by ich du
As Kurt joined the line of people making their way slowly through the gateway, the knight looked up the massive hill. Around the base of the mount was the outer curtain wall, the Dragon Wall. Pierced only by this single gate, it rose twenty feet and was hewn from solid mountain rock brought the many leagues here back when the Empire was still growing and the bond with the dwarfs was at its strongest. Some half a mile outside the wall were small makeshift villages of tents and roughly constructed wooden buildings. No building was allowed closer for fear of providing cover to approaching enemies, and so those who had come to the city to find solace, refuge, fortune and fame, but had failed, now hung about its outskirts, looking up at the glories they could no longer afford and which would no longer tolerate their presence. They were the flotsam of life in Ostermark, drawn to the capital but spat out with contempt.
Covered in long grass and bracken, the fell stretched upwards steeply, the inner wall some hundred feet higher than the Dragon Wall, allowing war machines in the many emplacements to fire over the first line of defence. It was within the secondary wall that the city proper began, hidden from view at the moment by the black granite of the formidable defences. But the odd steeple peeked higher above the mighty Griffon Wall, and rising up towards the clouds were the towers and battlements of the central keep, where the count's palace was founded on the ruins of the original longhouse of the Thuringian tribe from whose stock were born the original inhabitants of the Ostermark.
Kurt could not deny that the city was steeped in great tradition. It was here that Count Vandel had held out against the northern horde of Sevir the Blood-terror; from here had marched the great army of Count Hurkon on their way to victory at the Battle of Waldenhof; here that the same Count Hurkon had wedded Mariella of the Reik and founded one of the great alliances of the Empire before the strife had come.
Perhaps great days would come again, Kurt pondered, but he doubted it would be in his lifetime, or in the lifetime of his children, should he and Ursula be blessed with offspring. The likes of Hurkon were near myth nowadays, and his bloodline had dwindled over the centuries. Kurt doubted that the Ostermark would hold out again against the likes of the Blood-terror, nor would the Osterknacht lead out the army in relief of their neighbours. When the orcs had descended on Stirland, the count's orders had been to patrol the borders and turn back the thousands of refugees seeking food and shelter. Here in the north it was as if the troubles of the world were a distant problem, and the cooperation that had built the Empire had turned to self-service and denial.
It was at that moment, as Heldred walked slowly between the pedlars and hawkers, that Kurt realised how much he yearned for a return to those glories. He wished he could ride out with the sun gleaming on his armour, holding aloft the banner of the Ostermark, declaring to the world that the Osterknacht had returned and would right the wrongs of the world. A fanciful, romantic notion, he admonished himself lightly, but perhaps a little more romance and passion was what the lands needed now. Perhaps heroes were not just the stuff of legend, but necessary for all people to look up to and inspire them to increase their own efforts. Where had all the heroes gone, he wondered?
Passing through the southern gate of the Griffon Wall, its shadow chilling him after the moderate warmth of the noon sun, Kurt entered what was considered the true boundary of Bechafen. Now, at the height of the day, all was business and bustling crowds. Farmers from the outlying settlements stocking the stalls of the markets; merchants from other towns bartering in the streets over furs, pots, silverware and countless other commodities; cutpurses and pickpockets stalking the unwary through the throng, plying their villainous trade; beggars holding out palsied limbs, asking for succour; ladies of low repute offering their services to the lonely; urchins dressed in rags offering to run errands, looking after horses and belongings, or just haggling for scraps of food or a copper coin. All of it washed around Kurt as he urged Heldred through the crowds, the lower end of humanity here in the capital. As he rode into the centre of the city the crowds thinned and then disappeared, and the square outside the keep gates was all but deserted.
Kurt rode across the square, noting the four armed knights standing at the keep gates, his eyes flicking to the flagstaff atop the central tower. The flag of the Ostermark was flying high in the sharp winter breeze and beneath it the standard of the Osterknacht, showing that the elector count was in residence, and that Lord Lothar, head of the knightly order, was in attendance today. This did not trouble Kurt unduly; quite often he had returned to find their commander here in the capital, having travelled from the chapterhouse in the southern town of Helsburg.
