[Angelika Fleischer 01] - Honour of the Grave

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  Angelika’s stomach reminded her that it was empty; she headed into the tavern. She and Franziskus took seats in the darkest of several available alcoves. They ordered ale and sausages from a toothy barmaid and sat together without speaking.

  “What I say is this,” a loud voice proclaimed, from the table behind them, “the longer he stays in his black-shingled tower of his, the better.”

  “You say that because you don’t remember the Battle of Nebelhohle,” came an equally deafening, slurry reply.

  “You don’t remember Nebelhohle neither, no matter what you say. You was drunk the whole time.”

  Raucous laughter drowned out the inebriated soldier’s spluttering reply.

  “They don’t call him Mad Count Marius just because he’s out of sorts, you know.”

  “I survived Nebelhohle because of that madness, thank you very much. Watch him go into one of them rages on the battlefield, I say, and then tell me you’d rather have that stick-up-the-backside Jurgen von sourface Kopf.”

  “You ask any soldier in this place, they’d say von Kopf’s a hundred times the general Leitdorf ever was.”

  “You ain’t never seen Marius go all red in the face, and swing that sword of his—that Runefang—so’s you can feel its chill bite on the skin of your face, as it slices through the air. You ain’t never seen him hack his way through a dozen bull green-skins, each three times his size. I would personally have been beheaded by one, one of the biggest, tuskiest I’ve ever seen, if he hadn’t have cut it in two, just as it was fixing to charge me.”

  A third voice cut in: “You may still be alive, but what about all them that got themselves killed on the days when he was screaming and wouldn’t come out of his tent? Give me sane, steady Jurgen any day.”

  “Sane? Having us lay siege to mercenaries when we should be—”

  “You’re one to complain, having hauled back all them silver candlesticks—”

  “That ain’t the point.”

  Another soldier, battle-scarred and grey at the temples, swaggered over from a far table to join the debate. “If you think we’d be better off with Marius than with Jurgen, you’re as cracked as he is.”

  “That’s right!” said another. “Let him stay locked up in his attic, writing his poems and tinkering with his supposed inventions. A leader is a leader every day of the year, not just when it suits him. And there’s no man more born to lead than von Kopf; he has it in his bones and in every word he speaks.”

  “Counts like Marius, they owe their power to the divine blessings of Sigmar the Hammer, just like the Emperor does. To question them is to question Sigmar’s wisdom.”

  “Or so they want you to think.”

  “That’s sedition and blasphemy both.”

  “At least, unlike some I could name, I don’t get no dreamy look in my eyes whenever I see a pasture full of sheep.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  The men roared with laughter and called for more ale. Franziskus, who had been assiduously eavesdropping on the soldiers, shifted his gaze to Angelika, and saw that she stared distantly past him. He was about to speak her name, to snap her from her reverie, but something about her expression gave him pause. Her eyes moved from side to side, as if she were lost in a memory, reviewing some distant event. Franziskus thought he saw fear in her eyes. He’d seen her afraid—while fighting the Chaos creatures—but this was different, in a way he could not place.

  The barmaid arrived to plunk plates of sausage and overflowing flagons in front of Angelika and Franziskus. Angelika shook herself like a dog emerging from a pond, and all hint of her odd disquiet was gone. “So,” she said, as if they had been talking all along, “what do you think the odds are that Petrine and Davio have Lukas secreted away somewhere here, in Grenzstadt?”

  “Davio? Here? I doubt it very much.”

  “And why risk her life to free us?”

  “Maybe it is as we said: that he wanted to make amends.”

  She laughed derisively.

  “Even if they did it for selfish reasons, I’m still grateful.”

  “What does it accomplish, to have us free?”

  “Jurgen’s not the sort to just let us go,” mused Franziskus. “He’ll have his men looking for us under every flagstone.”

  “So at the very least, we become a diversion, while they hatch their plan.” She gnawed appreciatively on her sausage, its clear juices running down her chin. “The first step is to find Petrine again—this time on our terms.”

