordeleaux. I’m sick of this place anyway.’
Lorenzo said nothing. He didn’t need to.
They could see the Baron’s refuge from almost a mile away. It jutted up from the wild gorse that carpeted the cliff tops, a sheer stab of stone that clawed up towards the stars. Its black shadow pointed like an accusing finger at the ocean beyond, where the waves, luminescent in the light of the risen moon, boomed and whispered.
‘Is that the traitor’s lair?’ Florin asked, his voice a low murmur. Their guide nodded.
‘It looks sturdy enough,’ Lorenzo grumbled. ‘And I suppose he’ll be guarded by his confederates?’
‘His confederates?’ The guide just looked puzzled. ‘No. No, he lives alone. The better to plot his treachery, her ladyship said.’
‘She is as wise as she is beautiful,’ Florin said, and the guide nodded mournfully, ‘which is why she chose us to handle this matter. This is where we will dismount. Lorenzo, you take the axe. You, hold our horses’ reins and be ready to go. When we come out, we may be in a hurry.’
‘But her ladyship asked me to accompany you.’ Despite his grey hair, the guide whined like a little boy. ‘She trusts me.’
‘That’s why I trust you too,’ Florin said, his voice full of bright encouragement. ‘I wouldn’t be leaving you in charge of the horses if I didn’t.’
‘He wouldn’t, either,’ Lorenzo assured the guide. ‘We know what we’re doing when it comes to stuff like this. Ready boss?’
‘Ready,’ Florin said and, before the guide could object, the two of them had vanished into the undergrowth.
It took them almost an hour to cross the distance to the dark watchtower. They moved with a slow, steady caution, neither speaking nor rising above the undergrowth. When they were close enough to count the stones in the moonlight, the two friends lay down side by side, and listened and watched.
There was nothing but the sound of the sea and the smell of gorse and the frozen glitter of the stars above.
Florin and Lorenzo rose to their feet and, as silently as any other nocturnal predators, they closed in on the watchtower door.
It was a well-made door with a sturdy iron lock, but it was wooden. Lorenzo hefted the axe and again the two men stopped, senses straining.
‘All right,’ Florin breathed. ‘We go in. We grab the man. We convince him to run.’
‘And if her ladyship was right?’
Florin paused, and considered the question again.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we’re stuffed.’
Lorenzo rolled his eyes, lifted the axe, and hit the iron lock with the flat surface behind the blade.
It was a perfect strike, and the door flew open. As it crashed against its hinges, Florin scraped a shower of sparks onto the wick of the lantern and in the sudden light he rushed into the building.
There was nothing in the dank room that they found themselves in, but for a few barrels and a flight of stone steps that led upwards. Florin leapt towards them, sprinting upwards. The chamber above was just as deserted, and he accelerated as he raced up the final flight of stairs. It was still dark up there, and he dared to hope that he still had the element of surprise.
He didn’t.
The second after he leapt into the watchtower’s upper chamber something hit him on the back of the head. He yelled a warning to Lorenzo as he stumbled forward. In the dancing light of his lantern, he made out the blurred shape of his assailant, and the even more blurred shape of the club he was wielding.
This time the blow caught Florin against his upturned arm, and he felt the crack of wood against bone. Still dazed from the first blow, he collapsed back and hit the wall.
His assailant had turned back to deal with Lorenzo, who was clambering up the stairs. The man aimed a kick that would have flattened him had it connected. But Lorenzo, who had been dodging kicks since he’d been a toddler, grabbed the man’s foot, and pulled him off balance.
The man fell backwards and Lorenzo, maintaining his grip, used the falling weight to pull himself up out of the stairwell. With a roar the man slashed at Lorenzo’s legs with a brutal directness that would have made any sword master proud. Lorenzo leapt over the blow, then stamped on his groin in a move that would have made any sword master wince. Then he kicked the man beneath the chin.
His teeth clicked, his head bounced off the floor, and he lay still.
‘I think that’s him,’ Florin said, and then passed out.
Whether it was the hideous smell of Lorenzo’s pipe or the sound of voices that brought him around, Florin couldn’t tell. Either way, neither sound nor smell did much for his splitting headache. He sat up and touched the damp bump on the back of his head. Then he groaned.
The Baron and Lorenzo turned from the table they were sat at and regarded him critically.
‘Youngsters,’ Lorenzo said, and jabbed at Florin contemptuously. ‘No stamina.’
‘Too soft all around.’ The Baron, who had a heel mark on his chin and bruises around his eyes, shook his head. ‘That’s why it’s come to this. To think, the Provost Marshal of Vistein getting a woman to hire assassins. And foreign assassins at that!’
‘That’s the youth of today, all right,’ Lorenzo sighed as the Baron filled his goblet from the bottle that was between them. ‘No honour, either.’
Florin glared at them.
‘I take it you’ve explained the situation?’ he asked, and climbed up onto a chair.