Kurt dismounted as he approached the eastern gate that led through to the stables of the guardhouse. The young man-at-arms on watch was stood to one side, halberd held casually across the small door at the middle of the gate. At Kurt's approach, he banged three times on the gate and it swung open ponderously, accompanied by the grinding of hidden gears as the old dwarven mechanism squealed into life inside the keep itself.
Passing through the gate, Kurt dismounted and led Heldred from the sun into a shadowy world lit by countless flickering torches and lanterns. The keep itself was a massive castle, its wall encompassing over a hundred halls, some of them like the courtyard Kurt now entered, merely open spaces linking the other chambers beyond. A wiry, ageing servant with drooping moustaches ambled over and took Heldred's reins and led him toward the stables, while Kurt headed across the flagged ground towards the sentry house to report to the officer on watch. He could hear the faint ringing of metal as the knights and squires practised their swordplay in the hall beyond the sentry chamber, magnified by the high walls and all-encompassing ceiling.
The knight on watch was Karsten, a stocky fellow, ten years Kurt's senior and a member of the Osterknacht since he was eight years old. Karsten was one of Kurt's few allies in the order; a man after his own heart who bemoaned the dilapidation of their quarters and the general decline of the knightly order. When Kurt entered, the sergeant was berating a squire in the sentry room for some real or perceived misdeed. Karsten looked up as Kurt's spurs jingled lightly and his booted feet scraped on the flagstones. Sending the young squire on his way with a clip round the back of his head, Karsten's scowl turned to a grin.
'So the young hero returns to our bosom once more,' he laughed, gesturing Kurt to sit down on one of the padded high-backed seats dotted around the otherwise sparse chamber. 'I take it you were recalled early like me?'
'Yes,' Kurt replied, pulling off his armoured gauntlets and lowering himself carefully into a chair next to the empty fireplace. 'I got word yesterday morning. I wasn't supposed to be back for another five days. Is something happening, I see the commander is here?'
'I fear it's no coincidence,' confirmed Karsten. 'Bayen tells me that he escorted a messenger from Kislev to the count last week. That can't bode well.'
For long centuries, the people of the Ostermark had been close allies with their neighbours in the northern nation of Kislev. Many were the times they had fought side-by-side against a common threat, and few the occasions of conflict.
The Kislevites were a proud people, fearless defenders of their independence from the much larger Empire, but all too often it was they who fell beneath the blade when an army gathered in the northern wastes and set about rampaging southwards through more civilised lands.
A messenger could mean many things. Perhaps it was just a courtesy, a routine diplomatic mission. Perhaps it was more though. It might be a warning, or a summons for aid. If that were the case, given the recall of the Osterknachts' warriors from their homes, it seemed likely that the knightly order would be marching north to fight again.
'And how is our count?' asked Kurt.
'Still young enough to rely on the advice of his counsellors, thank Ulric,' replied Karsten. 'A year or two more though, and I fear he will start to want to flex his political muscles, and he is not ready for it.'
'A boy of thirteen on the th
rone of Ostermark,' sighed Kurt, gazing into the fireplace. 'Perhaps one day he'll grow up to be a great leader, but will the Ostermark survive long enough to see it?'
'Aye, of course it will,' grinned the other knight. 'With good iron, and some will behind it, we can hold back Ostland, the marauders, orcs and whatever else is thrown at us. You're in a pessimistic mood today, I'd snap yourself out of it before the commander makes his inspection this evening.'
'Perhaps I'm just a little tired from riding,' Kurt covered up his misgivings with a shrug. With a nod to Karsten, he stood up and left, pacing hurriedly across the stone floor towards the knights' quarters. Passing through an archway he walked out onto a landing at the top of the stairs that led down into the main chamber. Here, the arrayed knights and squires took part in mock battle with each other in a vast cavernous space that stretched nearly ten times the height of a man above their heads and some quarter of a mile square. Hewed from the rock of the mount itself, the massive hall was held aloft by thirty mighty pillars, which were now hung with the battle honours of the order. Shields and banners captured as trophies from vanquished enemies hung alongside the colours of the Osterknacht itself and scrolls of merit and commendation from a succession of elector counts, each mounted upon an ornate wooden plaque.