  “Easier said than done, with Sabres after us. I don’t see how we have any choice but to creep out of the gates, as soon as we can. I suggest the north gates: the guards might be less vigilant on the other side of town.”

  A hunting horn blew; a new voice bellowed. “All right, you stinking rabble!” The noise in the tavern subsided, but did not die. “Shut yourselves!” the voice screamed. “Word just came! You’ll want to be at least half sober on the morrow! The call to assemble has gone out—Jurgen will address us all, two hours past sunrise, and you know how he is if he catches a man dozing! Finish up and crawl back to barracks, if you value your hides!” The soldiers groaned and bombarded the crier with rinds of pumpernickel. But then they quietened, drained their flagons and muttered resentful goodbyes.

  Angelika wiped ale froth from her lips with the back of her hand. “Say you’re Davio. You have Lukas, and aim to use him for your revenge. When would be the best time to do that?”

  “When the greatest number of eyes is fixed on my enemy.”

  “We can’t leave,” Angelika said. “Lukas is somewhere here, in Grenzstadt.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Franziskus woke with the sun on his face. His tunic was off and bundled under his head. He reached his hands out to feel the surface he’d been sleeping on: it was a flat stone roof, cool and dusted with glittering sand. Brushing away the dirt and tiny pebbles that had embedded themselves into the skin of his chest and forearms, he sat up. He remembered where he was, and how he and Angelika had arrived there.

  Already awake, Angelika had stationed herself, crouching, behind a crenellated battlement. They were on top of an armoury, across the street from Jurgen’s estate. They could have chosen one of its neighbours, but they had picked the one belonging to the city of Nuln because it seemed the easiest to climb. Its rough stones provided good handholds for a rope-free climb, and Angelika had clambered up them with a scuttling prowess that reminded Franziskus of a peddler’s monkey. She’d unfurled a rope down to him, and then he’d had to groan his aching way up twenty feet of wall. All the time his heart had been hammering at him, as he imagined Nulnish guards appearing and blasting away at him with their flintlocks. He’d concluded his dismal performance by collapsing, gasping, on the armoury roof. He’d made a resolution to strengthen his arms, and to practise climbing, so that he would never humiliate himself in this way again.

  Fierce cramping in his arms, neck, shoulders and chest gave him a vivid reminder of this promise. It occurred to him that he ought to check the roof for points of entry. Now that it was morning, there might be people in the building. A wooden trap door, just a few feet away from them, provided the only way to get from the interior to the roof. Angelika had, it seemed, already dealt with it: she had shoved an old straw broom through the handle, to block it shut. Franziskus wondered just how often the Nulners checked this door; roof inspections would not be a frequent thing, he anxiously concluded.

  Squatting to stay behind the low crenellations, he stretched his cramped muscles, then waddled to Angelika. He asked her how she thought they might have to wait.

  “Sun’s been up for an hour or so,” she told him. That left another hour until the start of Jurgen’s address. A hubbub of mingling conversations arose from his manor grounds: a few hundred soldiers, all uniformed in yellow and black, had already gathered below.

  “We didn’t think to bring any breakfast, did we?” Franziskus asked.

  “Stop complaining.
We had sausage last night.”

  A flock of vendors appeared with their carts, once again competing for prime locations. Soups bubbled in pots; thick strips of bacon sent up clouds of delicious, fatty smoke from small iron griddles. Franziskus blinked desolately down at them. “The great epic heroes, they always eat heartily,” he said.

  “That’s because they’re written by court poets, whose bellies are typically full. And put your shirt back on. With your ribs sticking out like that, you’re making me hungry, too.”

  He complied.

  “You need more regular meals, Franziskus. For your own good, find yourself a different kind of life than this.”

  Offended, he stiffened. But instead of a retort, he opted for a change of subject. “What were you thinking of, last night, in the tavern?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Before the food came. You wore a strange expression.”

  “Did I?”

  “You seemed a world away.”

  “I don’t like towns,” she said.

  He waited for her to explain, but she went back to watching the courtyard. Franziskus gave up and leaned against the battlement. He knew her well enough by now; there’d be no point in trying to extract an explanation from her. Still drowsy, he drifted back to sleep.