‘He has.’ The Baron offered him a goblet, and Florin got a good look at him for the first time. Although he held himself with the rigid poise of a nobleman, the Baron’s skin was as weathered as any veteran’s. His white moustaches were waxed into great sabres, and a frosting of silver covered his head, which was neatly shaved in the regimental fashion.
Despite his age, the Baron didn’t seem to mind the beating he had taken any more than he minded the duelling scars that marked his cheeks. Flor
in felt the bump on the back of his own head again, and winced. The Baron and Lorenzo rolled their eyes, as though a split skull was nothing more than a stubbed toe. Florin drank his wine.
‘So,’ he said. ‘No skaven.’
‘Ha!’ the Baron laughed contemptuously. ‘Skaven. A fairy-tale for children. There are rat-like beastmen, I’ll grant you. Saw a few of ’em in the north. Not skaven, though. The very idea.’
He gave Florin a look of amused contempt, then looked at Lorenzo, who shrugged.
‘He’s not usually so dense,’ Lorenzo confided to his new friend. ‘Must have been that knock on the head.’
Florin scowled.
‘Well, it couldn’t be helped,’ the Baron said, and his eyes softened with nostalgia. ‘It’s been a while since I tasted battle. There’s nothing quite like it. The thrill. The blood.’
‘I can see why the Provost Marshal is afraid you’ll reclaim your title.’
‘The man’s a fool. I didn’t want the title when I came back from the regiments. Why would I have wanted it now? Presiding over a bunch of stinking merchants and squabbling fish wives.’ The Baron snorted at the very idea. ‘No thank you. I was quite happy here, alone with my memories.’
‘But you are going to your brother’s estates in Reikland?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘As we decided?’
‘Oh yes,’ The Baron nodded. ‘I’m going. I’ve been too long on my own here. Too long without any excitement. When all’s said and done, a man has his duty.’
His eyes strayed over to the suit of armour that stood on a rack against the wall. A faded battle flag was furled beside it. It was tattered, and some of it was obscured by a dark stain, but the ash pole it was mounted on still looked strong, and there was no rust on the steel tip.
‘I don’t mind telling you that I only came here after my Agnes died. Somehow I didn’t feel like talking to people after that. Didn’t even want servants around. You know how it is. But meeting you two has done me the world of good. Made me realise what I’ve been missing. You, young ’un. How’s your head?’
‘Never better,’ Florin said, and the Baron laughed uproariously and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘That’s the spirit. Well, can’t sit around all night. You’ve got an “assassination” to report, and I’ve got plans to make.’
‘Do you need a horse?’ Lorenzo asked.
‘No, that’s all right,’ the Baron said. ‘I’ve got everything I need. Old Dietmar’s got a place on the other side of the inlet. I always got on well with old Ingeborn’s son, too. Helped him train his farmhands when he had a problem with orcs a couple of summers back. And Aukshanks. He’s got a few dozen lads to help him with his business. And with the excise men too, the old rogue!’
‘Good,’ Florin said, resisting the urge to touch the back of his head as he stood up. ‘Then we can leave you. But please be gone by morning. If I know Adora, she’ll want to check.’
‘That blood’s handy,’ Lorenzo said, gesturing towards the stain Florin had left on the floor. ‘We’ll say we brained you and then threw your body into the sea.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the Baron said vaguely. ‘How many men at arms would you say the Provost Marshal has? Roughly?’
‘More than enough,’ Florin told him. ‘At least a score.’
The Baron smiled. ‘Typical merchant. My uncle always kept at least a hundred under arms.’
Florin and Lorenzo exchanged a glance. ‘But you are going to leave, aren’t you, your lordship?’
‘Of course,’ the Baron said. ‘I’ll leave as soon as you and your guide have gone to report my death.’
Lorenzo frowned. Florin shrugged.
‘Then let’s go. And good luck!’
The horses, agitated by their guide’s anxiety, whinnied and danced as Florin and Lorenzo appeared out of the undergrowth.
‘Hold them still,’ Florin snapped, and swung himself up onto the saddle.
‘Did you do it?’ the guide asked, his voice an anxious whine. ‘Did you kill him? Where’s the body?’
‘Threw it over the cliff.’ Florin kept his voice soft and low, and stroked his mount’s neck reassuringly. ‘Best not to leave any evidence.’
‘So calm down for Sigmar’s sake,’ Lorenzo said.
‘I’ll thank you not to speak to me that way,’ the guide bridled, and turned to Florin. ‘I must insist that you tell your comrade to address me with more respect. Especially when we meet the Lady Adora.’
Lorenzo cackled happily.
‘Don’t worry about the Lady Adora,’ he said, and gave the guide an obscene wink. ‘She doesn’t strike me as the sort of girl who would mind a bit of rough and tumble.’
‘Stop aggravating him,’ Florin snapped. ‘And you. Lead off. I want to get clear as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, why not?’ said the guide with a smug tone. ‘Let’s hurry back.’
