“Listen, my friend,” he said. This is most undignified. I am Franziskus, late of Stirland. This is Angelika, who saved my life from orcs. We have come to save your life, which we can only do if you catch immediate hold of your senses. So end your silly wriggling, stop treating us like we plan to skin you, and let us get you free of this thing.”
“You are mercenaries?”
“Do I need to sit on you any longer?”
“No,” he said, in a meek and childish way. Franziskus got off him. Angelika, who was leaning against the cavern wall, gave her companion a nod of approval. She came forward, and the two of them untangled the netting from Lukas.
He was revealed to be a pale, bone-thin boy of no more than fifteen. His upper lip was thin and white; the lower, fat and pink. Dried food was caked on his chin and the corners of his mouth. His thin nose turned up at the end to reveal a pair of flaring nostrils. Jet-black hair cascaded greasily onto his forehead and shoulders. A long strand trailed across his face, like a scar; he flicked it away nervously, but it fell back to where it was. He wore the yellow-and-black of an Averlandish regiment, but both tunic and leggings were torn and spattered with dirt, gruel, blood and dung. His dark eyes darted from Angelika to Franziskus, then back again.
“It must be a terrifying thing, to be held in a beastman’s clutches, for so long,” Franziskus said. Angelika could tell he wanted to give the younger boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but knew better than to startle him. “A lesser fellow would have lost his mind utterly, by now.”
The boy nodded, warily.
“It’s no wonder you can’t tell friend from foe. But you must rely on us, to get you down from here. It’s a tortuous trek down, so you must gather all your wits for it.”
“How did the monster get you here in the first place?” Angelika enquired.
“We were attacked down in the hills, near a stream. It seemed like there were dozens of them—some like mountain goats, others like wolves—and then came the biggest of them all, that made the ground shake when he walked. Thomas and Erik—another companion—fought off some of them, but they did not prevail. Erik was carried off.”
Only briefly did Angelika consider mentioning their encounter with Erik’s head. “This was right after you fled that battle?”
He sniffed, dragging the back of his hand under his nose. “We camped, down below, for a number weeks. I had to decide what to—” He coughed. He squinted at her, appraisingly. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying. When we fell, all went black, and I thought I was breathing my last. But I did awake. I found myself in this net, along with Thomas. We were strung over the monster’s back, as he climbed up the mountain face with his terrible claws…” Lukas scuttled to a dark corner, where he sat and covered his face. He began wailing. “Iam sorry I said Thomas was of no great use. It was his duty to protect me, and he failed me completely, but—the crunching of his bones in its jaws—slowly, it ate him slowly.”
“What happened to the other beastmen you mentioned?”
“I never saw them after I woke up here.” Lukas shrank back, huddling against the cave wall, peering doubtfully out of the opening. “I imagine they’re still around, somewhere.”
“How did the big monster get up and down from the cave? The path’s too narrow for something its size.”
Lukas shrugged. “I never got a good look. It had big claws. Maybe it used them to climb straight up. What do I know of the ways of Chaos beasts?”
“Then I don’t suppose you can say why it kept you alive?”
The boy grew quiet. “I think it liked the way I screamed.”
Franziskus sat beside him. “I can’t imagine what you’ve suffered, Lukas. But for the moment, you must dismiss these things from your mind. We must go.”
The boy lurched forward, balling up the fabric of his tunic in his small, alabaster fist, and punched ineffectually at Franziskus’ chest. “No! You don’t see! I should die here! My capture, the Chaos beasts—all were divine punishment, for my cowardice in battle. I should not have fled! Sigmar has deserted me!”
Franziskus cradled Lukas’ head, pressing it to his own shoulder. “Sigmar deserts no one, so long as you are prepared to fight again.”
“Others may get second chances, but my family’s pact with Sigmar is ancient and severe! For me, there will be no redemption!”