  She peered down as more soldiers arrived, shouting jocular greetings to their fellows. There was much clapping of shoulders, some pounding of backs, and even the occasional bear hug. The troops were still buoyant from their victory at the Castello, Angelika concluded. Among them, though, were men hobbling on crutches, and others with bandaged hands or heads. A column of wounded men paraded in, perceptibly darkening the mood of their still-healthy comrades. The battle, it seemed, had not been quite as one-sided as Angelika had thought.

  A wooden platform had been assembled for the occasion. Servants rushed to smooth folds on the yellow and black cloth banners that draped over it, obscuring its construction from the crowd. Two designs repeated themselves along the bunting’s length: the Black Sabres’ ensign, and the von Kopf family crest, which was nearly the same, except that it was framed by a bear and an eagle. Angelika noted the absence of Count Marius’ sun emblem.

  Sergeants arrived, accompanied by drummers and buglers. Angelika kicked the toe of her boot against Franziskus, jarring him awake. He stirred, spat the taste of sleep from his mouth, and positioned himself to watch the action below. As one, the sergeants bellowed and waved. The meaning of their various cries remained a mystery to Franziskus, who had been a junior officer, and had merely watched as the sergeants of his regiment herded the soldiers about. Somehow, the soldiers all knew what the yells meant, even with a half-dozen sergeants bawling at once. The uniformed men left the street and entered the courtyard, where they gathered themselves into ranks and columns with impressive speed. With stiff legs, the sergeants inspected their ranks. Every tenth man or so would attract his sergeant’s attention for some infraction, and would be forcibly shoved to one side, or would be made stand in place to receive a full-throated tongue-lashing. The display reminded Franziskus why he felt so little nostalgia for military service, even though his rank had exempted him from the worst humiliations.

  “You think it will be Toby and his cronies who deliver Lukas?” he asked.

  “Who else? The only question is, where will they come from?”

  Franziskus was about to ask what they were supposed to do when Lukas appeared. He stopped short. It went without saying that they couldn’t fight their way through four regiments of soldiers. They could not hope to rescue the boy here. At best, they’d get an idea where he was headed next, after von Kopf took possession of him. Two places would be most likely, Franziskus reasoned. The first, somewhere in Jurgen’s manor. The second, the very cell he and Angelika had briefly stayed in.

  Several officers, their helmets bearing floating plumes of green or sapphire, paraded in a square formation. Angelika counted two dozen of them. They grouped into a double row at the left of the platform, angled out to face the men. Franziskus pointed out Gelfrat, in the second row, his bulk almost obscured by the men in front of him.

  Heralds bearing long trumpets filed out in front of the platform. They raised their instruments, from which pennants flaunting the von Kopf crest hung. Unlike Jurgen’s run-of-the-mill servants, these fellows were resplendent with shining brocades. They even had tiny bells on the ends of their pointed slippers. The musicians blasted out a shrill, stirring fanfare. Snare drums were hit, their rattling sound echoed off the armoury buildings and back into the courtyard. Soldiers straightened their spines. Drummers appeared from behind Jurgen’s manor, in a formation built around the man himself. Jurgen rode a tall white stallion, its muzzle pointed skywards, mimicking his. He proceeded with exacting slowness, shoulders level, his jet half-cape flowing behind him. He steered his tall steed to the front of the platform and dismounted, his tall boots landing directly on the stage. He held his arms out to form a V, with his palms out to his men. Sergeants growled deep in their throats, giving the men permission to cheer. This they did, loosing a low roar that began thunderously, but petered out unevenly, as the soldiers ran out of breath. It was not the most spontaneous cheer Angelika could imagine, but it filled the street regardless.

  Jurgen lowered his arms slightly, then repeated his V gesture, prompting a hoarser chorus of hurrahs. His platform was bare: there was no lectern, and no row of seated underlings to back him. He strode along the front lip, so close to the edge that a lesser man would worry about toppling over. He shaded his eyes theatrically, and regarded his men.