With a last, poisonous glance at Lorenzo he spurred his horse into the night, and his two charges followed him.
The Lady Adora was waiting for them in the cold light of the rising sun. Her carriage was parked just outside Vistein’s walls, its paintwork the single bright thing amidst a dismal landscape of rotten corn.
When the three horsemen stopped in front of her she threw back the hood of her thick green cloak. She smiled a smile that was as warm as a Bretonnian summer, and stepped down to greet them.
The guide tumbled from his saddle, and one of his knees cracked on the cobbles.
‘My lady,’ he said, his voice choked with either pain or passion.
‘Heinrich,’ she said. ‘I’m so relieved to see you. And you, Monsieur d’Artaud. And Le Comte,’ she curtsied towards Lorenzo, who was so delighted by the expression of jealous misery on Heinrich’s face that he bowed in the saddle.
‘So tell me,’ she asked, ‘is it done?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Heinrich told her, and took her hand to plant a kiss upon it. She let him kiss her hand as she might have let a favourite dog lick it, but her eyes were already on Florin.
‘There’s no doubt?’ she asked. ‘It is done?’
‘No doubt at all, your ladyship,’ Florin told her. ‘The Baron is gone. Whatever schemes he schemed are over.’
Adora smiled, and for the first time it seemed to Lorenzo that her expression was genuine. Although as beautiful as ever, her features had taken on a hard, razor’s edge. She withdrew her hand from Heinrich’s clutches and absentmindedly wiped it on her cloak. Then she sighed, and her eyes narrowed with the dispassionate satisfaction of a chess player who has forced a checkmate.
‘Then, Monsieur d’Artaud, our business is done. Your ship is in the harbour. Much as I would enjoy your company, it may be as well for you to go.’
‘Your ladyship.’ Florin bowed and turned his horse towards the harbour. Lorenzo thumbed his chin at Heinrich, who was too busy looking at Adora to notice, and followed him into the town and down to the harbour.
The Katerina was at her moorings, just as Adora had promised, and Florin thought that she looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her mottled hull glistened with dew, and the upright of her central mast stood tall enough to catch the first beams of sunlight that slipped between the grey slate of Vistein’s high-sloped roofs.
‘I wonder what we should do with the horses.’ Lorenzo said as they clattered through the entrance and into the harbour proper.
‘What do you mean?’ Florin asked, still concentrating on the ship. The harbour was deep enough so that they wouldn’t have to wait for the tide and, judging by the pennant that fluttered from Katerina’s mast, there was a perfect north-westerly wind blowing.
‘I mean,’ said Lorenzo, ‘shall we take them, or sell them, or turn them loose?’
‘You should dismount,’ a voice said.
Florin and Lorenzo turned to find the speaker. They recognised the sergeant who had arrested them the night before. He looked no prettier by the light of day. Nor did the men who were waiting with him. There were maybe a
dozen, Florin thought. Then, as more of them appeared from behind bails and in windows he realised that it was more like a score. And each and every one of them had a vicious steel crossbow.
Before Florin could reply there was the shriek of steel against stone from behind him. He spun around, his cutlass half drawn, and saw that a portcullis had fallen into place beneath the arch through which they had just passed.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘You’re under arrest,’ the sergeant told him.
‘What for this time? Riding during daylight hours? Wearing blue? Don’t waste our time. We’re leaving this barbaric place, anyway.’
‘You’re under arrest,’ the sergeant said with relish, ‘for the murder of the Baron Vistein. You will accompany us to the gaol, there to await your trial.’
Florin’s mouth was suddenly dry. He looked at Lorenzo, who was looking at the men who surrounded them. Although their uniforms were mismatched and stained, their crossbows were solid, and they looked calm and professional. He turned back to Florin.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Florin said. ‘We haven’t murdered anybody.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about,’ the sergeant assured him. ‘Now dismount.’
Florin looked at Lorenzo again, but the older man just shrugged.
‘Too many,’ he said. Florin nodded and, as the guards closed in on them, he kicked out of his stirrups and swung himself off his horse.
‘No need for that,’ he said as one of the guards approached with manacles. The man hesitated and looked to the sergeant, whose face unclenched. He smiled.
‘Humour us poor northern barbarians,’ he sneered. ‘And our stupid customs.’
The shackles snapped shut on the two Bretonnians’ wrists, their sword belts were taken, and they were led to the gaol.
‘Women,’ Lorenzo spat.
Florin said nothing.
There didn’t seem anything else to say.
Baron Vistein savoured the taste of the wind that blew in from Vistein itself. It smelled mainly of rotten seaweed, but he didn’t mind that. It was enough that he could feel the chill of it against his face, and watch it as it lifted the pennants that he had given each of his captains. After spending so long lost within his memories, it felt good to be alive again. Good to be buckled into his armour again.