Angelika had gathered the net up in her arms. She made a fist of her own and pointed the knuckle of its middle finger meaningfully in his direction. “I don’t know about Franziskus here, but I intend to collect the reward for you, no matter what condition your soul is in. Shall I dash you brainless, put you back in this net, and haul you down the side of the mountain? Or do you mean to pull yourself together?”
“Angelika!” Franziskus protested.
“You shut up. What will it be, Lukas?”
Shakily, he rose. “I don’t want to die here. I wish I did, but I don’t. I’ll do as you say.”
“Then stop talking in riddles and let’s get going.”
Lukas stood, then swooned, sinking against the cavern wall. His rescuers moved quickly to steady him. They let him down gently. Then they fed him cheese and wine, and let him rest. He fell asleep. Weapons ready, they crouched on bound bedrolls, letting day turn to night and night to morning.
Even with a night’s sleep in him, Angelika expected the boy to be useless on the trip back down. Yet fear seemed to propel him, winning out over weakness and poor nourishment. When a gap approached, he leapt with a resigned and casual air, as if half hoping he’d miss. Yet he landed well each time. Once he even helped Franziskus regain his balance, when a sheet of rock hived off from the ledge he walked on. She decided she probably wouldn’t need to wrap him back up in the net after all, but she carried it still, despite its rancid stink, because it could come in handy. The gut was strong stuff, and there were a hundred uses for it on a wilderness journey.
Lukas’ attitude seemed to darken again when they reached the streambed, with the threat of falling behind them. He dragged his feet and tucked his round chin to his neck. She picked up a handful of pebbles, and tossed them at him to stop him from straggling. When one of her missiles hit him at the base of the skull—a better shot than she’d intended—he jogged ahead to walk beside Franziskus.
“It’s obvious you’re well-bred,” Lukas said.
“My background is not a suitable matter for discussion,” Franziskus told him.
“All I mean to say is, you and I, we have much in common.”
Franziskus shrugged.
“You haven’t yet come out and said it.”
“Said what?”
“That you mean to return me to my father.”
“In fact, it’s to your brothers that we’ll convey you.”
“My brothers?”
“Benno and Gelfrat.”
“I do not know them. More of my father’s scattered seedlings, no doubt. If they weren’t so numerous, he might not consider his true sons so disposable.”
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“Less talking, more walking!” cried Angelika, from behind them. She was closing fast. Franziskus lengthened his strides.
“I confess this only because it could weigh on your conscience, and it seems from your manner that you don’t know what fate you’ll be consigning me to.”
“Please, Lukas, speak more plainly.”
“My father seeks me not to clasp me to his bosom, but to place me on the chopping block. I have broken the honour code of the Black Sabres, and so must die.”
“I heard Benno and Gelfrat speak of the Black Sabres, but did not know what they referred to.”
“It is the family military company, founded nearly three hundred years ago, by the first to bear the name of my father, Jurgen von Kopf. You have not heard of them?”
“Forgive my ignorance. In Stirland, it is said that a knowledge of other provinces is a sure sign of vanity, ambition and sexual decadence.”
“All the enem
ies of Averland know the Black Field Sabres. Their very name strikes fear into the hearts of foes, and timidity into would-be rebels. It was they who turned the Battle of Midden Bell, when the regular black and yellows had turned and fled. It was they who crushed the mutiny against old Count Boris, at Rotermann Field. It was their support that restored the province to just rule when the cruelties of Bloody Count Giannis finally became too great to bear.”
“The emblem that Angelika found—the sabre against the field of black—that would be your regimental ensign, then.”
Lukas reached down into his shirt and withdrew an identical jewelled pendant. “Yes. So Claus is dead, then. Ah! Our father will be proud.”
“Surely you mean to say your father will mourn his demise?”
“He will celebrate Claus’ death, for he fell upholding the vow undertaken by every Sabre, when he is inducted into the company—never to survive a losing battle.”
“A harsh requirement.”