As he walked down the stone steps, Kurt watched as three knights were encircled by twice their number of squires, who jabbed them into a circle back-to-back with their long spears. Hacking away at the tips of their enemies' weapons with their wooden swords, the knights counter-attacked, forming up into a small wedge that drove through the squires and allowed them to break free. No longer confined, the knights set about the squires with a vengeance, despatching bruises and cuts with their mock swords as a physical reminder to the young students.
Reaching the bottom of the stairway, Kurt was confronted by Bayen, another knight not much older than himself, though with many years more service in the order. Bayen and Kurt did not get along well. Kurt thought the distant cousin of the count was a spoilt snob, while Bayen frequently bemoaned Kurt's dubious origins and cursed him for being a foolish country boy.
'So good of you to return to the fold, though I don't know why you bother coming back,' sneered Bayen, wiping the sweat from his long blond hair with a towel. He held his practice sword loosely in one hand, his armour glistening in the light of the hundreds of torches that lit the hall.
'When the call comes, I answer,' Kurt replied quietly, mustering what politeness he could. He took a step to the side to walk around Bayen, but the other knight shifted as well, blocking his route.
'I know why you don't live in Bechafen. Just because she's out of the city, doesn't mean we don't know about your trollop,' Bayen hissed accusingly. 'You bring shame to the order. Sigmar knows why Gerhardt even gave you a second glance, never mind giving you a squirehood.'
'Perhaps he was tired of fighting alongside toads like you,' snapped Kurt in return, instantly regretting his outburst as a hate-filled scowl creased Bayen's boyish looks.
'The only toad around here is that warty creature you've been bedding this last year,' spat Bayen, noticing a number of knights gathering around the pair of them. He cast his glance around the audience as he spoke. 'It's disgusting, but I suppose we cannot expect better from a dishonourable pig like you. Why don't you leave us? Go back to the sty that you were spawned in, to fornicate to your heart's content and produce more litters.'
'One more word and I'll break your jaw,' warned Kurt. 'You really are a distasteful, spiteful little worm, Bayen, and one of these days it'll be the runts like you that are cast out of the order.'
'Did you hear that?' Bayen said to the knights, his face a mask of indignation. 'He insults me to my face. He actually threatens me in front of witnesses, and then claims it is I who am dishonourable. This, from a man who stoops so low as to bed farmers' wenches on his leave and then comes crawling back here with his tail between his legs like a whipped mongrel, when his master calls for him. Is this the type of knight we wish the Osterknacht to be famed for?'
'Ursula is my betrothed,' snarled Kurt in return. 'She is my lady and you would do well to show more respect. Slight her again and I will demand reparation.'
At that point Master Sergeant Viksson intervened, the burly veteran shouldering his way through the crowd to stand between the two young knights, his heavily whiskered face red with anger.
'You're a damnable disgrace, the pair of you!' he bellowed. 'Bickering like school children, and with the commander in the same building no less. Now, make your apologies and get out of my sight before I punish the pair of you.'
'I demand satisfaction,' Kurt growled quietly, drawing a hushed silence from the murmuring crowd. Duelling was a relatively new concept in Bechafen, but was growing in popularity amongst the gentry. By the ancient rites of the order, any knight was allowed to seek judgement by a trial of arms, but rarely was it ever used to accuse a fellow knight.
'What?' Viksson rounded on Kurt. 'Are you tainted? Did you hear what I said? The commander himself is upstairs now, preparing for an inspection in a few short hours time. I'll have none of this on my watch, now take it back.'
'I cannot unsay something which I have said,' Kurt replied stubbornly. 'It is my right as a knight, and my duty as a future husband, to protect the honour of this order and that of my wife to be. I demand to face Bayen this evening in front of the commander himself!'
Viksson glanced at the young knight, Bayen, who was staring incredulously at Kurt. Noticing the old knight's gaze, Bayen regained his composure and shrugged.
'Fine,' he said flippantly, 'if Leitzig is fool enough to face me, then I accept.'
'And if I win, you will apologise publicly for any slight against myself and my lady?' Kurt insisted.