  “My Sabres,” he said. “My Averlanders.” He projected his cutting voice easily across the square; Angelika and Franziskus could hear him just as if he were standing next to them.

  “I speak to you today,” Jurgen declaimed, “so that you may revel in your present glory, and anticipate victories yet to come. You have taught those who would betray us that it is better to suffer the stern expectations of our friendship than the fatal lash of our swords.

  “To show strength can be a costly thing. As I look out upon you, my loyal men, I see bruises. I behold burns and scars. And last night I read from the roll of the dead. I honoured those among your number who made the final sacrifice, in the pursuit of our power. Do not mistake me, my brave and determined war-makers: in this world, power means survival. To strike swiftly, to aim without error: to do these things is to do work of mighty Sigmar, our divine god. Those of you with blooded hands are holy men, baptised in our foes’ defeat.

  “Those of you who have not yet slain the foe shall soon have the chance to join their blessed ranks. An even greater enemy—the cursed greenskin—gathers to make brutal war, as he has done since his kind first walked this earth.

  “Does he think us weak? Or is thinking beyond his nature? Such ponderings are immaterial! We must simply face him on the field of honour, as we always have, and give no quarter. And face him you soon will.

  “Among you there may be some whose hearts girlishly quake at the thought of battle. Do not be led astray by this shameful, sinful impulse! It is better to die in glory than to live in shame. As you wait to charge like battering rams into the greenskins’ discordant ranks, remember that a coward’s shame stains not only his own memory, but the hopes and reputations of his family, for a dozen generations! Would you vilely spit upon your mother’s breast? Would you dig up your father’s carcass and play idly with his bones? No, you would not, and will not! You will stand against the foe, and prove yourself Averland’s bulwark! You will—”

  The banners edging Jurgen’s platform rippled. They flapped. Soon it became obvious that this was more than just wind playing with the cloth; someone prowled beneath von Kopf’s stage. Sniggers briefly coursed through the ranks and the files, to be abruptly squelched when sergeants coughed in warning.

  Jurgen stopped mid-sentence, seeing that he no longer possessed the sole attention of his men. He paced quickly to the lip of his stage, as the bunting redoubled its flappin
g.

  Pushing it aside, as nimbly as a dell’Arte player through a stage-curtain, came Toby Goatfield. He was followed by Elennath and Henty Redpot. They had Lukas with them, he was cowering with stooping shoulders. As he pulled Lukas from the bunting, Elennath swiftly removed a gag from the boy’s mouth and stuffed it in his belt. Angelika doubted that many of the soldiers had caught this; Jurgen would certainly have missed it from the platform.

  The sergeant at the head of the column nearest to Toby reached for his baton and came forward; Jurgen signalled for him to pause.

  Toby directed a wide grin at his would-be assailant, and then at the assembled soldiers as a whole. Finally he pivoted to acknowledge Jurgen.

  Angelika squinted: distance made it hard to tell whether the dark marks on Lukas’ face were bruises, or dirt. The boy carried himself listlessly. He hung his head; his long, greasy locks fell over his face, obscuring it. Angelika realised that she’d poked her head out past the parapets, and could easily be seen if anyone happened to look up to the armoury roof. She uncoiled herself and crouched back down.

  “Please pardon our disgraceful interruption,” Elennath cried, his elven accent ringing. “But my master thought this moment of gathering and celebration would be most suited to a joyous occasion. By the largesse of my lord, Prince Davio Maurizzi—”

  A rustling of angry murmurs went up among the crowd. Elennath gave them time to settle. “Prince Davio Maurizzi wishes to make amends for his terrible misjudgments and misalliances, by providing to you—the great warrior Jurgen von Kopf…” The elf trailed off, as if he’d momentarily lost the thread of his rhetoric. “Here is your son, who we have discovered alive and well, a survivor of an engagement against bandits, and of imprisonment by the forces of Chaos itself!” He waited for the soldiers to gasp at the mention of Chaos, and they obliged him. “O joyous event! By fate’s miraculous intervention, the border princes have a chance to gain your forgiveness!”