“It is on this vow that the fearsome reputation of the Sabres depends. Without it, the mere sight of our battle banner would not send foes from the field. For as long as I can remember, I have been told how vital the vow is to the prestige and power of my bloodline. Since the halcyon days of Moritz the Swift, every Averlandish elector has had a von Kopf standing at his side, as his advisor—and more.
“I barely know my father. When I was young, he was in the field, bloodying his sword as commander of the company, while my grandfather, who I did know, served at court. Some day, my grandfather said, the day will come when you will take the field yourself. You will stand beside your older brother, Claus, and Sigmar will grant you the chance to cover yourself in battle’s glory. You must also prepare yourself, he said, should terrible calamity befall our house, and Claus die beside me. In that event, I must ready myself to clutch his sabre, hold it high, and charge the foe. No matter what, grandpapa said, I must never shame the company. I must uphold the vow. Yet, when the chance came, and I finally saw battle, what did I do? I ran! I spat upon the honour of my family!” He turned and pulled at his tunic, baring his hollow chest. “I begged the beastman to kill me, as I should have been killed in that hollow, against those bandits! Yet he laughed and refused! He took pleasure in my torment!”
“So that’s why he didn’t eat you,” Angelika said, coming closer to the two young nobles. “You made yourself too entertaining.”
Lukas wheeled on her, tears burning in his eyes. “Do not mock my agony, you knife-wielding harlot!”
Angelika crossed her arms. “I’d gut you for that, except it’s what you want.”
He dropped to his knees. Angelika saw him shudder with pain as they hit the stony trail. That will bruise, she thought. “Do it! I give you my throat!”
Instead she took him by the shirt and hauled him up. He was limp, like a rag, so it took her no great effort. “I need your throat intact, you self-pitying little blueblood. So stop whining and start moving!” She slapped him. “Your tale of woe may inspire bitter tears in my companion here, but all I want is the silver you’re worth. I don’t care two figs what your brothers do with you when I turn you over to them.”
“No, no, you mustn’t do that! You must slay me now—I beg of you!”
She bared her teeth and pulled his face closer to hers. The boy’s stink made her eyes water. She resolved to plunge him into a stream and see to it that he got a good washing. “How much can you pay me to kill you now?”
He pulled at his belt, to show that his purse was missing. “I have nothing!”
She let him fall. “Then your fate is not yours to decide.”
He hugged her ankles and burbled. “I was never meant to be a soldier. I never mastered the rapier, much less the sabre. When those men came to kill us, my body rebelled against me. All I could do was turn and run. You mistake me if you think I’m of any worth.”
“You’re worth two hundred crowns if you’re worth a penny.” She went to kick at him, but ended up just pushing on his shoulder with her foot. “Get up,” she said. “Get up!” Even without looking at him, she could tell that Franziskus was making sad puppy eyes at her. She stamped down the trail, and let him attend to the boy, coaxing him up to his feet, and leading him onwards.
They made camp for the night in the foothills overlooking the pass. This put a good distance between them and the beast-men. Angelika had made the boy scrub up in the stream. He’d performed his ablutions sullenly, and since that indignity had found little to say for himself. Silence suited him, Angelika decided; it was only when he spoke that she wanted to split open his puckered lips.
She sat on a rock and got to work, teasing one of the gut strands from the beastman’s net. When she was finished, she approached Lukas, who was on top of a knoll, kicking at a patch of small blue flowers. Stealing a sidelong glimpse at Franziskus, she noted that he was still sitting cross-legged before a pile of sticks and dried plants, attempting to spark his tinderbox on it. Light was disappearing from the sky.
“It’s time we rested,” she said. She looped the cord around her hand. “Come with me.” She led Lukas to the base of a tall spruce and told him to sit. “Hands behind your back.”
Franziskus saw this and abandoned his fire making. “What is this, Angelika?”
Lukas’ hands stayed in his lap.
“I won’t have my three hundred crowns creeping away in the night.” She tied one end of the cord around the tree’s trunk. She gave it a mighty yank, making certain that the knot was sturdy.