'Of course. If the trial of arms proves you correct, I will offer my most sincerest apology,' agreed Bayen, before turning away. The knight took a few steps before turning to look Kurt straight in the eye.
'But if I win, then my case is proven,' Bayen said slyly. 'If you lose, then you must renounce your pledge of loyalty, leave the Osterknacht and never come back to Bechafen.'
'You go too far!' shouted Kendil Hark, one of the knights watching the exchange.
'Apologising to this guttersnipe would be an equal disgrace,' retorted Lord Helfen, who never made any attempts to hide the fact that he was one of Bayen's sycophantic lackeys, though he was nearly ten years the young knight's senior.
'What's it to be, Leitzig?' Viksson demanded, betraying his own loyalty to the royal blood that flowed within Bayen's veins. 'Withdraw now and apologise, or face the consequences? The demands have been laid out in true accordance with the laws of the order. What's it to be?'
Kurt thought for a moment. In all honesty he had nothing to lose, he thought at first. Most of the knights were against him here anyway, many of them as bad as Viksson and Helfen in their favouritism. If he lost, he would be shamed and dishonoured, but a small part of him was glad at the thought that he might be forced to leave the order and walk away from all these troubles. He could return to Badenhof and marry Ursula.
He could also see the disappointment in her eyes at the news. He could hear the sly talk and gossip behind his back from the petty-minded townsfolk. What good would it do Ursula? She was already hounded and mistrusted, and to be associated with a dishonoured knight would probably break her. All he had to do was withdraw his claim to judgement and none of it would be at risk. It would mean losing face in front of the knights, but he had little enough respect from them as it was.
Kurt looked at Bayen's eager face, one blond eyebrow raised in question. He thought of the horrid things the count's cousin had said about Ursula, a woman he had never met, and of all the small slights and slurs that had come before and would come after. Yes, if he retracted now, he was not only condemning himself to more torment, but also approving of Bayen's insults against Ursula. Kurt's rashness and enmity with Bayen had finally got him into a tight spot, and he could see
no way out. There was only one way this could be put right. He had to fight and beat Bayen.
'I will face you tonight on the terms we have agreed,' Kurt said finally. 'And I will be the victor, for right, justice and the gods are on my side.'
'I bloody hope they are,' whispered Hark in his ear as Kurt pushed his way through the throng, the veteran falling into step beside him. 'Bayen's quick as viper, you know that.'
'I can beat him,' Kurt said confidently, glancing across at Hark's concerned face. 'I have to.'
THE MOOD INSIDE the great hall was subdued as Kurt entered through the great double doors at the eastern end. The immense fire pit to Kurt's left blazed with a flame reaching high towards the ceiling, bathing the rough stone walls in a ruddy glow. Around the edges of the chamber stood the assembled knights of the Osterknacht, resplendent in full ceremonial armour, standing beside them their squire holding aloft their colours. With no squire of his own, Kurt's colours were held by Jakob, the manservant who had taken Heldred from him earlier, a half-Kislevite by birth. It was yet another example of the low esteem in which Kurt was held, that no other knight had come forward to bear his banner. The pale blue blazon, with a simple silver crown motif at its centre, hung limply from its plain oaken staff. They were not the traditional colours of House Leitzig, but that was Kurt's secret, for if the purple and gold of Leitzig was ever remembered it was with memories of shame and anger. Kurt had hidden his origins for the last fourteen years, claiming to be from a distant branch of the family that had moved across the border to Stirland. If the truth ever came out, it would not only guarantee his expulsion from the Osterknacht, but could well see him on trial for treason and witchcraft. Those secrets were best left buried.
In contrast, the master sergeant Viksson bore Bayen's banner on the opposite side of the hall to Kurt, a long pennant edged with gold thread, with crossed swords against a field of deep purple, the royal colour of the Ostermark. Bayen himself wore his battle armour, but even so, the full plate mail suit was chased with fine veins of silver and gold, which glittered in the firelight. He held his helmet beneath one arm, its purple plume hanging to the floor, and lazily stroked his long hair with his free hand, chatting quietly with Viksson.