“Wait a moment. Have we rescued him, or made him our prisoner?”
“Prisoner,” said Angelika. She took hold of Lukas’ left hand and tugged it until he moved it behind his back.
“You cannot do that to him,” Franziskus said. “He is of noble birth.”
“Precisely. Never trust a blueblood, that’s my credo.” She tugged on Lukas’ right hand; he moved it back, too, more reluctantly, then crossed wrists with the left.
Franziskus knelt beside them and clasped his fingers around the boy’s wrists in an attempt to stop Angelika from wrapping the cord around them. “Scandalous jokes are all well and good, but this goes too far. I won’t let you humiliate him.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, good Franziskus,” the boy said. “My cowardice has erased all claim to noble privilege. She may do with me as she likes.”
Franziskus left his hand in place. “But it is uncalled for. You will not attempt to part company with us, will you, Lukas?”
“No.”
“And, when you say that, you give us your word of honour?”
Lukas nodded gravely. “Yes.”
“Please, Angelika,” Franziskus said. “Why would he run? He couldn’t survive for a day alone in these hills. If my friendship means anything to you, let the poor fellow be.”
“We must talk,” she said, pulling Franziskus out of earshot. They both regarded him, as he stayed in place, forlornly plucking up grass shoots. “You’ve got to stop sympathising with him.”
“How could I not? He’s spent the last weeks as a Chaos beast’s plaything. It’s a tribute to his good breeding that he has any wit left in him at all. I can hardly blame him for being less than charming. Besides, the two of us have much in common.”
“That’s your bad fortune. I need to know where your loyalties lie.”
“I’ve sworn to serve you. Not that you’ve accepted that.”
“Does that mean I can rely on you, when the time comes to turn him over?”
“You can rely on me in all things, Angelika.”
“Because I don’t want you coming down with a case of last-moment lily-liver.”
“Do not fear. My duty to you, and to my class, are both in accord. He must be given over to his family, as honour demands.”
“But you like him.”
“I feel for his plight. He did, however, swear an oath on pain of death… I wish him no ill, but our responsibility to turn him over is clear.”
“Even though they’ll ma
ke him fall on his sword?”
“I can’t believe it will come to that. This von Kopf fellow will find some other way to justly absolve Lukas of his misdeeds. He’s a boy of fifteen, and the man’s own son. The Empire is fuelled by the honour of its nobles, but not to the point that we applaud blind and unyielding savagery.”
“I hate to correct you, but it’s avarice and the lust for power that drives the Empire, not—Damn it!” She sprinted off.
The boy was gone.
She saw his head bobbing up and down, along the side of a hill. She slid down through high grass and closed the distance between them, barely conscious of her footfalls as her long legs carried her toward him. He reached the valley floor, sliding on a patch of mud, then recovered his footing. He kept running. She grabbed her knife. He stupidly stopped to look north, then south, to pick a course. He glanced back at her, then ran straight ahead. She pushed herself harder. He turned his head again, running. She flew into him, hitting his legs, and bowling him over. He somersaulted backwards. She wrenched herself around and dived on his chest. She’d reversed her grip on her dagger, and thumped him instead on the forehead with the pommel. He cried out. She thumped him again, and then stuck the bone of her forearm against his throat and pushed, until his breathing became strained.
“Franziskus is going to be very disappointed in you.”
He worked his lips as if to speak; she relaxed the pressure on his throat, giving him air. Instead of speaking though he pushed up with his shoulder, trying to roll her off him. She kneed him in the groin. His eyes widened. He fell slack, choking. Spittle drooled from his lips. Angelika got off him. He doubled up.
“So that’s what your word of honour is worth?”
“My honour is lost to me,” he groaned, “so it means nothing for me to swear on it.”
She kicked him, placing real force behind the blow this time, and again. Franziskus reached them. She expected him to pull her off, but he didn’t, so she kept on kicking, moving from his ribs to his legs.
01 - Honour of the Grave Page 11
